Wine Importer Lyle Fass on Food Memory and the Meals He Never Forgot

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Season 2 : Best meals in Europe

Episode 12

66 minutes

Lyle Fass has spent nearly two decades travelling through Europe as a wine importer, buying directly from growers in Burgundy, the Rhône, Germany, and beyond for his New York based business, Fass Selections. In this episode, he joins The European Compass to talk about food memory, not the best meal he has ever eaten, but the ones that have stayed with him.

We talk about a Sunday lunch that started as a joke and ended with a 2014 vintage of Jacques Puffeney’s Vin Jaune, the eclair that still crosses his mind when New York gets too loud, and the strawberries that made him rethink what a strawberry is supposed to taste like. Lyle also explains why he will order three wines by the glass at a two star Michelin restaurant but bring his own bottle to dinner in New York, why andouillette is the one French food he still cannot get behind, and what a Swiss village called Jenins taught him about pig heart.

If you plan your meals as carefully as the rest of your itinerary, this conversation is for you.

Featured in this episode

Transcript of The European Compass : A Food & Travel Podcast : Episode 12

Julia: Hello Lyle, thank you very much for joining us on the European Compass podcast.

Lyle: It is a pleasure to be here.

Julia: To start with, I’m going to ask you the question I’m asking all my guests. Tell me about the most memorable meal you’ve had in Europe, not necessarily the best meal, but the most memorable.

Most Memorable Meal: A Sunday Lunch in Tain-l’Hermitage

Lyle: It’s a great question. I’ve been going to Europe for almost twenty years now, and I’ve had a lot of memorable meals, but my most memorable one just happened, this past June. It was a Sunday lunch with the owners of a wine shop in Tain-l’Hermitage, although the lunch itself was across the river in Tournon. A father and his wife own one wine shop there, and three brothers own another, and they’ve become my adoptive French, and also Greek, family. Wonderful people.

About three months before, I’d made a joke to one of the brothers. I said I’d love it if Véronique, that’s my friend’s mother, would make me blanquette de veau. She’d made it once, years earlier, and it was wonderful. It was just a joke, I never expected it to happen. Then the day before this lunch, I’m in the shop tasting wine, and Hector, one of the brothers, goes, “are you ready for the blanquette de veau on Sunday?” I said, what do you mean? He said Véronique had bought the veal and was going to make it. I thought it was still a joke, and he said no, this is very real.

Blanquette de veau is a dish I’ve never once seen on a menu in the United States, and I adore it. I’ve seen ris de veau on menus, but never blanquette. I have a list of about twenty foods I won’t eat in America but will eat at every opportunity in France, and blanquette de veau and ris de veau are near the top of it.

So Sunday lunch was at one o’clock. My warehouse logistics manager, who I was travelling with, and I arrived and sat outside in this courtyard garden that looked like something out of an E.M. Forster film, or a traditional French manor movie from the forties or fifties, a Rohmer film almost. Not an ostentatiously wealthy house, more very comfortable upper middle class, but beautiful. It was for someone’s fortieth birthday, and we started with a salad outside, laughing and joking, then moved into the kitchen for the blanquette de veau, which Véronique had been cooking since six that morning, because the longer you simmer it the better.

She served the veal over pasta with the most unbelievably creamy sauce. She nailed the sauce, which is the most important part. The day before, they’d asked what I wanted to drink with it, which is a hard question, but I remembered the last time we’d drunk a Puffeney, Jacques Puffeney’s Vin Jaune, a ’98, and I said I’d love another. Hector brought out the last vintage he had, a 2014, which is an incredibly distinctive wine. People usually save Vin Jaune for after the meal, with Comté or Gruyère, but I think it matches perfectly with the cream sauce of a blanquette, because when you’re matching food to wine, especially French wine to food, forget the meat, forget everything else, you’re only matching to the sauce. The sauce here was creamy, so you need high acid, and Vin Jaune’s slightly oxidative character, from being aged sous voile, works beautifully against that. It’s one of the greatest combinations in the world. I’d recommend everybody watching this to have blanquette de veau and an aged Vin Jaune or Château-Chalon, something thirty or forty years old if you can find it.

We sat around the table laughing, and Véronique, who is one of the most cheerful, good natured people, cooked it all in a kitchen that looked at least seventy five or eighty years old. I posted a picture on Threads and people were losing their minds over the stove. Then we had cheese, which is potentially even more important than the meal itself, six or seven different cheeses, a seven year old Comté, a couple of goat cheeses, a Morbier, a Tomme de Savoie, a Pont-l’Évêque. They chose a 2020 Bernard Faurie Hermitage for the cheese course, which went beautifully with the creamy, harder cow’s milk cheeses and was a complete disaster with the goat cheeses, as expected.

Julia: That’s the difficulty when you’ve got a cheese board like that, matching your wine to every cheese is a real skill.

Lyle: It really is. If you’ve got three goats and four cows, with half the cows creamy and half semi hard, you’d want a Sancerre for the goats and maybe a premier cru Chardonnay with some age for the rest. I think red wine with cheese is much more complicated than people realise. Obviously Stilton and port is a great combination, but that’s kind of cheating, since port is fortified and can handle the intensity of a blue cheese. When in doubt with a bunch of cheeses, I always go white, because there’s less interference, a red can make both the cheese and the wine taste bad. Although I do love a cheap Bordeaux with a good farmhouse Roquefort, the Roquefort elevates the cheap wine until it tastes like a classified growth. One of my little hacks.

After the cheese, the funniest thing happened, organic ice cream, eaten straight out of the container. That’s a true Sunday meal, everyone laughing, four or five in the afternoon, right before that summer’s heat wave. It was just a wonderful lunch, because it’s something you cannot reproduce in any restaurant, no matter how hard you try. It was cooked with love, requested specially, paired with beautiful rare wines from the cellar, and finished with terrific ice cream eaten out of the tub, which I was very happy to learn is a universal thing and not just an American, Ben and Jerry’s kind of habit. I had meals on this trip with higher food quality, technically, but the combination of old friends, a Sunday, and no place to be and no time limit made it special. I love Michelin restaurants, I love random patisseries, I love all of that, but home cooked meals are my favourite meals in France.

Food Memory as the Only Ranking That Matters

Julia: That comes back to something I first noticed about you on Threads. You said food memory is the only ranking that matters, and that really struck me, because it’s exactly what I talk about, how food elevates travel.

Lyle: I agree completely. I include wine, beer, and cider when I talk about food, all of it. It’s the flavours that memory holds onto in a way a photograph can’t. I did a list once of my top ten, and it wasn’t really foods, it was memories. Sitting on a bench across from the Seine in Chablis one morning before the day started, having a chocolate eclair and a jambon beurre, not a soul around, still the greatest eclair I had on that entire trip, and I probably ate around twenty. The coffee wasn’t the best, I’ll admit, but just sitting on that river. Even now, back in New York, when things are crazy and tense, I think about sitting on that bench. I look at the photo of it and just feel that joy again. Some of my best meals were exactly that, sitting on benches in Burgundy or Chablis, or in Tain-l’Hermitage, eating a simple sandwich and then some beautiful pastry after. I ate a ridiculous amount of pastry on that trip, I don’t touch pastry in America, I’m generally very healthy there, which is a bit of a joke since I live half my life eating like that in France.

An Eclair Tour of France

Lyle: I went on a whole eclair tour, I’m working on a Threads post ranking every one I had, because there were so many. There was a black cherry eclair in Amboise that was absolutely stunning, usually you’re seeing coffee or chocolate everywhere, even the smallest boulangeries, vanilla is already getting into specialty territory, but a cherry filling is something we’d never get here. Amboise isn’t the most exciting town otherwise, beautiful Côte-Rôtie vineyards overlooking it, but really just the one boulangerie, mostly serving workers. I saw that eclair, this beautiful colour with a black cherry on top, and I had to have it. Wonderful, but the most perfect chew was actually the eclair in Chablis. Chablis really blew me away for food. Twenty five years ago it wasn’t much of a town, but it’s grown so much in the last ten years, there’s a fantastic tapas place now called Chablis Wine Bar that I strongly recommend, reasonably priced, an unbelievable wine list, and probably the best pâté en croûte I’ve ever had.

The Best Strawberries of His Life

Lyle: And then there were the strawberries, which made my top ten on their own. I feel very strongly about strawberries. I don’t think you’ve really had a strawberry unless you’ve had one in Europe, because American strawberries, and British ones too, are dominated by one company, Driscoll’s, and when they’re in season they’re vulgarly sweet. I want a strawberry to taste like a strawberry, not a caricature of one. I saw these strawberries at a grocer in Chablis and just knew. They weren’t cheap, eight euros for a basket of about thirty, more than we’d normally pay for far less. The colour was remarkable, perfectly ripe, nothing out of place, almost like AI generated strawberries. I put one in my mouth expecting some version of Driscoll’s vulgarity, and instead it tasted more like a strawberry than any strawberry I’ve ever had, real acidity, real freshness, and what I like to call barely sweetness, right on the edge of the cliff without falling into vulgar. I’m fifty one years old, and I had the best strawberries of my life in a grocer’s basket in Chablis. That’s a remarkable thing to be able to say. Europe lets you eat like a king for almost no money, and also, when you want it, for quite a lot of money.

Why Michelin Feels Different in Europe

Julia: So you were eating Michelin restaurants too, mixing these very different experiences.

Lyle: Always one big Michelin meal on a trip, because a Michelin experience in Europe, especially France, is completely different from one in the United States. In America the clock starts the moment you sit down, because they need to turn the table. When you have a reservation at a Michelin restaurant in France, the table is yours, no rush. And then there’s tipping, which has to be mentioned. In America we have a tipping culture, so no meal, however good, feels entirely authentic, there are people performing for money, and that looms over everything, all that performative checking in, let me explain the menu to you. In Europe the tip is included, and if you feel the service was exceptional you can add more, but there’s no performance to it. I love that in the best Michelin restaurants you shouldn’t even notice the service when it’s done properly, you shouldn’t remember it at all.

I went to La Table d’Olivier Nasti in Kaysersberg, two star Michelin, very famous for being Anthony Bourdain’s last meal. I’d been to Kaysersberg before and had a one star experience at L’Alchémille, which was wonderful, but the gap between one star and two is like a chasm. The whole meal was beautifully paced, seven courses that turned into more like sixteen with all the extras and amuse bouches. But for me the most important thing in any Michelin meal is the first bite, because that’s the restaurant’s thesis statement. At Nasti’s it was a carrot in a cone with cream in the middle, made from the carrot itself, with the carrot on the outside. Potentially the greatest bite of food I had in Europe, a tiny bit of heat, which in French food is a tectonic event, combined with creaminess and a little crunch from the dried carrot around it. Almost his version of Keller’s oysters and pearls. A divine piece of food that told me exactly what kind of meal I was in for.

For wine, I did something I would never do in America, three different wines by the glass, because the glass pour programme in Europe is a completely different game. In American Michelin restaurants the markups on glass pours are so absurd I mostly bring my own bottle, which you can do at almost every restaurant in New York, corkage and all. I’ve only done it once in Burgundy myself, walked in with a Vosne-Romanée and a Nuits-Saint-Georges I didn’t want to leave behind, had the sommelier call ahead, and it was fine. At Nasti’s I started with a 2022 Château Simone Blanc from Palette for the fish courses, then a 2020 Alex Moreau Chassagne-Montrachet, which went beautifully with more fish, and for the venison with foie gras I went to a 2020 Trediberri Barolo by the glass, a young producer I love, more elegant in style, and it was probably the best food and wine pairing of the whole night.

Afterwards I walked around Kaysersberg with my phone light on, because there’s not much street lighting, and it’s a place that barely seems real, all that whimsical Alsatian design, the terraces, the outrageous colours. The whole point of a meal like that is that every single person in the room, the sommelier, the person who makes the bread, has trained for years in their discipline to give you a peak experience, and they take it completely seriously. It’s not just about the food, it’s the whole evening, and that feeling is what stays with you.

A Farm to Table Find in Swiss Wine Country

Julia: I always tell people travelling in Europe not to eat in very good restaurants every night, you need the contrast, and a couple of really good meals stand out more against simpler ones in between.

Lyle: I agree completely. One night I was so sick of French food, I know that’s a hard thing to admit, and I was at a bistro on the river in Tain-l’Hermitage. My waiter was Indian, and I asked him, long shot, but is there a good Indian restaurant anywhere nearby? He said not in Tain-l’Hermitage, but if you drive fifteen minutes to Valence there’s a halal Pakistani restaurant he’d highly recommend. So the next night we drove to Valence, this restaurant called Le Shalimar, on the night of a France World Cup match, watching it on an outdoor TV, and it was one of the best meals of the trip. There’s a specific raita dish there, cucumber, rice, all about texture and temperature, which is the most important thing for me in food, above everything else. It was the best raita I’ve ever had, and I never expected to say that about Valence. That’s my whole attitude travelling, curiosity drives me, about half my meals are planned and half are just going with the flow.

I found the same thing in Switzerland, which is complicated, very expensive, a lot of the restaurants fairly formulaic, but I did find a really good farm to table place in Swiss wine country, a village called Jenins, near the area they call the Bündner Herrschaft, the Swiss equivalent of somewhere like Vosne or Gevrey-Chambertin. There’s a restaurant there called Alter Torkel, overlooking a beautiful vineyard, and the prices reflected that. But I had one spectacular dish, pig heart with end of season leeks and fresh strawberries, served cold over a strawberry consommé. Truly outrageous. Farm to table Swiss food isn’t something you find often, and that dish didn’t quite make my top ten, but it’s an honourable mention.

Andouillette and the Cat Food Test

Lyle: I’ll eat almost anything, lung, heart, pancreas, liver, but I will not eat andouille.

Julia: It smells like cat food, and quite often it tastes like it smells too. I’ve only ever had it edible once, at a restaurant in Nantes called La Cigale, it was their plat du jour. We tried to wave it off with the waiter, and he said, try it, and if you don’t like it I’ll take it back and bring you something else for free. He was clearly a professional, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt, fully expecting to hate it, and it was absolutely delicious. Which of course meant I then went and tried it somewhere else, thought maybe I actually like andouille, and no, it was cat food again. I’ve never found anywhere else that came close.

There’s also andouillette, similar but not quite the same, definitely not tripe. I was with one of my Burgundy growers, somewhere near Pommard or Nuits, and he ordered it and told me I had to try some. Same smell, but somehow presented elegantly, cut into little pieces with black truffle, salt, pepper, a few other spices. Still couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth, but it was elegant about it, like a bad wine with a lot of finesse. I understood the appeal in that moment. I still would never order it myself.

Julia: My kids grew up in France and none of them will touch it either. You almost have to grow up in the country to understand how to like it.

Iceland, His Bookend Country

Lyle: Every one of my European trips starts and ends in Iceland. I call it Bizarro Hawaii, because the relationship Europe has with Iceland is almost the same relationship America has with Hawaii, this strange island everyone agrees is technically part of the whole but somehow separate. There’s really exciting stuff happening there, cuisine wise, the best lamb I’ve ever had in my life, cod, and the famous Icelandic hot dogs, mostly lamb with a little beef, remoulade, crunchy onions on the bottom and regular cooked onions on top. There’s a restaurant I always go back to called Matur og Drykkur, which just means food and drink, mentioned in the Michelin Guide, which I think is ridiculous, because for me the quality has to be between one and two stars to earn that. They do genuinely interesting things, an entire cod head, crème-brûléed and served with a béarnaise sauce and pistachio crumble, cheeks included. It looks like some prehistoric animal has crawled onto your plate. I really love Icelandic food.

Germany’s French Detour

Lyle: Germany’s another place I travel and import from, and I eat very well there too, but I’ve noticed the finest restaurants in Germany are essentially doing French food, maybe with a side of Spätzle. German specialties themselves are more complicated. In the Pfalz, where I work with a few wineries, there’s Saumagen, a stuffed pig stomach with sausage and other fillings, then opened and served with a creamy sauce, a very strong flavour, almost like a German andouillette but without the tripe. I’ve had it maybe three times, and the last time might be the last time, though I always want to try the local specialty wherever I go, because the memory links back to the place, gives you a sense of it.

When it comes to tarte flambée versus Flammkuchen, same dish, French and German names, I think of it a bit like Brooklyn versus Manhattan, and I was always Team Tarte Flambée.

Julia: Though actually there are parts of France that still call it Flammkuchen. My son-in-law is from the Strasbourg area, and his side of the family calls it Flammkuchen rather than tarte flambée. Strasbourg itself says tarte flambée, but he lives closer to the German border, still in France, and there the name switches over.

Lyle: That’s interesting, because I always assumed the best version would be French, and I did have some great ones in Alsace, but the best I’ve ever had was in a small Swiss village called Eglisau, at a restaurant that no longer exists, in June 2024. It was divine, paper thin, gorgeous, just onions, crème fraîche, and lardo, nothing more. I was debating between that meal and my Sunday lunch for best of the whole trip. Afterwards, wiener schnitzel, the best I’ve ever had, a few potatoes on the side, a local lager, sitting right across the river. I still think about that meal almost every day. When my grower told me the restaurant had since closed, I nearly cried. That night we ended up at an Italian restaurant with no air conditioning in Bad Zurzach instead, which was very good, because Germans and Italians have this wonderful culinary relationship, Italian restaurants in German speaking Switzerland tend to actually be good, unlike, say, an Italian place in Cleveland or Milwaukee.

The Époisses Quiche That Rivalled Michelin

Lyle: And then there’s the quiche, the Époisses quiche I had on a bench in Burgundy one morning, I’ll never forget it. I love quiche, I love Époisses, and a lot of people avoid Époisses quiche because of the smell, but that goes away once you melt it in. You get all the beautiful creamy richness, they warm the quiche slightly, and you’re basically getting the best part of the Époisses without the worst part, the stink disappears and you’re left with pure creaminess. That quiche cost three ninety five, and it was unbelievable, it melted in my mouth, honestly it could put Michelin restaurants to shame.

Southwest France, the Loire, and What’s Still on the List

Julia: I think that changes depending on where you go in France, in Burgundy or Bordeaux wine becomes such a part of the culture that it takes on more importance than the food, whereas elsewhere in France the wine is more secondary.

Lyle: I’d agree with that. There are still places I haven’t spent real time in, the southwest, the land of foie gras, Cahors, Mauzac, Bergerac, places I really want to get to. And the Loire Valley, believe it or not I’ve never been.

Julia: You have to come, we’re only an hour or two from the Loire.

Lyle: I will. There’s also the Languedoc,

Julia: fantastic wines, very good value, we lean towards them because I prefer a stronger wine, Burgundy is not my favourite, and the wines from the Languedoc give you real power without much money, at least here in France.

Lyle: I don’t sell much of it in America, unfortunately it’s a hard sell there, and the tariffs aren’t helping. I have spent a lot of time in Savoie, I used to represent five producers there, and my only three star Michelin experience in my life was in Annecy, a wild, all fish, all local meal, very good, though I still love the more traditional Savoie food best, tartiflette, the sausages, reblochon. Isère especially is beautiful, and Haute-Savoie too.

Julia: Tartiflette is one of the great French dishes, though it’s a winter one, hard to want when you’re heading into another heat wave.

Lyle: Which reminds me of choucroute garnie in Alsace, one of my favourite winter dishes, which I didn’t get to on this trip. Every time you’re served choucroute you think you’ll finish the whole plate, no question, and then the sauerkraut, cooked in goose fat, starts to catch up with you along with the potatoes and all the different pork, and somehow I have never finished one in my life, ever. There’s always a significant amount left. It really does the job of warming you up in winter though.

Julia: The best thing I ate in Burgundy, the last time I was there, was actually a starter, a dish with a sauce a bit like a Beaujolais sauce, with poached eggs. The version I had was made with white wine for the sauce itself, with the eggs poached separately in red. It’s a fairly standard starter, you’ll find it at most restaurants in Beaune, but this one was on a completely different level, it was just amazing.

Lyle: Now that’s making me hungry.

Julia: Definitely, and I can’t wait to go back and eat more.

Lyle: I mean, I plan these trips around food. I always say, France is the best food country in the world that happens to make the best wine too.

Julia: Interesting. So you’d put the food before the wine, for France?

Lyle: Yes, no question. Every single French person I’ve ever met who actually lives in France is crazy about food, every one of them, no matter how small the town, there are five or six artisan producers, a patissier, a chocolatier, someone doing the best gingerbread in the region. Not every French person cares that much about wine, but it’s fundamentally a food culture that happens to also make the best wine too.

Chocolate and Honey to Bring the Trip Home

Lyle: Two more stories I love from this trip. I was walking through Lyon, working through a list of places I wanted to hit, and found a chocolatier that’s been going since 1910, Palomas. I went in for a quick tasting, cut short because it was during the heat wave and I didn’t want anything melting on me outside. As I was leaving, the woman there gave me a small disc of dark chocolate, the thinnest I’ve ever seen, less than paper thin, and it was better than anything in my whole tasting stash, an enormous amount of flavour from something so thin, almost like a good wine. If you’re ever in Lyon, go.

Julia: There’s a real crossover between good chocolate and good wine, actually, I went to a wine and chocolate museum in Porto once, part of the same complex, and they walk you through how flavour balance shifts depending on where the cacao was grown, the climate, the year,

Lyle: very similar logic to wine, a good chocolate has a beginning, a middle, and a long finish.

The other story, I always like to bring something small back that keeps the memory going. I found a honey shop in Lyon, just one woman running it, entirely devoted to honey. There used to be a place near me in New York called the Tin Building, opened by Jean-Georges Vongerichten, which had the most incredible honey selection, New Zealand honey for eight hundred dollars a box, that kind of thing. I’d found a mountain honey there, imported by Neal Rosenthal, that I loved. So in this Lyon shop I recognised the word montagna on a couple of jars and showed the woman a photo on my phone through Google Translate, asking if she had anything similar. She started a whole honey tasting for me, had me try a lavender honey first, which I liked but found a little sweet, and when I went to use the same taster stick on the mountain honey she actually slapped my hand, no sharing sticks, like pouring new wine into a glass still holding the last one. I didn’t mind at all, if anything it was endearing, she felt comfortable enough to correct me. The mountain honey itself was extraordinary, I bought a jar, still have some left, a spoonful on my yogurt every morning, and every time I think of standing in that shop with her.

Julia: Honey’s something we buy at the local fairs here too, never from the supermarket, my husband loves it, and the differences between them are remarkable, we had one recently made from bees in the onion fields, you’d think you wouldn’t taste it, but there’s this background note of onion that’s wonderful on goat’s cheese or in cooking.

What’s Next for Lyle

Julia: One last question. You’re very successful on Threads, and I think it’s partly because your writing stands out against all the AI content out there, it clearly comes from you. Do you have plans to do more writing, does your future lie on Substack, or somewhere else?

Lyle: I’m not entirely sure yet. I write to stay sane, honestly. My process is that I dictate everything into my phone throughout the day, I’m not really a writer who sits and types, I don’t have the patience for that, and my handwriting is a doctor’s handwriting, so dictating and then cleaning it up afterwards is what works. I enjoy Substack, but there are things about the platform, ethically, around who they choose to platform, that I’m not entirely comfortable with, so I’ve been thinking about moving away from it. I had an old blog years ago, Rockss and Fruit, haven’t published there in about a decade. I like connecting big concepts and making them digestible, whatever the topic, that’s one of my specialties. My real priority right now is owning and controlling my own output, whether that’s Substack or Threads, at the end of the day having your own site means retaining full control, even if it’s harder to monetise than something like Substack. I’ve actually got a manuscript already, a collection of my best Threads posts, I’ll probably self publish that soon, and after that I’d like to write a proper book, maybe even two volumes, one the fun stuff, one the chaos.

I do think travel writing has mostly disappeared. There was a golden era, Bill Bryson and others, when it was as much about the writing itself as the travelling, and I’d love to see that come back. That’ll be my next book after the Threads collection. I call what I do Wine Europe, and it’s such a different Europe than the influencers doing Lake Como and the Eiffel Tower in three days. If I see someone post “Paris in three days” I want to strangle them, you didn’t do Paris in three days, you main charactered your way around Paris and got the shots you wanted. I’ve lived in New York my whole life and I still haven’t done New York in ten thousand days. It’s the same with people who tell me, well, you’ve been to France, you don’t need to go back. I’ve lived in France for twenty three years and I still haven’t seen all of it, Bergerac is nothing like Biarritz, which is nothing like Deauville, which is nothing like Annecy. France really is the greatest food country in the world.

Julia: I think that’s a great note to end on. Thank you so much for joining us, we’ll definitely have to do this again.

Lyle: Definitely, thank you, take care Julia.

Julia: I’ll put links below to Lyle’s Substack and Fass Selections, if you want to get his wines shipped throughout the States, and I’ll try to track down names for some of the wines mentioned in this episode.

Thanks for joining me on the European Compass podcast. If you enjoyed today’s episode, share it with a fellow food traveller, and don’t forget to subscribe for more delicious adventures. Until next time, bon appétit and happy travels.

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