Let me ask you something.
How far would you go for food that genuinely ruins you – not in the bad way, but in the way that makes every other version of that dish feel like a pale, apologetic imitation? Would you reschedule a meeting? Cancel plans? What about, say, miss a train?
Because we almost did. And honestly? I’d do it again without a second thought.
There are certain foods that don’t belong to restaurants or recipes. They belong to people.
My friend’s mother made kebabs and I use the word “made” the way you’d use it for something closer to art than cooking. Every year, without fail, whenever we visited, those kebabs would appear. Smoky, tender, spiced in that precise, unreplicable way that only comes from decades of muscle memory and zero written measurements. The kind of food where you close your eyes on the first bite because your full attention is owed to it.
This time, though, life had other plans.
We were back home on a short trip, the kind where you’re already mentally packing while you’re still unpacking. The clock was merciless, the schedule tighter than it had any right to be, and a proper sit-down meal was simply not in the cards. We’d accepted it. Made peace with it. Said our goodbyes at the door of their bungalow like responsible adults with trains to catch.
And then our friend walked out holding a plate of those kebabs.
Just like that, every mature, time-conscious thought evaporated.
We grabbed them with the urgency of people who understood, on a cellular level, that this was not optional. Into the car we went, bags shoved in the back, kebabs in our laps; eating with the focused desperation of people who had their priorities perfectly sorted, thank you very much. The clock ticking, the station getting closer, the kebabs getting better with every single bite.
Then the railway crossing gates came down.
And there, through the windshield, we watched our train glide peacefully, unbothered, almost smugly into the platform.
Now here’s where I need you to really picture this: the gates lift, the car barely stops, doors flung open, bags grabbed with zero grace, and two absolute maniacs sprinting through a train station; one still clutching a paper napkin, probably smelling magnificently of kebab. People stared. Someone may have laughed. It was, without question, a scene stolen directly from a movie except sweatier, louder, and considerably more fragrant.
We made it. We collapsed into our seats, breathless and grinning, hearts pounding, stomachs wonderfully full.
That journey home was spent retelling those four chaotic minutes with the kind of laughter that makes your eyes water and your stomach hurt. Here’s what I’ve come to understand: some meals are just meals. But some meals are moments, ones that sit in the softest corner of your memory, not just for the taste, but for everything wrapped around them.The warmth of someone’s mother pressing food into your hands at a doorstep. The ridiculousness of choosing flavor over punctuality. The way joy can taste like smoke and spice and a little bit of panic.
So I’ll ask you again and be honest with yourself here.
Are you the kind of person who plays it safe, or are you the kind of person who takes the kebabs and runs?
Because if there’s a story somewhere in your life that ends with you breathless on a platform, heart full and no regrets — I have a feeling we’d get along just fine.
The author is an artist and designer based in the tri-state area