How Eating Through London Made It Feel Less Foreign—and More Like Home
Another name for a place where everybody knows your name is “home.”
Illustration: Bráulio Amado; Photographer: Howard Chua-Eoan
Home is a conundrum. It’s where you start and where you want to end up. You run away from it, yet you miss it. It’s sweet. And also not. There’s no place like it. And I’ve learned this: Home is a movable feast.
I was one of those mythical New Yorkers whose oven doubled as a shoe closet. The city was my kitchen. I ate out practically every day, from morning pour-over coffees off Amsterdam Avenue to midnight slices at Joe’s Pizza on Carmine Street. Then, four years ago, work sent me to London. I was excited but also terrified. I’d called New York home for almost 40 years. Would I adjust to London? Where would I eat? Would I have to cook? The prospect was stomach-turning.