The legendary fast food burger

As a self-proclaimed foodie, I might turn some heads when I say this: I absolutely love a fast food burger.

There’s nothing like unwrapping that iconic aluminum foil to reveal a clumsily constructed, sweaty, dramatically filthy bacon cheeseburger that can’t even hold on to its own toppings. The corners of American cheese draped perfectly over the patty. The pickles scattered like it was styled for a commercial shoot. Or that moment you set the Big Mac box in front of you like a treasure chest — and inside, the legendary, double-pattied, sauced-to-perfection burger you’ve been craving since the second you decided it would be your next bite.

In the last decade, foodies and cooks around the world have tried to recreate these burgers — these greasy, iconic pillars of fast food. But here’s the truth: we’ll never be able to recreate the one thing that actually makes them special — the experience.

Think about a movie theatre. You know everything’s overpriced. You complain. You hesitate. And then you get it anyway. Because the movie doesn’t feel like a movie without it. The salty, finger-staining popcorn. The Coke in a cup so comically large it deserves its own seat. It’s not about the food. It’s about the ritual. The moment.

Like that sinful Five Guys burger. It’s not an everyday thing. It’s a comfort. A craving. A permission slip to just enjoy.

And maybe that’s what food is, at its best — nostalgia in a paper wrapper. Proof that something doesn’t need to be refined to be meaningful. That sometimes, the messiest meals are the ones that stay with us.

An italian escape in paris

Two dusty windows, a worn wooden door, and the faintest scent of rosemary in the air. That’s all it took for us to stop walking. My friend and I had walked past the restaurant on our exploratory mission through Paris. The old wooden door and two windows were the only details alluring to the restaurant. At a closer look, we could see the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and unlit candles nestled on the wooden tables. We were determined to be one of the people sitting at those tables in the evening.

The restaurant, small, cozy, and brimming with the warmth only Italy can provide, was a welcome escape from the Parisian winter. The few tables in the room were crowded by guests who had felt the same as we did earlier that day. Sausages and sprigs of rosemary dangled from the ceiling like lanterns. The walls held old memories in frames, like pages from a family photo book. It felt as if the problems of the world had been left at the door, giving us a moment to breathe and rejoice while under the roof of L’alimentari.

We popped open our first bottle of red with a quiet celebration. It poured into our glasses, catching the flicker of candlelight on its surface. A pan towered with steamed mussels, fighting for the top of the hill as we raced to meet the bottom of the pot. The scent of the sea and indulgence of cream kissed our every sense as we surgically extracted the flesh from their shells.

As we discuss the adventures of the day, everything falls into place, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here. My friend’s smile is intoxicating, like the wine we’ve been enjoying. The dimmed light of the room flickers in her eyes as she tells me about her favorite parts of the city. I couldn’t help but be completely taken by her. Time was passing, yet we were stuck in a moment that could’ve lasted a lifetime.

Our evening was only enriched by the gnocchi arriving at our table. Like pillows scattered across the plate, blanketed by the rich aromas of butter and sage. This was Italian at its best: simple flavors, yet carrying itself with the confidence of tradition and ritual. The nutty and herbal notes danced around me with a taste of the red fruit lingering in my glass. I felt privileged, a kind of rich that money can’t compare to. I was here, in the presence of a beautiful woman, with good food at my table, and a glass of wine in my hand. If there’s a heaven on earth, it might look like this.

love at first sight

After a long day of traveling, I was exhausted, hungry, and desperate for a shower. But after checking into the hostel, dropping my backpack in the room, and taking a breath, I had only one thing on my mind: food. My final mission of the day.

I’ll never forget walking through the neighbourhood for the first time.

The long, wide streets were blanketed by trees, as if shielding the locals from the harsh summer sun. Sidewalks were scattered with coloured plastic chairs and tables like polka dots on stone. Locals and tourists alike huddled together over large, steaming bowls of phở and sweating bottles of cold beer. From nearby Beer Street, music echoed — pop remixes made to lure in the next wave of partygoers.

I sat at the best-looking spot I could find, knees folded awkwardly onto a tiny chair. Within minutes, I had a beer in one hand and a bowl of soup in front of me.

I couldn’t have been happier.

The phở was light but packed with Flavor. Fresh herbs floated through the beef broth while slices of meat tangled with rice noodles, each one fighting for a dance with my chopsticks. We were all sweating together, slurping noodles like our lives depended on it. And in that moment, it didn’t matter where you were from — Vietnamese or foreign — food was our unifier.

The king of late-night street food

It was after the first shift volunteering as a bartender in my hostel that I realized I was going to love Hanoi. My supervisor and I finished a shift at our rooftop hostel bar. It was late, we were most definitely drunk from the copious amounts of espresso martinis, but we were hungry. As soon as we walked outside, we were led by the faint smell of warm food in the air. Minutes of walking led to a fairy light lit spot, plastic furniture, and steam everywhere. My supervisor was a seasoned late-night eater and knew exactly what to order. Our table soon filled with dishes I couldn’t pronounce, and like every hungry drunks would, we shut up and started eating.

You can say a lot about Asia. Damn, I have. But whatever flaws people point to, Asia will always dominate in one thing: late-night street food.

It’s dirty, it’s cheap, and it will probably make you question whether you just voluntarily got food poisoning. But in the end, it’s there when you need it, and it’s incredible. Sweaty Banh Mis made to order from a cart on the street. Greasy plates of Pad Thai that are cheaper than an Espresso in Amsterdam. Or hell, a whole scorpion on a stick.

If you haven’t experienced this first-hand, you might question whether I’m selling you snake oil or convincing you of something truly amazing. Picture this.

You’ve just knocked back as many beers as your liver allowed on beer street, maybe even a shot or two of happy water. It’s 4 AM, and while you can’t even walk straight, your stomach rumbles. Not the ‘’find the nearest corner to puke in’’ rumble, but the ‘’feed me right now’’ rumble.

You might think finding food is as hard as dodging tomorrow’s hangover. But, you smell food in the air. You look around and find that every food spot is still open, tables filled with both tourists and locals alike. The aromas of fried spring rolls, comically large bowls of fried rice, and the steam of sliced pork intertwining with the sweat on your brow. The best part, this is normal, this is Asia’s nightlife culture in a nutshell.

I miss those nights — ordering a bit too much food with friends as we crack open another round of Saigon beers. The fifteen-year-old son of the owner battling the wok as if they’ve been at war for decades. Flip-flops, shorts, and a stained T-shirt as his armour.

You never forget the first city that feeds you like that.