Summer sweat and steam—
bowl of broth in quiet hands,
worth more than money
I’ve been asked, now and then, about the most money I’ve ever spent on a meal. I try to remember—there must have been a dinner somewhere, years ago, where the wine came in crystal glasses and the menu was written in a language nobody at the table could pronounce. I remember the sharp crack of a breadstick, the hush of waiters moving through a room heavy with expectation, the gentle confusion of trying to match fork to plate.
But when I think of the best meals of my life, the ones that still live in my bones, the price is always a footnote. What comes back is the heat of the day, the ache in my legs, the quiet that follows a long journey.
Onomichi, early summer. The sun so relentless it felt like you could taste it on your skin, the back of your shirt glued to your spine. I’d just finished cycling from Onomichi to Imabari, my bags heavy with omiyage—tiny boxes of sweets and folded paper cranes, gifts I couldn’t resist. The ferry ride over the Seto Inland Sea, the slow grind of the pedals, the bridges that stretched forever over blue water and whitecaps.
By the time I made it back to town, I was salt-crusted, starving, delirious with that mix of exhaustion and simple happiness that only comes after a day spent moving under your own power. I wandered into a ramen joint by the station—800 yen for a bowl, cash up front. There was nothing special about the place: formica counters, faded posters, a clock that might have been broken for years.
But the broth was hot and smoky, the noodles chewy and full of life. I sat in the shade, sweat drying on my arms, listening to the whirr of a fan and the low hum of the chef’s radio. Each bite was a miracle. Not because it was rare, or expensive, or even particularly inventive. It was perfect because I was hungry in all the right ways. The memory of it lingers—an ordinary meal, made extraordinary by the long road before it.
It’s the same kind of memory that finds me when I think back to Ljubljana in the 2000s, when I was a student and the nights seemed longer than the days. After the bars closed and the streets emptied, there was always the burek stand by the river. Fifty cents—less than a cup of coffee now—for a warm slab of pastry stuffed with cheese, meat, or potato, wrapped in greasy paper. We’d sit on the curb, knees tucked to our chests, steam rising from the food, laughter echoing off the stone.
It didn’t matter that we had nothing—no money, no real plans, just the easy camaraderie of being young and in-between. The best meals, I’ve learned, are always a kind of accident. They happen when you’re tired, or lost, or with people who see you clearly. Money doesn’t buy those moments. Sometimes, it gets in the way.
There have been other meals, of course. Birthdays in quiet restaurants, a tasting menu in Paris paid for with a week’s wages, a celebratory dinner after a job offer. The food was beautiful, the plates a gallery of color and ambition. But the memory is softer, somehow, blurred by expectation and the slow churn of time.
I think about this often, the strange arithmetic of value and pleasure. The world tells us that the best things are the rarest, the most expensive, the hardest to get. But my heart keeps returning to cheap ramen after a long ride, burek at dawn, bread and cheese on a park bench with someone you love. The flavor is memory, and memory is always seasoned by context—heat, fatigue, laughter, longing.
The world will always tempt you with the idea that satisfaction lies just beyond your reach: a better restaurant, a higher price, something that proves you’ve made it. But real satisfaction, I’ve found, is not a matter of cost, but of presence. If you can learn to want less, to savor more, to notice the company and the moment, every meal becomes a feast.
That’s the wabi-sabi lesson—beauty in the imperfect, the worn, the simple. A chipped bowl on a hot day can hold more happiness than any starched tablecloth or silver spoon. The memory that lingers is not of perfection, but of a moment lived fully, hunger meeting comfort in a way that feels honest.
You don’t need to chase every new desire, or spend your way into happiness. Sometimes the most valuable thing is to stop, look around, and realize you have enough. Maybe even more than enough.
If you’ve ever had a meal that cost nothing but meant everything, subscribe. There’s more to share in these small stories—steam, sweat, good company, and the quiet magic of enough.
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