How to Cook Like You’ve Been Somewhere
- Shannon Bard
- Oct 28
- 3 min read
Every time I light the stove, I’m in the moment yet somehow, I’m everywhere I’ve been.
San Sebastián. Istanbul. Tokyo. Northern Thailand.
Each flame carries a memory, each dish a lesson that lingers. The sounds, the scents, the quiet instincts of a place. They return through my hands, unannounced but unmistakable.
You don’t need a passport for that. Just a knife a kitchen and curiosity.
Travel has a way of sneaking into the kitchen. A flavor you can’t forget, a habit that stays, a moment that changes how you cook forever.
For me, those moments came from the kitchens and markets that shaped me: nights inside a three-Michelin-star restaurant in San Sebastián where precision ruled every movement; tea poured high and slow in a back-street café in Istanbul; an Oaxacan chef measuring mole down to the exact number of cloves; mornings in a Thai monastery kitchen, chopping vegetables barefoot before the day’s meditation.
Those places taught me what no textbook ever could: flavor is the most powerful form of travel.
Those places taught me what no textbook ever could: flavor is the most powerful form of travel. You can’t always get on a plane, but you can bring the world home through what you cook. Every spice, sauce, and charred edge is a stamp from somewhere else.
Start with Curiosity. Not Perfection
Cooking like you’ve been somewhere doesn’t mean mastering a cuisine. It means having the nerve to begin without knowing where it will lead.
I trained in a three-Michelin-star kitchen in San Sebastián, where every movement was timed and every garnish weighed. It was flawless, exacting, and the opposite of curiosity. I’m grateful for it, but it also taught me what rules can’t: the real magic begins when you step beyond them.
Curiosity turns a recipe into a story. It’s how you find the flavor that doesn’t exist on paper.
The world doesn’t need another perfect plate; it needs cooks willing to taste, risk, and learn in real time. Curiosity turns a recipe into a story. It’s how you find the flavor that doesn’t exist on paper.
Respect the Source
I learned to make mole from an Oaxacan chef who measured everything, not with spoons, but by count. Eight cloves. Three pods of chili. Each ingredient added with quiet precision, as if memory itself were the recipe.
It was the opposite of instinct; it was reverence. Watching her, I understood that respect in cooking doesn’t come from freedom. It comes from care. Knowing where a dish began, what it means, and why it’s made the way it is.
Every ingredient, chili, cacao, rice, olive oil carries history. When you slow down long enough to notice, you realize cooking isn’t always about invention; it’s about honoring what’s already been perfected by time.
Let Flavor Be the Teacher
In Istanbul, I sat in a small café tucked behind the Spice Bazaar. The air smelled of smoke, sugar, and heat. A man I didn’t know set a glass of tea in front of me without a word. It was small, sweet, and strong. A gesture so simple it said everything.
That cup reminded me that flavor itself is the teacher. You don’t need language or recipes to understand it, just taste. Let the food tell you what it needs. A dish will always find its balance if you’re paying attention.
Cook Like You Travel
In northern Thailand, mornings began cold. I wore sandals to the kitchen, leaving them outside before stepping in. The space was quiet, the air damp, the rhythm deliberate. We prepared vegetables for the monks’ breakfast in silence. Every motion slow, precise, intentional.
Cooking and travel share the same truth: you adapt or you miss the moment. Ingredients burn. Plans change. The best things happen when you stop trying to control them.
To cook like you’ve been somewhere is to let a little unpredictability in. To trust that even mistakes can taste like discovery.
The World in Your Kitchen
You don’t need a flight or a stamp in your passport to feel far from home.
Grill something until it blisters. Toast spices until they wake the room. Open a jar that smells like another country and let it fill your kitchen.
Cooking like you’ve been somewhere isn’t about mastery. It’s about motion.
Curiosity. The willingness to keep tasting until the world feels closer.
So tonight, travel with your knife, your hands, and a little courage.
Comments