One of better bonding times with my mother is when we get to explore new restaurants and eat something special. My mom and I will carefully examine first the food plating, describing how it is served, calculating it or if there is really something special about it in the first place.
The moment of taste comes next, which in effect will elicit comments and even memories tracing back when was the last time we probably ate the same kind of food or taste for that matter. What could then be the secret recipe? Eating is conjoined with discovering. We do not bother to inquire around. We are satisfied with our little world of conquests and their mysteries. We taste and then follows a wonder or a disapproval of some sort. I still believe my mother is the best cook around.
But we are not chefs. We are not doing food inventory. We are just simply eating. And I am no food expert. But I have always been curious how food is prepared – for someone who does not even know a single kitchen work except washing the dishes - and eaten. That is true and personal. But I choose to be that way. I cannot try hard.
But I keep a dream of a garden concept restaurant, and I share that dream with my family. In that restaurant, I sit pretty, sipping afternoon coffee, and not worrying about the profit because I will have been moneyed by then. And people as far as Timbuktu will come to my abode as if it becomes their pilgrimage. I keep a very visual image on this. And just like any dream, it should begin with a seed to be watered, to be nurtured.