Sukriti Taneja
Have you ever found yourself in a picture-perfect place, only to realise your mood has completely soured, unprovoked, irrationally grumpy, a bit like a toddler in a tantrum? You try to push through, enjoy the sights, soak in the experience … until it hits you. You’re not sad. You’re just hungry. Or more accurately, hangry.
It’s a strange kind of emotional hijack that hunger pulls. And nowhere is it more disorienting than while travelling, when you’re in unfamiliar places, running on adrenaline, and forgetting to refuel. Over the years, I’ve come to believe that some meals don’t just feed you, they steady you. And a couple of those moments have stayed with me.
Malta: The pasta that went wrong (and everything else that went right)
I was travelling solo in Malta when my mood, quite suddenly, turned sour. The setting couldn’t have been more perfect; sunlit stone streets, gentle sea breeze. But I was starving. And when you’re low on food, even the most charming streets start to lose their shine.
It had been days of on-the-go bites, and now I wanted more than just a meal – I wanted a moment. Something curated, memorable. So, I Googled. Fifteen minutes and a short ferry ride later, I reached a part of Malta I’d been meaning to explore anyway. The restaurant I found was everything I’d imagined: picture-perfect, Pinteresty, like something out of a medieval romance. Tucked into a courtyard framed by ivy-covered walls, it glowed with rustic lights, soft fountains, and a kind of quiet that felt like a reward.
I ordered pasta, prawns only, because it’s the only seafood I can brave without risking an allergy. I was confident. Specific. Maybe a bit too ambitious.
What arrived was … confused. A bland, mismatched tangle of something that technically qualified as food but definitely not joy.
Aesthetics: A solid 10.
Execution: Tragic.
But as it turned out, the best part of that dinner had nothing to do with the place or what was on the plate. Two of the waiters, students from Bangladesh and Syria working their way through university, started chatting with me between tables. We talked about languages, their homes, the parts of Malta they loved, and the lives they were building.
It wasn’t planned, but it was warm. Real. And far more nourishing than the meal. Could the introvert in me muster up the courage to say I didn’t like the food? No. But it didn’t matter as I was being pampered with a selection of desserts on the house and conversations that were nothing short of wholesome and just so very human.
Later, on my walk back through the quiet streets, I stopped at a small roadside stall and had a fresh pastizzi, flaky, golden, stuffed with ricotta, meant to be eaten with your bare hands.
And it was perfect.
That day reminded me: even in a picture-perfect setting, things don’t have to go as planned. What doesn’t work out can still become the part you remember most. Sometimes it’s your belly that needs to be fed, but more often than most, it’s your perspective that needs feeding.
Istanbul: Two forks, one bread, and my mother
Years ago, my mom and I took a girls’ trip to Istanbul. It was meant to be fun, easy, and light. But midway through, we had a blowout. I can’t remember what triggered it, perhaps it was something minor that felt major. We weren’t speaking. Both of us were stubborn, simmering, and definitely not ready to apologise.
But hunger doesn’t wait for emotional readiness.
That evening, with the rain starting to mist the cobbled streets, we stepped out in silence, each too proud to stay in but too bruised to talk. We slipped into a small, warmly lit restaurant with live Turkish music curling through the air. The waiter arrived. We were still avoiding eye contact. The silence held until the waiter arrived with a notepad and unknowingly cued the plot twist.
We kept asking for the same dishes!
I started with the balloon bread, Balon Ekmek. She did too. The waiter looked puzzled, unsure why we were ordering separately what could clearly be shared. But we carried on.
Next came a vegetarian curry. Same again.
Then the aubergine dip. Identical.
By the third match, we were side eyeing each other like two suspects caught with matching alibis.
Then came the final straw. She ordered the pita and hummus platter just as I lifted my menu to do the same. The waiter, now thoroughly entertained, chuckled and said, “Ah, same again, ladies!”
That utterly and truly broke our character.
We burst out laughing. Wordlessly, we raised our beers, clinked glasses, and took long, dramatic sips like two actresses in a play that had suddenly gone off-script.
It was hilarious. It was healing.
And somewhere between tearing apart that warm, puffed bread and savouring the last bite of hummus, something softened. The silence no longer needed filling. The food had done what words couldn’t; it had brought us back to each other.
Food for thought
Food does more than just fuel the body; it steadies the soul. Especially while travelling, a good meal can become an anchor in the chaos. It asks us to slow down, to savour, to see the moment for what it is. Sometimes, it’s a solo plate that shifts your mood; other times, it’s a shared dish that gently dissolves distance.
In both moments, one alone, one shared, food was more than a necessity. It was therapy. It didn’t fix everything, but it reminded me that being human is messy. That we get moody, we get distant, we feel misunderstood. And sometimes, the way back to ourselves or each other … is through a good plate of something warm.
Travel opens us up to the world. Food opens us back up to ourselves.
So, the next time your mood dips mid-adventure, ask yourself: Have I eaten? Have I sat with someone and truly shared a meal?
Because sometimes, healing begins not with words, but with bread, butter, and a bite.