Fine Dining

Since my wife and I have been together, for more than seven years now, food has always been one of the ways we share happiness.

I still remember one of those early happy moments. At her 29th birthday, she took me to one of the finest hot pot restaurants in town, somewhere I had never eaten before.

I remember the collagen soup, the Australian beef slices, the fresh vegetables—and most of all, her smiling face across the table while I wished her happy birthday.

Hot pot isn’t what we normally think of as fine dining. It can be busy, with many things arriving at the table and many things to eat.

But that evening, it felt like fine dining to me.

The fine of the finest.

The Space Between Courses

In February 2026, my wife and I traveled to Vietnam. Many of our lunches and dinners were at fine-dining restaurants.

Looking back, those meals became some of the moments I remember most from the trip.

I particularly remember one in Hoi An, sitting quietly near the riverside. There wasn’t much food on the plate at once. Between courses, we waited, looked outside, looked at each other, held hands, and wondered what the next course would taste like.

The small portions made us notice the food. But it was the space between courses that gave us time to notice each other.

We were having lunch, and we knew we were having lunch.

The Wednesday Lunch Date

After Vietnam, I found myself liking fine dining more—not because of the luxury, but because of the experience.

I liked its intentional slowness.

I was going to the office around six days a week, and weekday lunches with my wife rarely happened. So about a month after Vietnam, I had an idea: the Wednesday lunch date.

On Wednesdays, we would choose one of the fine-dining restaurants in Yangon and have lunch together. Before my hospitalization, we had done this around five times.

During those lunches, I barely used my phone. There was food to enjoy, time to spend, and nowhere else I needed to be for that moment.

My focus was on the food. My heart was in the moment. And my hand was on her hand.

Later, lying in the hospital, I remembered those Wednesday lunches.

Of all the decisions I had made, this simple one made me feel particularly happy.

I was glad I hadn’t postponed them.

The Finest Ingredient

During recovery, I heard an idea in an audiobook that stayed with me:

Having more money doesn’t make a pizza taste better.

More money can buy better ingredients. It can take us to a finer restaurant, with a better view and better service.

But it doesn’t necessarily make the dining finer.

Looking back, what I loved about those meals was the time we gave to them. The waiting between courses. The attention to what was on the plate. The conversations. Her hand in mine. And for that moment, nowhere else to be.

Then I thought about our ordinary meals at home.

Maybe the real difference between ordinary dining and fine dining is not the money or even the taste. It is the time we give to it.

Our ordinary meals already have almost everything I was looking for. Maybe all that is missing is a little more time, calmness, and awareness to actually experience them.

The finest ingredient wasn’t on the plate.

It was the time we gave to it.

Shaped from my audio journals with the help of an AI assistant.