(pictured above is a photo of arroz caldo, a dish that reminds me of my Lola.)
Food, manners, and the cost of forgetting both
The Table Is Where It Starts
The following introduction is dedicated to my Lola.
The memory of your food…
The heart of every relationship is surrounded by a meal…and the people you share it with.
Your food was amazing. It provided comfort in times of sickness and made me feel safe and loved. As a father, I’ve tried to duplicate those recipes—and even when I followed your instructions to the letter, I could never replicate the taste or the feeling I would get. Lola’s was always better. And now I know why. It wasn’t just the ingredients. Your love, your care, your heart—it translated into every serving. Every bite was filled with your warmth. It wasn’t just food for my tastebuds. It was food for my soul.
And that will never be replaced—but it will always be remembered.
Food is more than sustenance. That’s not news to anyone who’s ever grown up in a culture where the kitchen was sacred real estate. But somewhere along the way—maybe between drive-thru efficiency and TikTok recipe hacks—we stopped treating meals like stories and started treating them like transactions.
Real food tells you something. About where it came from. About who made it. About what mattered to the people who first put the recipe together in an old stock pot or a mortar and pestle. It’s memory. Geography. A little rebellion and a whole lot of love.
It’s not just nourishment. It’s conversation. It’s the bridge between awkward introductions and deep trust. It’s the reason we gather, the excuse we use to talk about things that matter, or to talk about nothing at all. It’s comfort when words fail, and celebration when words are too much.
That’s why this isn’t just about what’s on the plate. It’s about how we eat. Who we eat with. And how we carry ourselves when the check comes.
Because if you’ve ever sat at a table where laughter and steam rise at the same pace—where the spice level was a dare, and everyone had a story tied to the dish—you know food can be healing. And you also know when someone ruins it. Loudly. Entitled. Performing instead of participating.
So yeah, let’s talk about the good stuff. The real stuff. And the people who get it.
Part I: The Thin-Layered Grease of Greatness
There’s a particular kind of restaurant that lives in the shadows of city skylines and Yelp filters. It doesn’t have curated lighting or locally sourced menus printed on recycled hemp. It has laminated pages, questionable chopsticks in a tin cup, and a scent that lingers on your clothes in the best possible way.
It’s the dirty Asian restaurant. The street taco stand with no English signage. The diner off the highway with a neon sign that’s been half-lit since 1993. The mom-and-pop spot where “health inspection grade pending” just means “flavor level: dangerous.”
I love these places like they raised me. Because in a way, they did.
These are the restaurants where food isn’t diluted. Where heritage doesn’t have to apologize. Where dishes come out fast, hot, and perfect—because they’ve been making them the same way for 40 years. They don’t ask how spicy you want it. You get it how it’s supposed to be.
And the service? Efficient. Direct. Some might call it rude. Yelp elites especially. They’ll dock stars because no one asked if they were “still working on that.” But the regulars know: if your water gets filled and your soup shows up five minutes after ordering, you’ve already been treated like family.
These spots don’t care about your feedback. They care about your return. They’re not trying to “elevate the brand experience.” They’re trying to pay rent and honor the recipes that got them this far.
I’ve had Michelin-starred meals that were beautiful. Artful. And I’ve had congee at 7am in a greasy spoon where I felt my grandmother’s spirit hovering over the rice.
There’s room for both. But don’t confuse polish with quality.
Part II: The Dance of Fine Dining
Now let’s pivot to the other end of the spectrum. The dining experience that feels like a ceremony.
Fine dining isn’t about the food alone. It’s about ritual. Precision. Control. It’s an opera where the kitchen is the stage, and you, dear guest, are part of the performance—but not the lead.
There’s something beautiful about a place where every detail has been considered. Where your seat is pulled out with quiet timing. Where the server explains the dish like it’s a scene from a novel. Where the placement of your utensils tells them you’re finished, no words needed.
Women’s handbags get their own furniture. Tables get crumbed like they’re being prepped for surgery. And courses arrive not just cooked—but curated.
You don’t come here to control the meal. You come here to surrender to it. Substitutions are a sin. The dish is the vision. If you’re not into foie gras or beet foam—order something else. But don’t ask to “make it without.” That’s not how this works.
And the behavior? Oh, the behavior. There’s an unspoken code. Don’t hover over the menu like you’re solving an SAT question. Don’t film every course. Don’t shout. Don’t clap. Just… be. Be present. Be appreciative. Be quiet long enough to hear the texture of the experience.
Tipping? Non-negotiable. If you flinch at 20%, you’ve chosen the wrong theater. This is part of the price. And no, your iPhone calculator doesn’t belong here.
This is the kind of dining that humbles you. That reminds you food isn’t just about consumption—it’s about craftsmanship. Respect it accordingly.
Part III: The Influencer Effect
Let’s talk about the third act in our culinary trilogy: the Age of Performance.
Social media has done a lot of good for the food world. It’s helped people discover hidden gems, celebrate underrepresented cuisines, and support local chefs who deserve the spotlight.
But it’s also turned dinner into a set piece.
We’ve all seen it—the ring light over the ramen. The influencer who sends back the food after the photo. The Yelp review that sounds like it was written by a rejected MasterChef contestant.
There’s a difference between sharing your experience and hijacking it. Between appreciating the food and using it as a prop.
I’m a blogger. I get the game. I write about these experiences too. But I don’t do it for likes—I do it to remember. To give credit. To process what made the night matter.
The problem isn’t the post. It’s the posture. When you enter a restaurant thinking you’re the main character, you’ve already missed the point. You’re not the star—the food is. The chef is. The experience is.
Some restaurants don’t need discovery. They don’t want your content strategy. They want you to shut up and eat. To taste first. To judge later. Or better yet—not at all.
Your Table, Your Rules?
So now that I’ve aired my palate and my preferences—what about you?
Are you the type who books tables months in advance for a seasonal tasting menu? Or the kind who finds the best taco stand based on how many mechanics are eating there on a Tuesday?
Do you ask questions—or do you trust the chef? Do you share bites—or defend your plate like a prison tray? Do you tip with pride—or with precision?
And more importantly, what are the dining rules you were raised with—the ones you still carry today?
Drop a comment. Tell me about the meal that changed your standard, the dish that made you forget about etiquette, or the server who made you believe in grace again.
Because no matter where or what you eat—there’s always something more on the table than food.
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