Steam curled from our plates like whispered secrets, the kitchen alive with foreign aromas that clashed gloriously—garlic-infused olive oil from the Italian pasta primavera, rich coconut curry from the Japanese katsu curry, and herby tomato simmer from the French ratatouille.
We'd retreated from the living room's cerebral storm—ideas of rebel protagonists, quick transmigrators and system-surroundings still buzzing—to this dining table, plates piled high as a fragile anchor.
Twirling forks in vibrant primavera—al dente penne tossed with zucchini, cherry tomatoes, bell peppers, and parmesan shavings in a light pesto sauce—we savoured crispy tonkatsu cutlets drowning in velvety curry gravy flecked with carrots and potatoes. Ratatouille bubbled beside it, eggplant and squash layered in a Provençal tapestry, topped with fresh basil. Garlic bread slices, golden and buttery, soaked up every drop. Exotic comfort, worlds away from routine.
