“I’ve always thought that cheese serves as an excuse to spark cross-disciplinary conversations, where interests ranging from the everyday to the more elevated can intersect. Cheese itself is like that: a very humble product that nevertheless enables an incredibly rich sensory and gastronomic experience. Cheese is a great facilitator.”

This week on FFT, we speak to Clara Diez, the It-girl of artisan cheese and one of the sector’s most articulate advocates. In her Madrid shop, Formaje, wheels are stacked and tiered like installations: ash-rinded discs, wrinkled bloomy rounds, dense mountain blues, each tied to a pasture, a season, a pair of hands. Her instinct for food as something shared, daily and essential began long before Formaje. She grew up in a household of seven siblings, where her mother cooked tortillas, chickpeas and pasta in steady rotation, and where lasagna once registered as thrillingly elaborate. Food was practical and generous. Cheese came later.

After studying Audiovisual Communication in London, Diez returned to Spain and took a temporary job on a family friend’s cheesemaking farm. The plan was to save money and move on. Instead, she stayed, travelling to meet small producers, listening to shepherds, learning the grammar of fermentation and rind. In 2020, she founded Formaje alongside her husband, building a platform that treats artisan cheese as cultural infrastructure rather than a luxury product: a record of soil health, animal welfare, climate and craftsmanship.

To spend time with Diez is to understand that cheese, for her, is never just cheese. It is transmission — of landscape, of technique, of values — cut into wedges and passed across the counter.

Where does your mind go when you hear the word ‘home’?

Calm, light, family, shelter. For me, the word “home” refers to two places: one is my parents’ house, where I grew up and lived with all my siblings until I turned 18, and the other is Madrid, where I now live with my daughter and husband. Both places represent home to me.

What are your earliest memories of food in your household growing up? Did you grow up cooking with your family?

I am one of seven siblings, and we grew up in a very lively, noisy household. We have countless stories from our childhood. While we were growing up, my mother cooked for everyone: tortillas, pasta, vegetables, chickpeas… Nutritious and simple food, nothing overly complicated (with seven children, there was already enough complexity!). I remember the first time I tried lasagna at home; it seemed like a very sophisticated dish to me, and since then it has been one of my favourite foods.

Where’s your happy place?

A café, my family, a book!

You’ve mentioned before that your connection to cheese wasn’t linear. Can you tell us a bit about your background and how you ended up working as a cheesemonger?

I studied Audiovisual Communication at University and then spent a year in London, working and studying English. When I returned to Spain, I had a few free months before going back to University, so I started working on the farm of a family friend, a cheesemaker, mainly to fill that time and save some money so I could continue my studies. I found the world of cheese instantly fascinating. I had no previous knowledge of it and no background in food at all, let alone fermentation. But I began travelling and meeting small cheesemakers and got involved in projects that gave visibility to their work. In 2020, I founded Formaje with my husband, who had also immersed himself in the cheese sector back in 2014. He didn’t have any prior experience either; he had just finished his law degree. We both discovered that artisanal cheese is an underdeveloped sector, full of value, and one where we could create impact by giving it visibility and actively promoting it.

You’ve said before that artisan cheese reflects both the land and the person behind it. How do you see that relationship play out when you’re selecting cheeses for Formaje?

As consumers, we make choices about how we consume, and producers do the same when deciding how to produce their food, or, in this case, their cheese. I’ve found that cheesemakers who place the health of the land they work on at the forefront of their values — which naturally shapes their practices and methods — end up producing cheeses of much greater value.

Of course, this must always be accompanied by technique, because the products need to be impeccable from a sensory standpoint. But those who prioritise soil regeneration and animal health, and who understand farming through a holistic approach, are the projects that have the capacity to endure over time and generate an impact truly worth supporting.

What guided the design of Formaje and the experience you want people to have when they engage with it?

I’ve always thought that cheese can serve as an excuse to spark cross-disciplinary conversations, where interests ranging from the everyday to the more elevated can intersect. Cheese itself is like that: a very humble product that nevertheless enables an incredibly rich sensory and gastronomic experience. Cheese is a great facilitator.

People often describe you as a “cheese activist.” How do you interpret that phrase, and what do you feel you’re advocating for?

I believe that all of us who work to encourage the consumption of craftsmanship — trying to make it part of everyday life rather than something reserved for special occasions — are activists. We foster appreciation for a product that is at risk of disappearing: artisan cheese. It’s a matter of use or extinction, much like most products that result from artisanal processes, especially those produced in rural environments.

What do you think people most often misunderstand about artisan cheese or the work that goes into it?

Many people claim that it’s an expensive or inaccessible product, but that’s not true, and it’s important to clarify this. Artisan options are priced not that far from industrial ones, because they are still everyday products — this also applies to bread. There isn’t such a big difference between the price of good bread and bad bread, and the former is far more nutritious. In the case of cheese, it also offers significant benefits for gut health and the immune system. It’s worth eating less, but eating better.

Your collaborations span fashion, design, fragrance and lifestyle. What role do these adjacent cultural worlds play in your work?

They expand the network of people our message reaches. It’s a way of giving voice to our work through less obvious platforms, allowing us to reach people who likely wouldn’t find us through the traditional gastronomic channel. We look for activation territories where artisan cheese has the opportunity to reach people who may not have been predisposed to it or actively seeking it out.

When you describe cheese as cultural transmission, what are you referring to? And are there any cheeses or producers that embody that idea for you?

Cheese has been made since the Neolithic era, and ever since it has played a fundamental role in shaping different cultures, as it is the result of using milk — a product of livestock farming, which in turn shapes how societies are formed. Livestock, grazing practices and the role animals play in maintaining the landscape are all cultural elements passed down from generation to generation. Moreover, the different ways of making cheese always respond to practical and resource-based considerations: each landscape uses the resources available to mature cheese; recipes are shaped by climatic conditions (more or less humidity leads to drier or creamier cheeses; more or less arid land determines how much milk can be produced and which animals can survive there). There are many reasons why cheese represents the culture of a place.

Formaje has grown from an online platform into a physical universe with shops, talks and tastings. What has been the most rewarding part of building a place where people can visit in person?

We always knew that physical shops would play a fundamental role in the development of our project, mainly because our product is still very unfamiliar. Having a direct experience — tasting it, smelling it — allows it to connect directly with the customer’s hypothalamus. Additionally, conveying the message in person is always far more powerful.

Working closely with small producers requires patience, intuition and trust. What have those relationships taught you about your own way of working?

That personal connections and intuition should always be present in professional relationships, along with admiration. We will always prioritise projects led by people who engage with their own work — and with ours — on an intellectual level, not solely a commercial one.

As the universe of Formaje continues to evolve, what are you curious to explore next?

We have a major project ahead that involves producing our own products, a significant step that will allow us to explore the sector from the perspective of production. It’s a project that will take time… but the seed has been planted, and we’re very excited.

More broadly, what does the future of cheese look like?

I hope we can continue to talk about craftsmanship that is both accessible and sustainable. At present, craftsmanship is not always sustainable — often due to lack of consumption, and sometimes due to poor exploitation of commercial channels that could otherwise support it. Hopefully, the sector will learn from itself and gradually become more professionalised, ensuring that small-scale, manual, artisanal production can continue to have a place in both the current and future market.

All images courtesy of Clara Diez.

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Taste, in every sense, is Lucy’s language. Hers is a brain wired for beauty and a way of life shaped by years spent in her dad’s café, by heirlooms passed down from her grandfather, by days collecting plates and flea market chairs in Paris, Morocco and Milan. And, as she describes it, food as religion and ritual, with dinner parties that begin with freshly-churned butter, invariably end with dessert, ideally involve local, freshly-caught fish, feature free-flowing wine and are best shared with her chosen family.

How do you define “good taste”?
It’s organic and comes intuitively. It’s how you see the world and curate your own existence in a sea of information. Staying curious and culturally aware, living with intention and your eyes open. Beauty is in the purest of materials and ingredients.

What do you think has contributed to your aesthetic point of view – both in terms of personal style and as a designer?
My upbringing, I grew up in the hospitality world and was exposed to all walks of life. Our home was filled with treasured artefacts, carefully collected and curated by my mother and grandfather, which sparked an early fascination with beauty and history. Maybe it’s also in my name, Folk, a word that speaks to community, culture and the shared human experience.

Congratulations on Familia Familia, another beautiful collection. Could you walk us through it – the inspiration, the themes, how it reflects your design ethos while also marking an evolution in your story?
Familia Familia is an ode to my love of family, community, process and the way interconnectedness shapes you. Family is chosen, and ours extends across the world! It is this desire to connect and create meaning together that keeps us inspired and grounded in what we do.

What’s a piece of art or design that changed the way you see the world?
Luis Barragán’s work. He was so aware of colour and light and texture, and that gave me confidence to celebrate the beauty in the raw.

How does an object earn a place in your life? What is your most prized possession?
It’s always something inherited, an heirloom, something that holds significance in the past and the present. Something that honours your family, for instance, our collection The Tribute, pieces that I have crafted to celebrate the kids, so I can wear them close to my heart every day.

What’s on your moodboard at the moment? And your wishlist?
I don’t tend to work with moodboards; my inspiration is drawn from lived experience. My wishlist is for more hours in the day, ha.

How would you describe your personal style?
Eclectic, colourful, textural and comfortable. You would never find me in black.

Your ultimate holiday destination – and why?
I am dying to go to Egypt, there is a place called Siwa that looks mystical and from another time.

What role does food play in your life?
It’s my religion. Everything revolves around food – sometimes I’ll even have two lunches if I’m not satisfied with one. I grew up working in my dad’s café, so the rituals and aromas of food have been part of my world since childhood. I believe in food that’s nourishing and good for your body and soul. We are obsessive about the origin and purity of the ingredients, because the best food is always the simplest, made with the highest quality produce. It should reflect the land you are on and honour the rhythms of nature.

What was the most memorable meal of your life?
When Joffrey and I were in Ojai, just outside of LA, we stayed at this beautiful B&B at the bottom of a national park. It was our first trip together. The owner cooked for us, and everything was made by hand with so much care. We began the day with a naked swim in the sulphur hot springs, and afterwards he served us freshly baked bread, homemade yoghurt and mulberry jam he’d made himself. There was freshly-churned butter, honey from the beehives, eggs from the chickens and thyme picked straight from the garden. Everything was so pure and delicious.

What’s your approach to hosting, and what do you like to cook for guests?
We like to keep things simple, but memorable. Again, focusing on ingredients, seasonality, nothing too fussy. The wine needs to flow freely, cocktails must be shaken and dessert must be served, even if it’s something as simple as a fresh fig. Fresh fish caught locally is always the ultimate main course.

Are there certain flavours or ingredients you always come back to when cooking?
Mediterranean flavours and fantastic spices, salts and home-churned butter.

What restaurant or café feels like a second home to you, and why?
Carnation Canteen in Melbourne and the Broth Bar in Sydney both celebrate the way I like to cook at home: with the purest ingredients. They also both opt for organic and spray-free produce where possible.

All images courtesy of Lucy Folk.

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Creator of all things artful and indulgent, Flora Manson is a Scottish recipe developer, food writer and content creator who recently traded the familiar drizzle of home for the snow-dusted stillness of northern Sweden. Her food reflects a designer’s instinct for textural, bordering-on-sensual detail and is rooted in the sensory imprints of her childhood: Sundays around a crowded table, the meringue for her mum’s pavlova left to cool slowly in the oven, her dad’s brothy soups scenting the house, the “picky plates” she’d often request for Friday lunch after school.

Despite studying graphic design, food kept pulling her back, first through weekends in Glasgow bakeries, then a stint at Inver and even a job offer from Spring in London. But the high-velocity tempo of a professional kitchen didn’t sit right. Baking became her way in: a space to offer calm and pleasure, to savour the process and to make something that someone else would enjoy. A place where creativity could move at her pace.

Cookbooks were her picture books growing up, now she writes her own – first on Instagram, then Substack – building a career around the kind of food she most wants to eat. From her kitchen in Sweden, she develops recipes, writes and collaborates with brands, always returning to what feels good and familiar: simple things, nostalgic things, beautiful things.

Hi! Can you introduce yourself?

I’m Flora, a recipe developer, food writer and food content creator. I’m currently based in Åre, a fairly remote area in northern Sweden, where I live with my partner Rob and our dog Romy, who we rescued earlier this year. We moved here a little over a year ago from Scotland, which is where Rob and I are from.

Where does your mind go when you hear the word ‘home’?

If I’d been asked this question a few years ago, it likely would have been a far more straightforward answer than it is now. Home for me now is many places, which I think is a feeling that happens to a lot of people as they move through life. Home is Scotland – it’s sitting in my mum and dad’s living room with the log burner roaring in the heart of the room, the smell of whatever Mum is making for dinner filling the air. Home is Glasgow, the city I lived in before moving to Sweden and a place that has worked its way so deeply into my heart. But home, now, is also this little corner of Sweden that we’re in.

I struggled a lot with homesickness when we moved – the first couple of months just felt like an extended holiday, but come the third month I was struck with a strong longing for Scotland, which was confusing as I hadn’t expected to feel that way at all. Maybe that was naive of me, but I’d spent so many years longing for the adventure of moving to another country. I still miss Scotland every day, but I’ve come to love where we live now. Instantly upon arriving, I recognised how beautiful it is – we’re surrounded by mountains that bloom into a sea of green for miles in spring and summer, and come winter are buried beneath a mighty layer of snow. The summer is generous: hot and with a sun that barely sets. The winter is testing: long and dark, bringing with it a cold so fierce that some days it feels no amount of clothing can save you from the wind. I think every day of living in a foreign country comes with some amount of challenge, which mentally can be hard to manage, but it’s also rewarding because it feels like every day you’re growing and learning more about yourself simply by existing.

What are your earliest memories of food in your household growing up? Did you grow up cooking together?

Almost all of the memories I have from my childhood – the ones that are clearest in my mind – are food-related. Food has always been a huge focus in our family. Growing up, we would more often than not go to an auntie’s house for dinner on a Sunday, or the family would come over to ours. Uncles, aunties, cousins and grandparents all crammed around a big dining table, sitting on a jumble of different chairs pulled from all corners of the house. Our meal would always start with bowls of homemade lentil soup, followed by either a steak pie or roast beef, and then – my favourite part – dessert. The table would be filled with an array of offerings brought by different family members, and I would always take a little bit of everything. I think because of these gatherings, I quickly saw food as a means of bringing people together.

Mum would usually contribute to dessert, which would always be her pavlova. I would watch her make it with adoring eyes – the meringue whisked by hand, carefully spooned onto a baking sheet and smoothed into a beautiful, billowing mound, before being adorned with gorgeous little meringue quenelles all around the edge. She’d always make extra quenelles on the side of the baking sheet, which I would practically inhale as soon as the meringue had been removed from the oven. It was then that I learned the importance of leaving the meringue in the oven after baking, ideally overnight, and never opening the door during the process in order to prevent it from cracking. Although my mum claims not to be a ‘baker’, baking with her is something I remember doing often: little fairy cakes with their sickly sweet buttercream core and sponge wings, and box cupcakes that came with edible paper decals – always my favourite part.

I would describe myself as a good eater as a child in the sense that I was always happy to try new things – “It’s okay if you don’t like it, so long as you try it” was a common refrain – but a bad eater in that I rarely finished a meal. I didn’t have a big appetite and was more of a grazer than one to devour a full plate. I was often told off by my dad for being a ‘wee waster’ for not eating most of my meal. Both my mum and dad cooked, with Dad’s specialities being things made in a big pot – brothy soups from the carcass of a roast chicken, heavily spiced with black pepper, and chicken curry that required a mountain of onions and spices to be cooked down for what felt like hours, filling the house with the most amazingly fragrant aroma. These are the two I remember most. We ate a lot of traditional Scottish foods – mince and tatties, stovies and haggis – and a lot of pasta, but my favourite was roast chicken, served with buttery carrots and peas, bread sauce, fluffy boiled and steamed potatoes and gravy.

I’ve always had a sweet tooth and, despite never finishing my main meal, would insist on having dessert. At home, this would be something simple like a little pot of chocolate mousse or yoghurt. When we went out for dinner, I was always more interested in the dessert menu than anything else. It was well understood that if I ordered one, the odds of actually finishing it were slim. But despite my wastefulness with food being a huge annoyance to my dad, he didn’t mind me ordering dessert, since he knew that after I’d had my token few spoonfuls, he could finish it. I can say with confidence that I’ve inherited my sweet tooth from him.

Finally, I absolutely have to talk about picky plates, because they were such an adored staple of mine. On Fridays we would get out of school early, which meant lunch at home. My mum would ask me what I wanted and, more often than not – to her dread – I would request a picky plate. She didn’t like making them because they required lots of chopping and opening of different packets and containers... but she knew that I loved them, so she made them.

I’ve always loved fruits and vegetables – I have many memories of eating so many strawberries during summer strawberry-picking ventures that I made myself ill. I also gorged on tangerines when we’d get basketfuls at Christmas. The picky plate would usually reflect this love of mine: slices of apples, cucumbers and little matchsticks of carrots and bell peppers. There would be oatcakes or crackers spread generously with butter, and slices of Edam cheese, along with ham and cured meats I’d use to make little sandwiches. There’d be a small dish of deliciously briny black olives, and a nimble pile of crisps somewhere in amongst it all. The assortment would be served on a huge serving plate, and I loved those lunches with my whole heart. Even thinking about them now is making me smile.

Was working with food something you knew you wanted to do from an early age?

I didn’t think working with food was a possibility for me, or something to even consider. It was clear early on that food was incredibly important and much loved by my family and me, but at the same time, not important at all. While food was usually at the core of family gatherings, it wasn’t something that was spoken about or ever really focused on. We were lucky to have good food be the norm, almost expected. Looking back, though, it feels like there were many signs that I could one day find myself here.

We had a big bookcase in our dining room, and from an early age, I would pull out my mum’s cookbooks and browse through them like they were picture books. I remember her Delia Smith book – Delia with her black hair blending into the background, differentiated only by the shine of her fringe, her bright red jumper and lips serving as the perfect contrast. She had a Gary Rhodes book which contained a recipe for chocolate pancakes, and that was one of the first recipes I ever made and learned off by heart. I’d offer fresh pancakes to anyone I could – I can’t have been older than seven or eight. We also had an amazing cocktail book, with dramatic shots of frosted glasses filled with vibrantly coloured liquids of blue and green, topped with maraschino cherries so red and shiny I’d assumed them to be fake. I begged my mum to have a cocktail night so I could see these drinks I’d only admired on the page come to life.

I loved watching cooking shows, and my mum and sister were the same – they both adore Nigel Slater, like me, so his shows were often on TV, along with Rick Stein, on Saturday and Sunday mornings. One of my favourite games to play at home was cafés – I’d open the end cupboard of our kitchen to act as a little doorway and have my mum sit at the dining table while I prepared her a salad of iceberg lettuce leaves, salt, pepper, olive oil and vinegar.

I think I saw working with food more as play – something to experiment with or be creative through. My main love at school was art, and I went on to study graphic design at university. I see a lot of correlations between design, art and food – simply a case of different tools and mediums.

Do you have formal training as a baker?

I don’t have any formal training, but I have worked in hospitality in various forms through the years. My first job after university was as a barista. I applied for the job as a means to an end, to tide me over until I landed my first design job, but I ended up absolutely loving it – the act of making something that someone else would savour and enjoy, and being able to provide a moment of calm or pleasure in someone’s day. I only worked there for a couple of months before I got a job in design, but it had such an unexpected and profound impact on me.

During the last year or so of my most recent design job, I began to really want to move into working with food. It had been something lingering in my mind for a while, as I progressively started to bake more and became increasingly obsessed with food and baking. In the beginning, I saw it simply as a passion and hobby that I did outside of my “real” job, but it quickly became all I thought about, and what was once an ardent love for my job in design began to dissipate at the same time. I started getting in touch with bakeries in Glasgow, where I was living, to do stages, and also spent a month staging at Inver restaurant in Scotland. At one point, I travelled down to London for a trial shift as a pastry chef at Spring and was offered the job, but the prospect of leaving my job and moving so far away from my partner was too much for me at the time.

I knew I wanted to work with food, but didn’t know exactly in what form that would take. I assumed working with food meant being in a professional kitchen, either in a restaurant or a bakery, but after my stages and trial shifts, I was always left feeling somewhat underwhelmed – like it wasn’t as exciting as I expected it to be. I also massively struggled with the pace of work – I’m used to working in my own kitchen, at my own pace, and for the pleasure of baking. It became clear fairly quickly that that wasn’t what I was meant to be doing.

During all of this, I was posting my bakes to Instagram, while also enjoying the process of writing pieces to go alongside them, and discovered how much I loved writing in the context of food. It was then that I began to consider the possibility of food writing as a career. When we moved to Sweden, I started posting recipes on Substack in the hope that I could grow that and have it be my job, which thankfully worked out. Now, being able to dedicate all of my time to baking and creating content, I’ve had the time to do more collaborative work with other brands, which has been so fun. I have also finally allowed myself the brain space to pursue a very big and exciting project that I’ve been imagining for years... more on that soon.

Why do you love what you do?

I love how powerful taste and texture are – how they’re a means of communication, how they can be harnessed to evoke emotion and feeling, and how they can transport you to another time or place. It feels like a kind of magic to combine ingredients in a specific way to produce something else. I also love how sweet things are eaten purely for pleasure. There’s something intrinsically playful and beautiful to me about dessert – we don’t need it to survive, but we seek it out simply because we love the way it tastes or how it makes us feel. It’s incredibly indulgent, and I love leaning into that feeling and creating something that people will eat purely in the pursuit of pleasure.

For anyone new to baking and maybe a little intimidated by it, where’s the best place to start?

I think choose something that you love to eat and something that will provide near-instant gratification – biscuits, cookies, a simple single-layer sponge. You’ll show yourself that you can be self-providing of the joy that eating those things brings to you, which will empower you and hopefully spur you on to create more. When you feel comfortable doing so, you can gradually challenge yourself to make things that are perhaps more involved. Baking can be many things for an individual – an escape, a meditation, a creative outlet... and it can also be a way to watch yourself progress in a new skill, which is incredibly rewarding and motivating in itself. The fact that you’re usually left with something delicious to eat at the end of it is an extra reward.

What do you find yourself baking when you’re in need of comfort?

Something simple and warm. Something I’m very familiar with, that I grew up with, that makes me feel nostalgic. I think maybe a crumble would be the most effective – plum or apple, served hot with custard or cold pouring cream.

All images courtesy of Flora Manson.

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For Monica, good taste means having the restraint to recognise that not every trend is meant for you. A self-described uniform dresser, she also doesn’t get attached to things – unless, of course, we’re talking about her grandmother’s photo albums or the stack of rings (including one gifted by Yves Spinelli) she refuses to take off no matter the circumstance. Below, everyone’s favourite travel writer dishes on what she’s learned from years of living out of a suitcase (“ALWAYS team carry-on”); using accessories and outerwear to have fun without bending to the latest must-haves; and why travelling well begins with an open mind, the manners and warmth of a good house guest and space in the itinerary to follow a whim.

How do you define good taste?

Good taste as it relates to fashion is subjective, but to me, it means having a clear, distinct point of view and the restraint to recognise that not every trend is meant for you. There’s always a natural ease in the presence of someone with truly good taste – it should look effortless.

Do you think taste is innate, or is it something we inherit, learn or cultivate?

A combination!

How much of the year do you spend on the road?

Oh man, it would be easier to answer how often I’m home, ha! I’d say probably three quarters of the year I’m on the road.

What are some of the most beautiful hotels you’ve stayed in?

I’ve had the privilege to stay at so many beautiful hotels. Forestis in the Dolomites definitely stands out as one of the most beautiful.

What have you learned about how to travel well as a travel writer/editor?

So much! I really love this question; I could write a whole dissertation on it. Maybe one of these days I will! Without a doubt, travelling has been my best teacher. Here are my top 5 things I’ve learned that have helped me travel well, not just as a writer, but in general…

1. Wherever you go, there you are.

2. Travel will feel much richer with an open mind and open heart.

3. Don’t over-plan.

4. The easiest way through a language barrier is with a smile!

5. Tip hotel staff, or at the very least, learn their names.

And just some general advice: When travelling anywhere, approach it as if you’re a guest in someone’s home – with good manners, humility, kindness and warmth.

What’s your favourite restaurant in the world and why? Is there a restaurant or café in Paris that feels like a second home to you?

Well I joke that my favourite restaurant in the world is my mom’s kitchen, but unfortunately that’s not open to the public ;). These days Chez Georges in Paris feels like home. I recently went to the opera with friends on a Friday night and we were starving when it finished at around 10 pm. It was pouring rain and we were rushed to make a decision on where to go without a reservation. I called Chez Georges and begged Jean-Gabriel to squeeze us in. He told us to arrive before 10:30 and he’d make it work. We got there right in time, our hair and formal attire completely soaked, and we were greeted with a friendly smile and the last table in the house reserved for us.

What is your most prized possession, and why?

I don’t get attached to stuff, really. I have an attachment to people and memories. In fact, I was at my grandmother’s house and she asked me to pick out some items from her closet. All I took home with me that day were her photo albums. Those, I’ll treasure.

Is there a piece in your home or wardrobe that best represents you?

Probably my grandmother’s ring and the Spinelli Kilcollin ring that Yves, the designer, gifted to me the year he launched the brand. I never take them off – like I don’t think my friends or family would recognise my hands without them. In fact, if there’s an activity that requires me to remove them I would moreover scrap the activity all together, ha! It sounds crazy, I know, but they’re just a part of me at this point… I feel naked without them!

How would you describe your personal style?

With clothes, I stick to styles that suit me and don’t really take any risks on that front (risks and trends were a thing of my early 20’s!) I’m a uniform dresser these days and I’d probably describe my personal style as refined and comfortable. I like elevated basics that look expensive. I have a few really good, high quality pieces in my daily rotation. Where I have some fun is with accessories… bags, shoes, jewelry – also outerwear! I like to get funky there.

Can you describe your approach to packing? Are you team carry-on or check-in?

Shoes in first, roll my clothes, and ALWAYS team carry-on.

What clothing/beauty products always make the cut?

An assortment of pants and blouses from Attersee. A few Porto pouches. A White + Warren cashmere travel wrap. As for beauty, I love Verdoie’s La Crème Hydratante, Saie slip tint (my #1!), Merit flush balm and Merit brow 1990 pencil. Also, Hilma’s dairy and gluten digestive enzymes.

What’s on your wishlist at the moment?

As far as shopping goes, I shockingly don’t have anything on my wishlist at the moment – besides a vintage Cartier watch I can’t afford. Womp, womp. But I have tons of hotels on my wishlist! Here are a few I’ve been daydreaming about a lot lately: Tonnara di Scopello in Sicily, Auberge de Chassignolles in the heart of the Auvergne, Hiiragiya in Kyoto, Corte della Maestà in the hillside village of Civita di Bagnoregio in central Italy, Es Racó d’Artà in Mallorca, Finca La Donaira in the Andalusian countryside. Oh, and a George Scott horse safari through the Sierra Morena! I’d also love to get to Sussurro in Mozambique one of these days… It’s been on my wishlist for years.

What made you pivot from fashion to travel writing?

The long answer to that can be found in my first Substack post :).

In my experience, all the best travel tips come from people who work in fashion. Why do you think that is?

I think it really comes down to your interests and taste – if you’re into fashion, it makes sense that you’d gravitate toward travel tips from people in the industry because you value similar things. Fashion insiders tend to have a sharp eye for detail, aesthetics, and lifestyle, which makes their recommendations feel especially curated and aligned with your sensibilities. That said, an adventure traveler who's into cage diving, rock climbing, or heli-skiing probably wouldn’t say fashion people give the best travel advice, ha! Who to trust for the best travel tips is definitely relative to your interests!

Is there one country or city in particular that has your heart?

Uuuf, so many places. I visit Rome a few times a year and I fall more in love with each visit. I also absolutely love Brazil – the energy, the culture, the music, the people, the vibe… all of it! I need to get back there this year. There’s so much to explore!

Where do you usually flock to in summer?

I’m usually prancing around Europe in the shoulder months, discovering alternative summer destinations (like the ones I’ve written about here!) and then I love to spend August in New England where I grew up. Summer in New England is unbeatable. Seriously, no contest.

Do you prefer to travel solo or in company? Why?

Such an important question! It’s not that I prefer one over the other. I love travelling with family, partners and certain friends. But I do love solo travel. I think it depends where I’m going. There are specific places, especially if I’m going for the first time, that I’d prefer to explore on my own. Travel is sacred to me. I like moving at my own pace. It’s liberating to wake up in the morning in a new place and get to do exactly what I want to do when I’m in the mood to do it. I’m really affected by the energy around me, so it’s nice to not feel like I have to compromise or rush.

What makes a good travel companion?

Oh good, I’m glad I get to elaborate on the “certain friends” I alluded to above, ha! For me, a good travel companion has a very specific personality. First off, they’ve got to be easy-going – that’s my number one! Ideally, they’re also happy to let me take the lead :) We should have similar interests and tastes, and like to move at a similar pace. And just as important, they need to be as independent as I am – totally cool with splitting up for the day if we’re in the mood to do different things.

Can you walk us through your ideal travel day?

Depends where I am, but I like to break things up by neighborhood or area. I usually have a few things I want to see in any particular place – maybe it’s a shop, a restaurant, an exhibit, a swimming cove, so I let that guide me and then spend the rest of the day getting lost around there. I really don’t like being on a schedule when I travel so I try to keep everything loose.

What inspired you to start your Substack, So There’s This Place…?

I’ve been writing for legacy media for over a decade and you’re sort of limited to what you can write about because each magazine has its own point-of-view, tone and audience. So I wanted to create a more service-forward vertical that felt more like me (!) and cultivate a community of like-minded travelers who like to travel the same way I do. I also field so many questions and now I have a place to answer them!

What do you think is the value of newsletters as an alternative to legacy media?

I’m not someone who would ever bite the hand that fed me. I grew up in legacy media and I think it’s important and not going anywhere. That said, it is currently evolving, looking for new ways to connect more meaningfully with readers. Newsletters really shine here, as they provide more personal, opinionated, and niche perspectives that feel more like trusted recommendations from a well-traveled friend than polished advertorials and SEO-driven content. They also allow for a more agile and up-to-date approach.

When it comes to hotels, do you have a certain style you’re more drawn to?

I’m a high-low kind of girl – I love everything from ultra-luxurious five-star hotels to super elemental boutique stays. Just as long as they have soul and a real sense of place. Can we be done with cold, stark minimalism? How boring!

Winter sun destinations

1. Lanzarote in the Canary Islands

2. José Igancio in Uruguay

3. Southern and western coast of Sri Lanka

All images courtesy of Monica Mendal.

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The first time I visited Turkey, it was by way of the ferry from the tiny island of Kastellorizo, a great seven-minute odyssey across the Aegean Sea that requires both a visa and a passport stamp. It makes sense considering this thin stretch of sea separates the European continent from Asia Minor, but feels faintly absurd in the moment given the brevity of the trip, so short that people have swam it and others have spent many beach days in a state of self-delusion hypothesising that they could. Ahem.

It was love at first sight.

The heat blistered, Sahara winds whipping through the small but touristic town of Kaş, ratcheting the weather dial up to 41 degrees and blowing us straight into the weekly pazar (‘food market’ in Turkish). After being on a small island, I felt a bit like Leonardo DiCaprio in The Beach when he stumbles back into civilisation after months off-grid, only I was much, much sweatier. Against our better judgement – or perhaps more accurately, social conditioning to be distrustful of all strangers, and especially men – we accepted bowls of warm aşure from a random fruit vendor, the same dish in every pair of hands around us, its sweetness no match for the almost hallucinatory heat that had us in its grips. We emerged from the market with bags upon bags of local produce, throwing our sun-flushed bodies into the turquoise sea, the relief instant and giddy.

I returned some months later for a longer trip: three weeks that began in Istanbul, went east to Cappadocia, then south by plane to Antalya to pick up a car. From there, my fellow voyagers and I traced our way along the coast – three nights apiece in Kaş, Datça, Gümüşlük and Alaçatı – before finally departing once more for Greece’s fair isles. (But more on that later).

ISTANBUL

Having only spent four days in this great heaving city, I’m not best placed to offer a comprehensive guide, but I can tell you how to maximise a short trip (and also where to buy the best cushion covers). Istanbul – where cultures, religions, continents and empires collide into a singular blend of East-West – has all the hallmarks of a great city trip in my books: it’s scenic, it’s chaotic, it’s gritty yet grandiose, it’s alive and it’s home to an overwhelming smorgasbord of culinary offerings, running the gamut from plastic-chaired restaurants serving yoghurt-dolloped bowls of mantı (Turkish dumplings) to Michelin-starred rooftop restaurants with glittering Bosphorus views.

For your mantı fix, go to 1932 Cihangir Doyum Mantı, a cheap and cheerful restaurant frequented by Istanbul’s hungry youth. Alongside boiled spinach and meat mantı, order the lentil soup, gözleme and Turkish shepherd’s salad for a deliciously well-rounded dinner. Partake in the glorious pastime of Turkish breakfasts at Kahve 6, where you can sit in the smoke-hazed courtyard and feast on çılbır (chilli-poached eggs bathed in yoghurt) and the classic spread of eggs, olives, cucumbers, tomatoes, cheeses and honeycomb. Take the lift up from the dinky backstreets of Karaköy to Ali Ocakbaşı, where you’ll be rewarded with breathtaking views of the Bosphorus, more flavourful cold meze options than you’ll know what to do with and succulent Kuzu Şiş (marinated lamb skewers), which just made their way onto my death row meal list.

I am but one stomach, so wasn’t able to visit every place recommended to me by Istanbul local Ayşe Özyılmazel. I did go to Karaköy Lokantası – a high-end counterpoint to cheap mantı feasts, set in a gorgeous courtyard and serving the best mezzes in town – and sampled the smoked salmon scallop sandwich from Tünç Balık, which was the tastiest way to experience balık ekmek (fish sandwiches), the street food du jour of the city, essentially codified into law as a must-do for everyone visiting Istanbul. These spots were all the confirmation I needed that Ayşe is a woman who loves to eat. Here are her other tips: Adana Ocakbaşı (“a very local and amazing Adana kebap, if you eat meat, don’t miss this”), Tatbak (“we go there for lunch, very local place, lahmacun and yoğurtlu kebap is very very good”) and Asmalı Cavit in Beyoğlu (“this is the local fave meyhane/tavern in Beyoğlu. Reservation needed”).

My idea of a cultural outing is perusing the aisles of a foreign supermarket and I didn’t feel pressure to do much outside eat and shop, as I suspected that I’d love the city and would be back. Still, it seemed remiss not to visit the Blue Mosque, built over 400 years ago, so along with scores of other tourists I made my way through its grand courtyard, arriving just before prayer time to marvel at the majesty of the building. It really is beautiful. And, no less importantly, in easy walking distance of the textile heaven that is found at Jennifer’s Hamam and Troy Rugstore on the Arasta Bazaar. Pop to the Grand Bazaar afterwards and get lost in the labyrinth.

Other non-eating things I enjoyed: walking over Galata Bridge at 7 am (prime fishermen time) to visit the Shozy Spice Market before it swarmed with visitors; taking the ferry over to the Asian side of the city to drink beers in the backstreets of Kadıköy and peruse the Kadıköy Balik Pazari (it was fun to say ‘Should we pop over to Asia?’ well beyond it being funny, if it ever was to begin with); checking myself into Cukurcuma Hamam in Beyoğlu to be scrubbed to within an inch of my life on a marble slab before having a torturously good massage and melting into the relaxation lounge, herbal tea in hand; antique shopping on Çukurcuma Street and vintage shopping in the surrounding streets.

STAY: Beyoğlu was a great base to explore the city. Stay at Ecole St. Pierre or Pera Palace Hotel, or find a cute Airbnb tucked in Çukurcuma for quaint backstreets, an abundance of eateries and cafes, impeccable people watching and great antique shopping
EAT: Karaköy Lokantası; 1932 Cihangir Doyum Mantı; Kahve 6; Journey; Ali Ocakbaşı Karaköy; Tünç Balık; Adana Ocakbaşı; Tatbak; Asmalı Cavit in Beyoğlu; Balat Borekcisi; Barba Vasilis; Bilice Kebap; Demeti Meyhanesi
DRINK: Coffee at Faw Coffee in Beyoğlu, Rooftop drinks at 16Roof
SHOP: Jennifer’s Hamam; Troy’s Rug Store; Petra Vintage; A La Turca Kilim Shop; Caretta Vintage Beyoglu; Siedres Galataport; Atelier Rebul Galataport Salipazari; Fey Vintage; Homemade Aromaterapi-Nisantasi; Ferikoy Antika Pazari flea market
DO: Shozy Spice Market; Kadıköy Balik Pazari; Blue Mosque; Grand Bazaar

CAPPADOCIA

Words collapse in Cappadocia. As Tolstoy puts it in Anna Karenina, “[he] did not like talking or hearing about the beauty of nature. Words seemed to distract from the beauty of what he was looking at.” A genius for a reason. While language is an inadequate tool to capture its magic, the oversaturation of Cappadocia images online has, mercifully, done nothing to dim the wonder of witnessing it first-hand for yourself. Seeing truly is believing.

After much research angst, I landed on Uçhisar as our base, which turned out to be an excellent decision and one I’d recommend to everyone, chiefly because you won’t spot a Burger King on the main drag as you will in the more touristic Göreme and also because the views are, to put it mildly, mind-blowing. The town itself is small and quaint, cobbled around a cliffside outcrop, fairly devoid of tourist trappings and home to a very local farmer’s market on its outskirts. Climbing the Uchisar castle at sunrise is a must, as is checking yourself in for a spa day at Argos in Cappadocia.

A car is your best companion in Cappadocia, giving you access to neighbouring towns like Avanos, a mecca for ceramics lovers, and the ancient village of Çavuşin, home to the Church of St. John the Baptist, a 5th-century place of worship carved into a cliff. Take a wrong turn and you might end up enveloped in a dust storm or overtaken by a pack of quad bikes or horses on a sunset tour. In Göreme, it’s physically impossible to emerge from Tribal Collections without handwoven, silk-embroidered cushion covers from Uzbekistan or one of the kaleidoscopically colourful Turkish rugs for which the country is renowned. Have a chat with the store owner, Ruth, a friendly New Zealand export who has lived in the area for over thirty years (with the stories to prove it). From Shecooks Cappadocia, a tiny restaurant run by a friendly all-women team and the nearby fine-dining restaurant Nahita, to Narin Restaurant and Hezen in Ortahisar, it’s not hard to come by an outstanding meal in Cappadocia. Make sure to try Testi kebab, a regional speciality of meat and vegetables slow-cooked in a sealed clay pot and broken open at your table.

And now, for what everyone travels to Cappadocia for: hot air ballooning. Contrary to what I imagined – that is, being scared senseless – floating high above ground in a giant balloon powered by fire proved to be the most serene hour of my life to date. We chose Royal Balloon on a friend’s recommendation, with the experience beginning before sunrise, when you are collected from your hotel in a minivan and driven through the pitch-black to a low-lit building, where pre-flight coffee and croissants are served. This part is thrilling in and of itself, and not too dissimilar to being kidnapped, I imagine. (If your captors were polite and offered you pastries). Watching the balloons come to life like sleeping giants roused from their slumber in the fields sets the fairytale tone for the morning, before we’re up and away, defying all my previous height-related anxieties by leaning over the basket’s edge to marvel at the dreamscape unfolding below.

Soaring over Love Valley or watching the sun peek up over Red Valley with colourful balloons speckling the sky, I feel as if I’d wandered into the pages of a children’s book. At 7 am, when we make contact with solid ground, a group of genetically blessed workers yank the balloon down and tie it up while horses graze in the neighbouring paddock. A bottle of champagne is popped and we raise a glass – to this once-in-a-lifetime experience (and to making it out alive) – all of us drunk on adrenaline and early morning bubbles, before being bundled back into the van and driven home to nap the rest of the morning away.

One morning I set off for a hike into Pigeon Valley, a place I’d read can be stray dog territory, whacking stick at the ready. Instead of fending off hounds, I was floored by its beauty: fairy chimneys rising like sentinels, dovecotes carved into the cliffs. The only other form of life I encountered was an old man with a rickety stall selling freshly-plucked fruit alongside bottles of soft drink. He beckoned me over, fed me a bunch of grapes and crouched down to wipe the dust off my legs. A gentleman through and through. Using a pantomime of gestures he explained he lived in a nearby cave, enchanting yet mildly unnerving, with my overactive imagination scanning for eyes peering out of every cave after I bid my farewell. All hikes were done in company thereafter.

STAY: Uçhisar is the best base; stay at Argos in Cappadocia or the similarly-named, family-run cave guesthouse Ages in Cappadocia
EAT: Shecooks Cappadocia; Nahita at Argos in Cappadocia; Narin Restaurant; Hezen Restaurant; Janus Cappadocia; Cappadocia Street Foods in Göreme
DO: Sunrise climb at Uchisar Castle; hot air ballooning with Royal Balloon; hike Pigeon Valley, Love and Red Valley; spa day at Argos in Cappadocia; drive to Avanos for ceramics and Çavuşin for 5th-century cave churches
SHOP: Tribal Collections Göreme for rugs and textiles; weekly farmer’s market in Uçhisar; pottery in Avanos

KAŞ

If you grew up in a big country like Australia or are partial to long stretches of time spent on the road, the best way to see the Turkish coast – aside from perhaps aboard a yacht – is to drive it. (On that note, with zero seafaring skills myself, I’m manifesting a sailing trip along the Turkish coast next year. If you have any cosmic or practical leads, do get in touch.) After spending as little time as humanly possible in Antalya, we made our way north along the coast to our first stop, Kaş, where we arrived just in time to hit the pazar and stock up on dried sage tea and plump tomatoes.

Perfectly adequate and exceptionally affordable, Kaktüs Beach & Suites Hotel sits just outside town near Büyükçakıl Plajı beach and serves hearty Turkish breakfasts on a rooftop terrace overlooking the kind of sparkling water that makes you understand the Turquoise Coast designation. Dine right on the sand at the family-run Mermaid Beach Restaurant, where seafood is cooked by the family matriarch, including fish so fresh you likely shared a swim with it earlier that day, and the star of the show, Karides Güveç (shrimp baked in a sizzling clay dish with tomatoes, garlic, peppers and molten cheese). Everything is best served with ice-cold beers by the affable waiter who introduces himself as the “Turkish Ben Affleck.” If your hotel doesn’t include breakfast I’ve got it on good authority that Doğal Anne Eli Kaş is the best place in town for a farm-to-table brunch.

Snack on chilled almonds from the harbourside carts; shop the best Turkish towels, straw beach hats and beaded accessories at Papilio; climb the stairs of the Hellenistic Amphitheatre of Antiphello, an ancient Greek theatre built in the 1st century BC, to watch the sunset; head to Payam where the all-female masseuses will get to work on your knots before you float over to the hamam and ladle yourself with warm water; visit the evening jewellery market in the square and watch as the town comes to life of an evening.

STAY: Kaktüs Beach & Suites Hotel near Büyükçakıl Plajı beach; Loft Country Kas; Lukka Exclusive Hotel
EAT: Mermaid Beach Restaurant; Karides Güveç; Doğal Anne Eli Kaş for farm-to-table brunch
SHOP: Turkish towels, beach hats and jewellery at Papilio;
DO: Snack on chilled almonds from the harbour; sunset at the Hellenistic Amphitheatre of Antiphello; hamam and massage at Payam; browse the evening jewellery market in the main square

DATÇA

With a later start than planned, we arrived in Datça after nightfall. There’s something I’ve always loved about slipping into a place under the cover of darkness, buoyed by the sweet, heady anticipation of what morning will reveal. In this case, paradise. We stayed in a cabin nestled among fruit trees, high on a hill overlooking the unnamed bay next to Mendelle Datça hotel, a great spot itself for a post-swim coffee in the morning. Here, life unfolds outdoors: sprawling on the outdoor lounges, reading in the armchairs, eating dinner at sunset with the endless stretch of coastline sparkling down below.

I’ve seen a lot of beautiful beaches in my time, but few compare to those speckled along the Datça Peninsula, an 80-kilometre ribbon of unspoiled coastline, timeworn whitewashed villages and rolling hills thick with pine and olive trees. I resist the lazy impulse to liken the water at Kurubük to a swimming pool, so shockingly clear it is, a kind of metaphor inflation that flattens nature into the language of the manmade. (For the record, though, it is absolutely beautiful and it absolutely does look like a pool.)

Datça town itself is quaint and ripe for holiday-making without tipping into the overly touristic. Indulge your inner magpie with all manner of colourful trinkets and jewellery at Bazaar Datça, before eating yourself into a pleasant coma at Eski Meyhane, a colourful family-run restaurant tucked down a quiet side street, shaded by the monstrous limbs of a pomegranate tree. Here, mezes bring Anatolian flavours into modern focus and the shrimps sizzle as they hit the table. Watching the sweet women at Guytu Çay Evi make gözleme from scratch is a meditative, borderline spiritual experience, best eaten hot off the grill with a wedge of lemon.

Afterwards, drive up to Old Datça (Eski Datça). Once the peninsula’s main settlement, it was nearly abandoned by the 1980s, its old stone houses left empty as people moved to the coast. Now it’s back in favour among the in-the-know crowd, with vine-strung boutiques, garden cafés playing live music and the former home of Turkish poet Can Yücel drawing a steady trickle of visitors to its cobbled stone streets.

STAY: In this beautiful Airbnb or Mendelle Datça hotel
EAT: Eski Meyhane; Guytu Çay Evi
SHOP: Bazaar Datça for jewellery, trinkets and Turkish rugs; trinkets at Eski Datça
DO: Swim at beaches along the Datça Peninsula; wander Datça town; drive to Eski Datça for boutiques, garden cafés, live music and Can Yücel’s former home

GÜMÜSLÜK

After driving through the densely populated, upscale streets of Bodrum, arriving in Gümüşlük feels like a deep breath of salty-fresh air. I selected this Airbnb for its capacious sea-facing balcony, perfect for spying Rabbit Island and watching people wade across the causeway to see ancient remains up close at low tide.

Until the mid-20th century, many of the fishing villages around the peninsula were only accessible by boat. Gümüşlük still feels a bit that way. It owes its low-rise, ramshackle charm to strict conservation laws that protect the ancient ruins beneath it: no new buildings, no major development, which means no resorts looming over the water. Restaurants line the sand-paved promenade in the most literal sense, with tables set right in the shallows, gourd lanterns swinging from trees, fish hitting the grill within hours of being caught.

Standout meals were at the rustic Limon Gümüşlük, tucked up among olive trees where everything is made seasonally and from scratch, and at Karafaki Erhan Usta, so close to the water’s edge my dad could have pushed me in had he wanted (he had reason, to be fair, considering I once again over-ordered). But who could blame me? Grilled octopus, smoky atom meze and a whole sea bream, charred, blistered and steaming, arrived head-on. The beaches aren’t a patch on Datça’s, but the days here pass in heavenly idle.

STAY: This airbnb
EAT: Limon Gümüşlük; Karafaki Erhan Usta for grilled seafood;
DRINK: House wine or cold beer at your table in the sand;
SHOP: Local artisan stalls along the beach;
DO: Wade to Rabbit Island at low tide; hike to the Turkish flag on a hill; linger in the shallows at restaurants set on the water; do nothing (gloriously)

ALAÇATI

I have to laugh when we arrive in Alaçatı. Despite what travel guides still insist – “underrated,” “undiscovered,” “a hidden gem on the Aegean” – the secret is very much out. In fact, I’ve rarely seen foot traffic like this outside heavyweight tourist attractions like the Colosseum. We wade through the crowds, suitcases clanging over the cobblestones, en route to Taş Hotel: a sanctuary just far enough from the fray, with a courtyard wrapped around a pool and the welcome shade of olive trees overhead.

Still, because the crowd is largely domestic and the Greek-Turkish architectural heritage remains intact, Alaçatı retains a strong sense of place. It positively drips with charm. Set on the Çeşme Peninsula, about 45 minutes west of İzmir, it’s dry, breezy and constantly stirred by the wind – the same wind that’s drawn windsurfers here for years. The narrow streets are lined with former Greek stone houses now occupied by cafés, bars and stylish boutiques like Yuzu Concept Store. The Saturday market seems to spill endlessly and might be one of the best I’ve come across – overflowing with herbs, olives, cheeses, spices, nuts and voluptuous, hyper-seasonal produce.

Dinner at Eflatun is romantic and relaxed, with a pasta-heavy menu and prime people-watching if you manage to nab a table on the street. For something more casual, take a break from the upscale circuit and eat at Daze Döner, where everything – from the bread to the sauces – is made in-house. The meat was cooked to perfection. But the real culinary standout is Asma Yaprağı, a charming, family-run garden restaurant known for its elevated take on traditional Aegean fare. Guests dine under fairylights and are invited into the kitchen, where a central table is covered with heaped enamel trays – mint-stuffed courgette flowers, braised artichokes, vine-leaf dolmas filled with tart cherries. The menu reflects a slow food philosophy: farm-to-table, seasonal, hyper-local. Most of the herbs, fruits and vegetables are grown in the garden out back, and everything else is sourced from nearby farms or producers. Being invited into the kitchen to choose your courses is another recipe for over-ordering, but alas, it must be done.

My way of indulging research-heavy tendencies while leaving room for spontaneity is: do some early digging, pin a few places to the map, forget about them and cross-check with local advice once I’m there. That’s how we ended up at Delikli Koy – Caribbean-blue proof that happiness is often found in the absence of expectation. With chalky cliffs that hold their own against the famed white rock formations of Sarakiniko in Milos, gin-clear water and clusters of Turkish men playing cards in the sun, it’s everything you’d want from a day by the sea. If you’re after more of a beach club scene, skip the others and head straight for Playa Tropical.

STAY: Taş Otel; Alavya; KestelInn
EAT: Asma Yaprağı; Eflatun; Daze Döner; Da Franco (ice cream); Alamy; Ortaya
SHOP: Concept stores like Yuzu and Bazen; the Saturday market
DO: Wander the cobbled streets; swim at Delikli Koy; sunbathe, snack and sip at Playa Tropical

By Madeleine Woon

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Introducing our latest FFT guest, Louis Thompson, the Australian pastry chef turning niche produce into fruit-forward, flavour-led desserts at London’s chicest restaurant, Spring.

Despite growing up in a gourmand family, Louis came to food late. After studying Economics and French in Melbourne and later pursuing fashion, his years-long obsession with baking eventually led him to pivot towards professional kitchens. Palates are all the better off: Louis merges precision, creativity and intuition to create sumptuous desserts that challenge the rigidity of baking. In his world, no extravagance is too extravagant, no grocer too far away to chase down the perfect fig or exotic citrus. We chat to Louis about everything from finding inspiration in London’s expansive culinary community to his idea of earthly happiness – a.k.a. methodically cutting up fruit in his living room while listening to Lana del Rey and whistling his “heart out”. Get to know him.

Hi! Can you introduce yourself?

I’m Louis, I’m a pastry chef based in London. I have a background in fashion, but now find my home in the chicest restaurant in London, Spring. I primarily work with fruit and am most interested in flavour-forward baking.

Where does your mind go when you hear the word ‘home’?

Melbourne, Australia, the best city in the world. I’ve spent enough time away to feel the drift, but it’s such a beautiful, happy, healthy city that I can’t imagine a better place to call home.

What are your earliest memories of food in your household growing up? Did you grow up cooking together?

My earliest memories are of giant stacks of Vegemite toast cut into fingers, shared with the whole family in bed on Saturday mornings. That and buttered pasta. I was an extremely picky eater when I was younger, which didn’t gel particularly well with my gourmand dad. Ironically, I was called the restaurant wrecker because I refused to eat anything when we went out. My interest in food didn’t find its way out until a bit later in life – but I certainly osmosed the passion from my dad who was always cooking experimental things or watching some food program, or raving about the complexity of Indian technique. He lit up like a child when talking about food. I never really got it at the time, but it obviously made an impact.

Was working with food something you knew you wanted to do from an early age? Do you have formal training as a pastry chef?

My interest in food didn’t blossom until later in life. I started baking obsessively right before I moved to London as a stress coping mechanism, and I just never really stopped. Despite my obsession, I resisted the idea of cooking professionally for a while – I first studied Economics and French in Melbourne, before moving to London to study fashion.

Having already uprooted my life for a career pivot, I was hesitant to make another turn. All the while I kept on baking and baking and reading about baking, and talking about baking, until it came time to choose between that or a fashion job, and I couldn’t lie to myself about what I wanted to do anymore. An opportunity presented itself at Spring and I took it and ran. I haven’t looked back since. In hindsight though, it seems obvious why baking resonates with me so strongly: it incorporates mathematical, structural precision from my studies in STEM, and creativity from my foray into the fashion world.

How long have you been at Spring? Tell us about it…

I was working at Violet bakery while I was studying, and my plan was to go to Spring once I graduated. I was enjoying produce and flavour-led baking already, and Spring was the pinnacle of that style of cooking. An opportunity presented itself before I finished studying, so I got straight into it while also writing my final thesis. Every day is so different: our menu changes regularly and there are many projects we involve ourselves with outside of daily service, so we’re constantly having to learn and adapt skills. Whether it’s making bread, ice cream, pastry, working with fruit, production, or events. Even within that, as a hyper-seasonal restaurant, we work with a very wide range of niche ingredients. From rosehips and medlars to magnolia and cobnuts – if it’s growing at the moment and edible, chances are we’ll use it in a dessert. You have to have a broad and adaptable skillset to work at Spring. The most important thing that underpins that is passion and curiosity, something our team has in abundance and we all mutually benefit from. It’s a very stimulating environment.

Pastry has such a strong and misplaced reputation for being rigid and unforgiving – the best way I can describe what we do at Spring is as savoury chefs making desserts, so we’re not too fussed with that rigidity, preferring to cook intuitively and with feeling. A particularly demanding challenge is the scratch menu: each day we have to make a dessert out of ingredients we have lying around that would otherwise go to waste. Whether that’s a stale biscuit, soft fruit, or just some leftover custard. It’s essentially a daily masterchef challenge. It’s an amazing opportunity to exercise our creativity, think imaginatively, try new things, and most of all, cook what we want!

Why do you love what you do?

Cooking and baking scratches many of my itches – both within and without myself. As I mentioned, it stimulates both my technical and creative sides. Food science fascinates me and I love learning how things work. The mathematical structure and patterns which underpin a lot of basic techniques definitely appeal to the latent economist in me. I love to be precise and neat – I grew up with an architect for a mum who would take my colouring in homework from me and show me how it’s done. I used to vehemently deny that I was creative – perhaps that I had a mild inclination but that was it. Going to fashion school was a step in acknowledging that creativity, but it turned out it was better for making desserts.

More recently though, I’ve found cooking to be very fulfilling for its ability to connect myself to the world around me. Food is one of the main ways we bring people together – we all know that, and it’s something that’s important to me. Beyond that though, I think about food in a similar way to how I thought about fashion (or the need to clothe oneself) – it’s a basic need. Everyone eats. Everyone, everywhere has their own social, economic, cultural, political inflection on how they cook and eat. A curiosity about food has led me to learn about global cultures, art, history, botany, chemistry, and more. It’s my ticket to the world.

Outside of Spring, what have been some of your most prized creations or most memorable projects to work on so far?

Working with and writing for has been a real highlight – on the two GOAT fruits no less, peaches and mangos. Nicola’s writing and research has been foundational in my development as a chef, and being part of that with two fruits very close to home was very exciting.

How do you think being based in London impacts your work?

London has an incredibly rich community of chefs and pastry chefs which I feel lucky to be part of. The city certainly has a style – its own iteration of rustic, european, seasonally-led cuisine. There are chefs here who have their own distinct voice within this style, incorporating English ingredients and tradition into an otherwise mediterranean vernacular. and are two pastry chefs who have influenced me immensely. They have helped show me the magic of damsons, quinces, loganberries, mulberries, oats, ancient grains, stoneground flour, and much much more.

Given the climate here is so vastly different to my home in Australia, the fruit I work with is very different. The seasons themselves are different – they are shorter and more iterated compared to Australia’s longer seasons. In some ways it’s something I lament because Australia’s vibrant and unique climate and the fruit it produces would no doubt suit how I cook. The produce is something I’m always excited to see and play with when I go home, whether a reliable mango or a more exotic feijoa. Next trip will definitely involve some lemon myrtle and wattleseed.

What’s your biggest extravagance when it comes to food?

I’m a pretty extravagant person so it’s hard to choose. When it comes to buying specialty fruit, I don’t care what the price is or how far I have to go. Whether it’s a tray of perfect figs or peaches, or an exotic variety of citrus – I have to have it. I’ve spent £20 on a single citrus fruit more than once. My favourite local grocer more often than not actively dissuades me, grimacing as she tells me the price. It never works though.

What do you find yourself baking when you’re in need of comfort?

You can’t beat an apple galette. Warm, tender cooked apples and butter (crumble, pie, pastry) is a classic for a reason, and I find the process straightforward and relaxing. It’s also a crowd pleaser; I know whoever I’m sharing it with will be equally excited.

In your opinion, what is the most underrated ingredient and how do you like to cook with it?

Pears! They’re not the ugly stepsister to apples or even second best! In my eyes a good pear is on par with a good peach. They’re best enjoyed raw and ripe, but to be honest – I love pear juice. There’s a story that Louis XIV once ate a pear so unexpectedly delicious he ejaculated on the spot. Sounds good to me.

Coolest thing you’ve learned recently?

That in Shakespearean times, Medlars were common slang for a whore, because of their resemblance to an anus or vagina. Gorge. Thanks Kate Lebo!

Where’s your happy place?

I’m sitting at my living room table, with a bowl of beautiful fruit in front of me. I’m set up with my cutting board, knife, and tray. The sun is coming in. I’m playing Lana del Rey. I’m whistling my heart out. The next two or three hours are spent slowly, methodically, and perfectly cutting my fruit and laying it out. Usually for a galette but anything really. It’s a scene I’ve lived so many times that its familiarity and rhythms soothe me. Plus when you cook for a living you’re usually doing it under pressure, so taking my time to enjoy the process is something I really luxuriate in. I think of it as cutting gems – you’re trying to remove all the imperfections but also as little as possible, so as to show off the natural virtues of the fruit, or gem, in question. I think of it as spending quality time with the fruit. It’s sumptuous, sensual, slow living.

Where are your favourite places to eat/grocery shop in London?

Leila’s Shop! For both. Leila has more integrity in her little finger than any other business owner in London. She only sells the best ingredients and nothing more, and the chefs in the café always know how to do just enough but not too much to gussy up the produce and make everything delicious. It’s an idyllic model of hospitality and Leila and her team execute it flawlessly.

All images courtesy of Louis Thompson.

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Simone Santerre often drives well out of her way to reach remote farm shops in Norway – the only places she can reliably find produce that hasn’t been cold-stored, shrink-wrapped or shipped from far away. There aren’t any farmers’ markets in her neighbourhood or the country at large. The grocery stores offer little. Most seasonal ingredients, if they’re available at all, are kept for restaurants. If she wants a good tomato, she has to work for it.

It wasn’t always like this for the Canadian-born food writer and public health researcher. Simone grew up in Quebec, where meals were consistent and home-cooked but never the centre of conversation. Food was food. Her interest came later, when she studied public health and began to consider how food environments are designed, who shapes them and what that means for the choices we think we’re making. Now she writes a newsletter called , where she shares recipes, essays and small strategies for cooking with care when energy is low, time is short, or what you really want is out of reach. She’s unbothered whether you follow her recipes exactly; what matters is that they spark excitement in the kitchen and an appreciation for the process of cooking itself.

We speak about the limitations of supermarket culture and why school lunch might be the most important public health policy a country can get right. Also: food writers she turns to most, her mother’s curried shrimp and a jar of gooseberries too tart to eat raw, sweetened with maple syrup and left to sit overnight.

Hi! Can you introduce yourself?

Allô (hi)! I’m Simone, a French-Canadian food writer, food stylist and recipe developer currently living in Norway. I cook and write with the seasons, always through the lens of my public health background, with an emphasis on finding pleasure in simple, comforting meals that invite us to enjoy a wide diversity of good food at home (hence the name of my newsletter!).

Where does your mind go when you hear the word ‘home’?

Beyond the place we return to at the end of the day, “home” evokes a familiar space (physical or emotional) where we feel safe, comfortable and at peace; somewhere we can be ourselves and feel seen, understood and accepted fully. To me, that can encompass many things: the people you love and care about (and who love and care about you too), the lake you grew up swimming in every summer, the town you chose to move to later on in life, that neighbourhood spot where introductions are no longer needed. Home contains multitudes. It’s our planet, our country, our city, our languages and cultures, our neighbourhood and community, our childhood, our place of work or study, our residence, our pets, friends and family – it’s even our mind and body.

What are your earliest memories of food in your household growing up? Did you grow up cooking together?

My earliest food memories at home are few but vivid: the familiar comfort of my mum’s go-to curried shrimp and rice (funnily, it’s something I think she cooked when she felt uninspired, yet I always found it to be so special), my dad’s famous Halloween ravioli (he made it annually with the leftovers from our carved pumpkins), my grandmother sitting in front of the TV, a stainless steel bowl balanced in her lap, effortlessly trimming the woody stems off some green beans by swiftly pressing them into her thumb with the blunt blade of an old paring knife. Aside from occasional weekend baking, though, I didn’t really cook much prior to leaving the house for university. Food in my family growing up was neither passion nor obsession, mostly just a daily source of balanced sustenance and pleasure.

How would you define your cooking style?

Simple, seasonal, sustainable*. I firmly believe that good cooking starts with a few (but good) ingredients selected with care, be they processed already and bought in a shop or picked straight off a plant. Once you have a good diversity of quality ingredients on hand, I find that you don’t have to do anything particularly elaborate to get a lot of flavour and pleasure out of your meals. And since the seasons provide a natural framework for what to buy as well as how to eat, I find this way of eating and cooking endlessly stimulating and nourishing, even year after year.

*By “sustainable,” I mean both in the environmental sense – minimising harm and waste – and in the personal sense: an approach to food that’s enjoyable, flexible and apt to last a lifetime.

What’s your biggest extravagance when it comes to food?

Right now, it’s definitely spending more to get fresh, seasonal, local produce. Here in Norway, it can be surprisingly difficult to access food directly from the people who raise or grow it. I’ve been spoiled in life to live in many places where finding a farmers’ market within a thirty-minute walk of your home isn’t unusual, so adjusting to a culture where such a routine part of daily life has become virtually impossible has admittedly been rather difficult for me. Farmers’ markets here are practically nonexistent, the grocery retail market has little incentive to diversify its limited offerings and most interesting food imports are reserved for sale to restaurants only, not individuals. For me, that’s more depressing than the severe lack of sunlight in the wintertime. So, my biggest extravagance at the moment? Without a doubt, occasionally going way out of my way just to visit remote farm shops so that I can finally buy freshly picked local produce – unwrapped, in season and unblemished by cold storage or long-haul transportation.

Which food writers are you most inspired by?

Oh, so many! Though at the moment, I’d say: (a fellow Canadian who I also grew up watching on TV with my brother), Mats-Eric Nilsson, Kille Enna, Edona Arnesen, , and .

What’s been the most satisfying thing you’ve cooked recently?

I bought some local gooseberries the other day that were still a bit too tart to enjoy raw, so I cooked those down and sweetened them with a dash of maple syrup (you can take the Quebecer out of Quebec but you can’t take Quebec out of the Quebecer). Once cooled, I stirred in a chopped, sad-looking nectarine (the kind that goes all wrinkly before it’s fully ripe, due to being picked too soon for shipping), and left these two to mingle in a jar in the refrigerator overnight. I had some of this fruity concoction over oatmeal the next day, and it was so good I just had to write what I did down so that I could remember to make it again in summers to come.

Where do you start when developing a recipe?

Usually with ingredients that are in season at the moment. My goal is always to help, guide and inspire people to make the most of what’s at its peak – in part because I still vividly recall that feeling of going a bit overboard at the farmers’ market, coming home and then thinking, What on earth am I going to do with all these sunchokes and kohlrabi?! It feels a bit odd to admit, but I don’t actually care if anyone follows the recipes I share. What makes me happiest is knowing that I’ve sparked someone’s excitement to cook something simple with good ingredients, and to enjoy not only the result but also the process. So that’s something else I like to bear in mind at the start of my recipe development process: does this recipe have the potential to bring whoever makes it joy every step along the way?

As a food writer with interests in public health, how do you think home cooking fits into the broader conversation about wellness and prevention?

Prevention is probably one of the least sexy aspects of public health – mostly because when it works, “nothing” happens. But considering that poor diet is now a leading cause of illness and premature death worldwide, cooking good food at home is possibly one of the strongest first lines of defence we have against many of today’s most devastating noncommunicable diseases. In my opinion, any government that isn’t doing everything it can to facilitate good home cooking (from proper food education and access to ensuring people have the time, skills, money and desire to cook) is failing the very citizens it was elected to serve and protect.

You talk about ultra-processed foods as a systemic issue, not a personal failure. What do you wish more people understood about the way our food environments are designed?

The choices we make are dictated by the choices we have. And right now, for most of us, the choices we have when it comes to what we consume are largely being shaped by large corporate powers who profit from aggressively marketing, distributing and selling harmful commodities that are increasingly known to have addictive qualities that can quickly hook people on the short term, then seriously increase their risk of developing poor health outcomes over the long term (this applies not only to ultra-processed “foods” but also alcohol, tobacco and even social media platforms centred around the rapid and mass sharing of attention-grabbing, emotion-stirring short-form content).

The more we learn about how our current food environments make it both more difficult and more culturally acceptable to collectively make unhealthy choices, the more we can become aware of these patterns, recognise them and distance ourselves from them if we choose to do so. I think we can and must reclaim our capacity to make choices for ourselves and our communities today, as well as for our future generations tomorrow.

If you could shift one policy to make healthy, seasonal food more accessible, where would you start?

I fantasise daily about overhauling our food systems (only half-joking!), so this is a tough one for me. But if I had to choose just one policy, I think I’d start with something that is evidence-based, protects our children first and foremost and supports our local food growers too (without them we’d all be doomed!).

Denmark has done a really good job of this, so I think I would have to borrow from Copenhagen’s food strategy and look to have a policy whereby all schoolchildren get to participate in and benefit from the preparation of their meals, cooked from scratch by trained school chefs using as much local, seasonal produce as possible. It’s the type of policy that I think has universal appeal, incredible potential benefits if well adapted to local needs and limitations, and that can fit really well as part of a larger policy package that aims to make real, delicious and nutritious foods the easiest, most accessible, most attractive and most affordable choice for everyone – no matter their age, education level, income or interest in food and health.

You write that ‘eating mostly plants’ isn’t a trend, it’s history. What traditions or cultures do you look to for inspiration in that regard?

I’d say I don’t look to any specific part of the world so much as to a generation: grandmothers’ cooking everywhere. I think almost every culture, if you go back far enough in its history, had a practice of centring dishes and meals on grains, pulses, tubers, vegetables and sometimes fruits and nuts, either fresh or preserved in some way, and then using animal-source foods more as a side, seasoning or celebratory centrepiece on special occasions.

If you’re aware of what goes into raising animals and what it takes to produce animal-source foods, you understand how costly and resource-intensive it is. It’s a luxury. So I suppose it’s this traditional respect and awareness of the value of different foods, as well as the practice of balancing different sources of nourishment that probably inspires me most in terms of eating and cooking in such a diverse and plant-forward way.

You’re clearly motivated by community. What does a healthy, food-literate community look like to you, and what gives you hope we’ll get there?

Information, be it facts supported by evidence or (increasingly convincing) outright misinformation, is spreading faster than ever, so my hope is that we’ll all grow more media-literate in general, not just food-literate, to become better able to parse reality from fiction in all respects. (Speaking of which, for anyone interested, the University of Alberta offers a great free course on science literacy.)

I’d love to see qualified home economists, free from industry influence, back in schools teaching our young generations about food, not just nutrients, and nourishment, not just sustenance. Food is culture, it’s care, it’s connection; the more we understand this and pass on that knowledge to our children – not just by telling them but also showing them and embodying these values in our day-to-day lives – the more they will be able to grow up food-literate and able to see the marketing of unhealthy foods for what it is: deliberate deception for profit. (In fact, when it comes to shunning junk foods, teaching teens about corporate manipulation has been shown to be more effective than providing them with lessons on healthy eating.)

What have you learned from local food growers that’s stayed with you in the kitchen?

A deep respect for nature. Patience and how to pay attention. The importance of diversity, seasonality, soil and terroir. And the value of having a bit of dirt on your potatoes, a few insect-munch holes on your lettuce and a couple of big ol’ scars on your tomatoes.

What advice would you give to someone who’s just starting to move away from ultra-processed foods? Where’s a good place to begin, especially when time and money are tight?

I think reading books like Ultra-Processed People by Chris Van Tulleken, Salt, Sugar, Fat by Michael Moss or The Way We Eat Now by Bee Wilson can be eye-opening (I also have tons more book recs on my website). The more you learn about these products, who makes them, how and why, the less you’ll want them.

At the same time, YouTube is a wonderful place for finding easy, budget-friendly cooking tutorials so you can learn to rely less on UPFs. The cost of food is up nearly everywhere these days, so shopping for staples can often make more sense financially as well as nutritionally. Whole grains, legumes, canned beans and fish, and even frozen fruits and veggies (often fresher and cheaper than the ones in the produce aisle) can often be bought in bulk and are great foods around which to base your meals. Fresh food in season is usually a bit more affordable because supply is high, so top up your staples with what’s at its peak if you can.

By keeping a quality source of fat or two and some good sea salt on hand, along with a handful of favourite herbs and spices, you really can go far in feeding yourself well. Learn to rotate different starches, vegetables and pulses – or to substitute foods within the same category as needed, depending on what’s on sale that week, for example – and practise a few simple meals you enjoy until you can make them eyes closed and you’re all set to go. Once you figure out whether you’re a one-pot batch cooker, a minute microwave wonder or a roasting tin enthusiast, you’d be surprised just how well you can cook and eat on a budget when you have little time or energy to spare in the kitchen.

Do you see cooking as a form of care?

It certainly can be! Eating well is key to being well, be that at the individual level or at the level of a whole society, so, naturally, cooking well is essential too. The key, as with any other act of care, is not to rush through it, to carry out the steps with intention (even gratitude and love), to respect and appreciate the value of what you are doing – not just in isolation but also within a larger context – and, of course, to have fun: find pleasure in the process, savour the result (and repeat as desired or needed)!

Can you tell us a bit about good food at home and how your definition of “good food” has evolved over time?

is my newsletter where I share seasonal recipes, meal ideas, tips, musings and more (ideally on the last day of most months, but not always).
Perhaps surprisingly, my definition of "good food" has been quite stable over the years: to me, it means food that not only tastes good but that also does good at every step of the food chain, at every cog within the food system. It’s food that, as much as possible, is good for the planet, the farmers and growers, the pickers, processors and packers, the shippers, transporters and storers, the importers, exporters and sellers, the buyers, the cooks, the eaters and the waste managers too; economically, culturally, socially, environmentally as well as with regard to health. Food just tastes better when you know it’s been grown, sourced and prepared as responsibly as can be.

Where’s your happy place?

A vegetable garden, greenhouse, farmers’ market or farm, a library, a park (filled with flowers and dogs preferably), a museum, a forest, the sea. All of these places make me very, very happy.

All images courtesy of Simone Santerre.

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A dispatch from the front lines of aesthetic discernment, Good Taste sits at the nexus of food, fashion, art and design. It explores the ephemeral question of what constitutes “good taste” through conversations with our favourite cultural seismographs: those rare, precious people whose sensibilities seem wired not just to what’s next, but to what outpaces both trend and time. We’ll deep dive into the philosophy of good taste and surface with a practical guide on what to buy, book, cook and covet next.

In our first ever Good Taste profile, we speak with Bella Thomas, an Indian-Australian model and unequivocal arbiter of impeccable taste: in homewares, clothes and food.

Hi! Can you introduce yourself?

Hello! My name is Bella. I live by the sea in Sydney, Australia. I work as a model, which allows me to travel quite a bit throughout the year – for that reason, I call Spain my second home. I love to cook – the kitchen is a place of comfort for me. Cooking is a form of meditation. I love everything it brings: taste, community, curiosity, stillness, focus, freedom.

What defines good taste for you? How did you develop your eye?

Honestly, it’s cliche – but anything made with love. Sure, I enjoy a fancy meal at a nice restaurant, but I’m drawn to food that has a close connection to family and heritage. That’s how I like to cook, too.

How do you maintain a sense of personal style in an era of endless trends and fast fashion?

I’ll admit I find it tricky – especially when some of the trends are actually quite cute! But with each season, it becomes clearer that I like to keep things pretty simple. I just want everything to fit me really well. I love that elevated uniform kind of look.

The brands I’m always inspired by are Lemaire, Auralee and The Row. I guess it’s great-fitting pants, a minimal tee, tank or shirt – paired with something that gives the outfit a bit of something… like a great bag or pair of shoes, or a pop of colour. I have fun with accessories: sunglasses, bags, shoes, scarves etc.

What is your most prized possession, and why?

At the moment, it’s my donabe clay pot. I received it as a birthday gift from my partner a few years ago. It’s the best! It cooks perfect rice and is beautiful to look at. I heard the darker it gets on the bottom, the more love is in the kitchen, haha – so I hope to have this piece for a very long time.

How would you describe your personal style?

Maybe elevated, practical, and timeless. When I add something new to my wardrobe, I want to still be wearing it in five or ten years.

Where do you love to shop, online and in person?

I love to trawl Vestiaire or The RealReal for great deals. Do I commit to the purchase? Rarely. But I love the hunt, [laughs]. In person, I don’t tend to do much shopping – but if I am, it’s at markets, grocery stores, or a great bookshop.

Your ultimate holiday destination, and why?

I really do love Greece – the landscape, food and people are just beautiful. I also really love Asia, and for my next trip(s), I’d love to explore more of it. Next on my list is Shanghai to visit my dear friend Vicki. From what I hear, it’s an incredible city.

Is there a particular place you love to stay?

Honestly, anywhere close to trees, a body of water, mountains – just somewhere really, really close to nature, haha. There’s a particular area we loved staying in while in Andros, Greece. We haven’t had the chance to go back yet, but it’s definitely somewhere we’ll try to return to again and again.

A restaurant or café that feels like a second home?

Probably my friend’s restaurant, Baba’s Place in Sydney. They’ve quite literally made it feel like a home.

Are there certain flavours or ingredients you always come back to when cooking?

I love Indian and Sri Lankan flavours. Curry leaf, cumin, coriander, lime, coconut milk, turmeric, pandan.

What’s a meal you could eat on repeat and never tire of?

Probably dal and basmati rice – we make it almost every Monday night.

Favourite dish to make when cooking for people you love?

I love to make a simple chocolate mousse with a little olive oil and salt. Always a crowd favourite.

What’s the common thread in everything you’re drawn to?

Simplicity in its purest form.

Find Bella’s Substack, Nice Nothings, here. All images courtesy of Bella Thomas.

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A testament to the resilience of the human spirit, I reach Ponza more than sixteen hours after closing my front door behind me in Amsterdam. The journey is fraught with setbacks: a lost phone the night before, a missed early-morning flight and a subsequent aftershock of re-booked trains and ferries that shuttle me across the country, tired and crotchety but not deterred. It all feels faintly Homeric, though unlike Odysseus, I’m not dodging wrathful gods but battling indifferent customer service and a flaying self-reproach for having missed a flight for the first time since my late teens. Still, I eventually arrive on the Pontine island where Circe once turned sailors into pigs, and for all the trip’s foibles, my destination emerges from the ferry window like a pastel-splashed jewel, floating in the open hands of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Ponza has long been drawing Romans by the time I check into Hotel Chiaia di Luna, the island’s most iconic stay, with its front-row seats to the great chalky cliffs that give it its name. This is my first solo trip in over a decade, taken as a ten-day experiment of sorts to see how I fare in solitude, and I am nothing short of delighted to find that I enjoy my own company. Who knew!

My days unfold at whim. I spend the first morning uncharacteristically lazing poolside, save for a mid-morning stop at Pasticceria Gildo to people-watch and sample its sugar-dusted wares (they’re famous for good reason). I eat at the hotel buffet each morning, hike through vineyards to Monte Guardia and spread my patronage throughout the port, with a particularly lovely lunch at Ristorante Gennarino a Mare and a glossy plate of saffron and prawn pasta at Oresteria – to my mind, the perfect restaurant with its casual, salt-worn decor and a menu that leads with the sea.

One night, I read John Boyne’s Water cover to cover while degustating my way through fruits de mer at Da Enzo al Frontone, pausing only when the waiter taps me on the shoulder and begs, “Madame, I must ask you to look up at the moon.” It’s full and red, hanging low over the water, about the most romantic image you could hope to see, and one I’ve returned to mentally many times since. The boat ride there and back aboard Enzo’s dinghy only adds to the magic of the evening, and I frequent his cliffside oasis thereafter: to lunch on perfectly al dente vongole, to read on the sunloungers, to drink Aperol spritzes while chatting to the bartender, to swim laps along the coast, to stare out to sea.

On two occasions, I unsuccessfully attempt to do as the locals do and take my aperitivo at Bar Tripiti’s famed portside terrace – I’m not lucky enough to nab a seat and too impatient to wait – but there’s no complaint from my end, my hotel bar has the best views on the island. Given that non-Roman tourists are, happily, few and far between, English is hard to come by, and I only have my first real conversation on day four while waiting in the buffet line for scrambled eggs.

To plug the silence one evening, I go to Circolino Ponza, a new feet-in-sand restaurant on the edge of the port, where a DJ plays to a crowd ranging from elderly locals to an excitable bachelorette party seated in front of my table for one. French disco, played at volume, isn’t exactly conducive to reading, so I experience my first solo dinner without the crutch of another’s thoughts on the page. The tonna di tartare is excellent.

The port may as well be Mars after I change accommodation – I’m sucked into the Le Forna way of life the minute the taxi drops me off, and I rarely return. Ever a fan of the high-low experience, I split my time on the island in two: first down by the port, then up above La Caletta and Piscine Naturali, so I can see the island from both sides with minimal fanfare. Gone are the manicured trappings of Hotel Chiaia di Luna; here, life is elemental, closer to the bone. I love a nice hotel, but the homey guesthouse I stay in is a reminder that small, family-run places often connect you more deeply to a destination, without the touristic bulletproof glass of luxury keeping the real island at arm’s length.

It’s in Le Forna, too, that my social life finally kicks into gear, thanks in no small part to a retired professor of political science I happen to meet at dinner on the first evening. Ordinarily I’d bristle at the unsolicited attentions of an older man, but perhaps I’d been starved of human contact for too long, or, on some subconscious level knew I was about to have some of the best conversations of my life. Maybe I was a changed woman after four days on the island. Either way, I was immediately disarmed by the 70-something professor sitting behind me, who broke from his operatic singing to ask where I was from, and how I’d found myself inside this shed-encased restaurant with plastic chairs and a game show blaring from the TV. We were instantly bonded by our love of islands: he with an encyclopaedic knowledge of their histories, me a restless sea creature drawn to the satisfaction of exploring a place in full.

I take a leave of absence from my usual intrepid tendencies and eat at this same restaurant for the entire duration of my stay in Le Forna, save for one night sampling the wares at a nearby pizzeria. Twice, it’s in the company of the professor, who all but licks the plate clean, pats the small mound of his stomach and solemnly declares it’s time he cut back on the carbs. We both know that’ll never happen, for either of us, but it feels good to pretend. After dinner, we adjourn to the bar next door, where he launches into the kind of impassioned soliloquies that make me wish I’d been a student of political economics in New York in the 1980s. We keep good company: the manager of the guesthouse where I’m staying; a wonderful Milanese woman, recently retired from medicine and newly relocated to Ponza full-time; Ponzesi youths fresh off their shift at a local restaurant, envious and awestruck of the professor’s perfect command of English and its mind-bending grammar.

Like many of the long-toothed locals I encounter in Le Forna – like the owner of Il Maestrale Pizzeria da Maurizio, who declines my offer of a post-dinner cigarette with “No no, I quit… when I was ten,” immediately endearing himself to me – the professor spent his boyhood in the village before emigrating to the Bronx with his parents as a teen. He circles back to the playground of his youth often in conversation, myself a willing audience, eager to lap up stories of the carless island and playing ball in the square behind the church just beyond where we’re eating. He tells me about the summer he ordered a pile of textbooks to teach himself English ahead of the move: “The summer of ‘69 was the summer of love, but for me it was the summer of books.”

We talk politics, both on the world stage and here in Ponza. He dispenses the frustrations of life on the island, corroborated by anyone within earshot and illustrated by the fact that I find him, more than once, waiting for a new fridge that never seems to arrive – the perfect shorthand for the impossibility of getting anything done on time. He tells me about the old Roman tunnels that worm their way through the island, now closed, casualties of collapsing masonry and friable cliffs that, to be fair, do look as if they’d crumble to the touch. The closest I come to experiencing one is riding the overcrowded bus to Le Forna from the port, which sucks its stomach in to squeeze through the odorous, cliff-worn pass like the Knight Bus in Harry Potter, before lurching upward into the heat, sweat pooling at the base of my spine. I regretfully don’t make it to see the professor’s garden, reputed by many to be the most beautiful on the island, and likewise miss out on dining at a secret restaurant set amidst a farm, accessible only by helicopter or a 30-minute hike through the bush. Some cherries are best left for next time, after all.

If I’m resigned to eating dinner at the same restaurant each evening, my exploratory impulses find their home at lunchtime. One day, as I wait in the blistering heat for a bus to Ristorante da Gerardo, a small red car reverses down the street; it’s the hotel manager, who motions for me to jump in so he can drop me there, after we snake along the island’s only road, flanked by entrancing sea views and green terrain. The sounds of Italian summer rise up from below: goats bleating, waves lapping, children’s feet slapping the sand. I make the fatal error of ordering too much, an oozing lasagne among the lineup, and wash it all down with superb house rosé served in a glass bottle shaped like a fish.

Another day, after sprawling on a sun lounger at Piscine Naturali for the morning, I lunch at La Marina: a prickly pear parmigiana followed by white anchovy and lemon pasta, some of the best I’ve ever eaten and proof that simplicity is usually best, paired with mineral white wine and made all the more memorable by the journey there, having been ferried across on a ragazzo’s boat, where, in lieu of cash, I pay him in Cornettos.

The island is best seen from the water and, provided you remember to bring cash or create your own treat-centred payment system, taxi boats will take you pretty much wherever you want to go. Come the weekend, half the island seems bound for the astonishingly turquoise waters of Palmarola, and I join them on Luca Gite In Barca’s red-hulled boat. Surrounded entirely by Italians, it restores me to silent-retreat mode, though the captain, with little English but expert seamanship, still manages to place my Australian roots through references to kangaroos and Megan Gale, a name I haven’t heard in years. We stop at the island’s only restaurant for beers, swim in gin-clear water, eat freshly caught fish with rice and hail down a boat selling ice creams, which gives me ideas for where my career could be headed next…

On my last day in paradise, a biblical storm rips through the island, thunder banging on my door at 5 a.m. with heavy fists, lightning cracking through the room like a strobe gone rogue. I wonder if it might be my time to die. “The island is angry you are leaving,” the hotel manager says at checkout, having miraculously survived the night, while the only emotion I can conjure is sadness. The storm recedes into a sky of bloated grey clouds, still not ideal for my planned farewell swim, so I catch the bus down to the port for one last promenade and, of course, a parting ricotta-stuffed sfogliatella from Pasticceria Gildo. An impeccably dressed guy at the table in front of me shows his friends an old guidebook, its title, Ponza Magica, curling across the cover in faded cursive. It’s beautifully weathered, a relic from the ’70s that was gifted to him by his grandparents who used to spend their summers on the island. I ask to have a look, and the accounts of the professor spring to life in its images, revealing an island remarkably unchanged, its charms enduring still.

Ponza Magica, indeed.

By Madeleine Woon

THE NOMS SHORTLIST

• STAY: Hotel Chiaia di Luna, Villa Laetitia, Hotel Torre dei Borboni

• EAT: Pasticceria Gildo (also a great spot to people-watch of an early evening, spritz in hand), Da Enzo al Frontone, Oresteria, Ristorante Gennarino a Mare, Ristorante EEA, Circolino Ponza

• DRINK: Bar Tripoli, Le Terrazze di Chiaia di Luna

• SWIM: La Caletta, Piscine Naturali, Cala Gaetano, Cala Fonte

• DO: Hike Monte Guardia, take a boat ride over to Palmarola with Luca Gite In Barca, rent e-bikes or a scooter and take your time exploring the island, get the taxi ferry over to Frontone Beach and walk across to Enzo’s to spend the day horizontal by the sea

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Any growing family, sooner or later, will discover a need for more rooms when space becomes tight. NOMS, our tiled corner of the world dedicated to food and travel, has felt this pinch acutely, and, as is the natural way of things, we’ve decided to take up residence on Substack, too. Think of it as our summer home, except we plan to stay year-round.

NOMS, the brainchild of those who live in service of food and travel, buoyed by incurable exploratory impulses that sit restlessly in the bones, is ready to stretch out a bit. Here you’ll find longer reads that wander far beyond the plate: in-depth interviews with tastemakers exploring the increasingly tendriled worlds of food, art, fashion and design as part of our new series Good Taste; dispatches from distant tables; casual chats with chefs at the pass; meandering conversations with smart and spirited people taking unconventional paths in the food and wine worlds; and travel guides to places we find ourselves returning to again and again.

Yes, there will be plenty to look at, and yes, plenty to eat. Expect us to remain curious, now settling into spaces we’ve yet to fully explore. After all, this is what happens when a family moves into a bigger house.

Welcome home to NOMS.

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