What part of your ambition have you been starving just to stay likable?

📜 A HISTORY LESSON, SERVED HOT

How Vietnamese food taught us to play the Long Game

When Vietnamese families arrived in the U.S. post-war—
they weren’t trying to make a statement.
They were trying to make rent.
Dinner wasn’t a flex. It was logistics.

They figured out what worked—
what stretched, what froze,
what could handle being reheated three times.

They built systems in saucepans.
Routines in noods.

Phở wasn’t about nostalgia.
It was about staying fed.
Nước chấm wasn’t a side—
it was the variable that let one base dish become five.

That’s what most people miss:
Vietnamese food isn’t loud, but it’s brilliantly repeatable.
It doesn’t ask to be center stage—
it knows the power of durability.

In work, in food, in life—
the real flex isn’t the rebrand.
It’s what you can do well, over and over,
until people finally notice.

💬 BITES TO CHEW ON

I.

We crave what we’re told to hide—
until it leaks out as burnout, obsession,
or a habit we mistake for taste.

II.

In food and life, the quiet ones always win.
Not because they’re loud,
but because they’re consistent.

III.

Great chefs know mastery lives in muscle memory.
Founders too. It’s not what you launch—
it’s what you repeat, refine,
and can’t stop doing even when no one’s watching.

📍 3 VIETNAMESE SPOTS WORTH EATING IN NYC

Ha’s Đặc Biệt a.k.a Ha’s Snack Bar (Lower East Side)

Once a scrappy pandemic pop-up, now a cult communion run by Mission Chinese alums and power couple—Anthony Ha and Sadie Mae Burns.

A tiny Vietnamese spot with big Parisian energy—and zero ego.

Must-try:
The menu shapeshifts each time I went—
yet every bite still felt like déjà-vu to a dream.

A wild-herb salad that reads your diary. Snails lounging in tamarind butter.
Scallops slicked with buttered nước mắm and peas—ugh insanely good.

Think you loathe fish sauce? You’ll leave writing it love letters.

Why it matters:
Their cooking doesn’t bow to tradition;
it interrogates it—then throws a dinner party around the answers.

Bánh Anh Em (East 13th St) - takeout available

Founded by pals John Nguyen and Nhu Ton—who went from slinging cơm tấm in the Bronx to a Bánh mì hit on the Upper West Side. Their take on northern classics hit like a love letter written on sandpaper: tender, but it leaves a mark.

Must-try:
Tableside chả cá Lã Vọng that arrives sizzling like gossip, cloud-soft bánh cuốn rolled to order, seafood phở so umami it’s basically truth serum.

Why it matters:
Proof that technique and warmth can co-star—no compromise, just chemistry.

La Đong (Union Square) - takeout available!

Chef Pithayakorn’s minimalist spin on Vietnamese tradition pulls in phở purists and TikTokers alike—everyone angling for the perfect steam shot.

Sister restaurant to Pranakhon and Thai Villa—both great for group dinners, especially if you’re emotionally prepared for someone to bail last minute.

Must-try:
The cá chiên nước mắm—Hanoi-style whole fish kissed with turmeric and dill, crisp yet delicate, wrapped in herbs and meant to be eaten with your hands and full attention.

The Miyazaki A5 wagyu phở—quietly luxurious, deeply layered, and somehow still comforting enough to carry home. Yes, even as takeout.

Why it matters:
The menu boasts 45 dishes but doesn’t feel like a flex.

🍭 BONUS BITES

Counter Service — W 14th st

Not Vietnamese. Not pretending to be.
Just the banh mi that hijacked my moral compass. But it is unreasonably good.
The kind of good that makes you angry it costs $19—and angrier when you realize you’d gladly pay it again tomorrow.

Chipotle founder Steve Ells pivoted from robo-vegan flop to sandwich savant, drafting Michelin-decorated chefs Andrew Black (Eleven Madison Park) and Neil Stetz (Quince) to build a menu with zero chill.
On paper, it sounds like a PR stunt.
In real life, it tastes like controlled chaos on a baguette.

Must-try:
The Charred Pork Banh Mi —fish sauce and lemongrass-marinated pork belly, smoky, juicy, and glistening like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
Topped with a slick layer of creamy chicken liver pâté that hits you slow, then deep.
Finished with pickled veg, cucumber, jalapeños, cilantro, and mint—
cool, sharp, and just enough crunch to make you pay attention.

The bread? It shatters on impact. Like it’s daring you to make a mess.

Why it matters:
When fine-dining minds go casual, you get a $19 sandwich that feels like insider trading. Also helps that Andrew and Neil are genuinely lovely humans—which makes the emotional damage taste even better.

I walked in hungry. I walked out texting Jonah, my husband:
“I think I just cheated on bánh mì.”

🍦FINAL BITE

Food isn’t just fuel—it’s a portal.
Into memory, sure.
But also into power, politics, precision.

When someone serves you something they've made a thousand times before, you're not just tasting technique — you're tasting the choices they’ve had to defend.
Who they became when no one clapped.
What they kept cooking when nobody asked.

Next week: How Chinese Food Became American — where tradition shapes you, and ambition dares you to carry it differently.

p.s. if you liked this, wine not share it with a friend? and DM me your favorite Vietnamese spots in nyc — i’m always hungry for recs!

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till the next bite,
Your Hungry BFF 🍜

My husband, Jonah, came for the sky.
It was his birthday.
He spent hours paragliding,
chasing wind, chasing freedom.

I stayed grounded,
chasing a different kind of thrill—
flavor, story, exploring Annecy,
one bite at a time.

That Sunday morning, we stumbled into the farmers market,
right in the middle of old town.
Strawberries as sweet as sunlight,
apricots dripping juice,
white asparagus and leeks showing off their size,
sausages that tasted better than they looked,
reblochon cheese so creamy it made time stop.

I imagined chefs weaving these flavors into their menus,
and felt like I was tasting the landscape itself.

Annecy’s Quiet Culinary Constellation

In the soft light around Lake Annecy,
fifteen Michelin stars scatter across nine kitchens—
yet only one holds the sacred third.

At Le Clos des Sens,
where we anchored for the week,
Chef Laurent Petit’s brilliance revealed itself in quiet ways.
In 2022, after three decades of redefining what fine dining could be,
he passed the torch to Chef Franck Derouet
and Chef sommelier Thomas Lorival.

My full review of Le Clos des Sens here.

I brought my mother-in-law to share the experience.
My husband—always in motion—smiled and nudged,
“Find your crew. Find people who love this as much as you do.”

Confession:
It’s lonely at first—
searching for those who feel alive in the details,
who crave not just flavor,
but the story behind it.

The quiet brilliance.
The genius chefs behind the magic.
The bites that connect us.

But I’m being intentional.
I know you’re out there—
the foodies who live for this,
who savor not just the food,
but the craft, the connection, the spark of shared passion.

My husband sees my struggles.
He just isn’t a foodie,
but he nudged me anyway—
to find you.

So here it is—
my crew invitation.

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At Le Cortil,
a summer pop-up at Le Clos des Sens,
we dined under trees in a garden of over 200 plant species.
The fire crackled nearby,
marking the official start of grilling season.

Chef Tristan shared stories from Daniel Boulud’s kitchen,
and we laughed about how expensive artichokes are in New York.
His artichoke tart wasn’t just a dish; it was unforgettable.
Even my husband, who can’t sit still, lingered at the table.
Dining outdoors—a hack in our unique relationship.

At L’Auberge de Montmin,
I dined alone while Jonah paraglided.
Col de la Forclaz cows grazed nearby.
Sandrine, the chef-owner’s wife—graceful, grounded—
welcomed me like I belonged.
She told me stories of love, of starting over,
of building something that felt like them.

Lovage cream with strawberries that sang of spring.
Lamb, three ways.
Sevrier beetroot smoked with juniper, French-style peas.
Cheese made from the milk of the cows by my table.
Grilled trout with sorrel jus.
Whole garlic confit—soft as butter, bold as memory.
It felt like eating someone’s life’s work.

And I was.

The humility of the husband and wife duo Sandrine and Chef Florian—
who converted a pizzeria in a mountain village,
into a 2-Michelin star haven is inspiring.
Florian, an Annecy native, saw his career taking him from Le Clos des Sens
to Paris, California, Singapore, and back to his roots.

Read my full review of L’Auberge de Montmin here.

Jonah returned after 4 hours of flying,
as I was finishing my lunch,
and we shared stories: his from the sky, mine from the table.

At Café Brunet,
I tried the pâté en croûte maison—not my thing.
But the lamb shank with rosemary and white wine melted in my mouth.
The rhubarb tart and white asparagus with hollandaise were light and fresh.

Slake Annecy, a hidden café in old town,
where you can actually find oat milk lattes—
amid cobblestone streets,
was our go-to after breakfast.

By the end of the week,
I was craving Asian flavors—desperately.
I found a French-Vietnamese spot,
ordered too many small bites, sold by kilos,
and turned it into an impromptu lakeside picnic.

Annecy is one of those hidden gems—
that feels like it belongs only to you.

Just an hour drive from Chamonix,
40 minutes from Geneva,
and under two hours from Lyon,
the gastronomical capital of France.
Or you can take the train.
A place so close, yet it feels like a world away.

🌿 Annecy Travel Tips

Getting there:
→ Just 40 mins by car from Geneva
→ About 1 hour from Chamonix
→ Under 2 hours from Lyon
→ Or take the scenic train—slower, but peaceful and gorgeous

Where to stay:
→ Old Town for charm, cobblestones, and walkability
→ Le Clos des Sens if you want the full Michelin-starred, food-lover’s escape. Most Michelin-starred restaurants there are nestled in a hotel as well.

Getting around:
→ E-bikes are a game-changer—we circled the lake in 3.5 hours, soaking in the views
→ Walk the Old Town for slow mornings and market strolls
→ Hike nearby trails with panoramic views over Lake Annecy

When to go:
→ Late spring to early fall is ideal—long days, soft light, warm-ish nights
→ If you love nature, markets, and alfresco dining, this is your window

Dining tips:
→ Book ahead—especially for Michelin spots
→ Dining solo? Call directly—many booking sites don’t allow reservations for one
→ You can snag last-minute tables—I booked most a day before

Don’t miss:
→ Sunday farmers market (also runs Tuesday + Thursday)
→ Slake Annecy for the perfect oat milk latte
→ Cheese shops everywhere—just walk and follow your nose
→ Château de Menthon-Saint-Bernard—locals say it inspired Sleeping Beauty, with paragliders floating overhead
→ Col de la Forclaz—Short hike, watch paragliders take off—or do a tandem flight

Fun fact:
→ Paul Bocuse’s mother was from Annecy. He named Brasserie Irma-Bocuse after her

🍴 Best Bites & Hidden Gems

What I still dream about:

⭐️ Michelin-ish & Memorable
→ Mushroom salad at Le Clos des Sens – earthy, delicate, haunting
→ Artichoke tart + fish sausage at Le Cortil – grilled in the garden, summer 2025 pop-up
→ Suckling Lamb + Garlic Confit at L’Auberge de Montmin – subtle, soulful, stunning
→ Lamb shank with rosemary at Café Brunet – rustic, rich, fall-off-the-bone good
→ Strawberries + apricots from the farmers market – like eating sunshine

☕️ Casual + Comfort
→ Oat milk latte at Slake Annecy – a soft break from butter and cream
→ Tuna egg baguette + croissants from Campagne Boulangerie (multiple locations)
→ Acai bowl + avocado toast at Le Bar Roux d’Heure – light and satisfying
→ Savoyard fondue + raclette at Le Chalet – classic, cozy, Alpine nostalgia
→ Café des Arts – come for the wine, stay for the people-watching

Still on my list:
→ Racines, Le Confidentiel, Nuance, Mazette, Cozna
→ Full list of Michelin-starred restaurants here

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🧠 What Annecy Taught Me

Love isn’t about walking in lockstep.
It’s about honoring the differences—
his sky, my table.
His mountains, my menus.
Two people chasing wonder,
then returning to share what they found.

Earlier in our relationship,
I thought dining alone meant something was wrong with me.
Like... if he didn’t want to come with me, maybe he didn’t care.
Looking back now, that was just a f*cked up limited belief.

But over time—and with a lot of work—
I’ve realized: love isn’t about sameness.
It’s about mutual respect.
Room to grow.
And someone to come home to after you’ve tasted the world.

So now, I eat solo. I savor. I write.
And I bring those stories back to the table—
where my husband’s waiting with his own.

This is the kind of love I always hoped for:
Messy. Real. Supportive.
Rooted in freedom,
but still returning—always—with stories to share.

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🥂 An Invitation

Plot twist: I don’t actually love dining alone.
Not because I mind the quiet—
but because most restaurants have a minimum of two.
And honestly? I want to try everything on the menu.
Eating solo isn’t the same.

Back home in Southeast Asia,
we were always calling to squeeze in one more
at a table meant for six.
Food wasn’t meant to be eaten in isolation.
It was shared—messy, loud, joyful, communal.

So now, in New York,
I want to recreate that.
A crew of solid food lovers.
People who know how to taste,
how to listen,
how to name what a dish makes them feel—
and share that, unapologetically.

Let’s find hidden gems.
Let’s celebrate chefs who deserve the spotlight.
Let’s build something that feels like coming home—
plate by plate, person by person.

Because in the end,
we’re all hungry for the same thing:
a place to feel seen,
a meal that tastes like belonging,
and a love—or a crew—that lets us soar,
while always saving us a seat.

📬 Join the crew

I’m building this slowly. With intention.
The seat next to me is open.
Come eat or say hi!

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till the next bite,
Hungryhelen

While my husband chased thermals in the sky, I sat down for lunch.
Col de la Forclaz cows grazed nearby—
the very cows whose milk would later become cheese on my plate.
His experience was adrenaline.
Mine was quiet awe.
And somehow, both fed us.

Sandrine, the chef-owner’s wife—
graceful, grounded,
welcomed me like I belonged.
She told me stories of love,
of starting over,
of building something that felt like them.

The menu unfolded slowly, deliberately—
like a story being told by someone who’s not in a rush to impress you.

Here’s what I ate — and what stayed with me

From the first bite, the intention was clear:
this isn’t food just for spectacle.
It’s food built on memory, terroir,
and serious technique.

Potato bougnettes opened the meal—
golden, cloud-like fritters that shattered on contact,
a nod to the local Alpine comfort,
that vanished with the lightest crunch.

Next: a Savoy cake layered with smoked bacon,
candied onions, Comté cheese.
Rustic, sweet, savory—
like Sunday lunch reimagined with French finesse.

The juniper-smoked pancetta that followed
smelled like pine,
and tasted like a campfire—
smoky, earthy, and just the right amount of wild.

Followed by a course called “Spring Stroll”—
radishes from Sevrier,
peas prepared the French way—lightly buttered, ridiculously sweet.
They tasted like a green that hadn't been messed with.
Restraint isn’t common in restaurants this ambitious.
But it was everywhere here.
And it was working.

White asparagus arrived with egg hollandaise and salted Arctic char—
soft, rich, precise.
Not dramatic.
But deeply confident.

Sorrel polenta was herbaceous,
earthy without being dense.
You could taste the light in it.

Then came the bread.
Naturally leavened, warm, with farmhouse butter and walnut oil.
Bread this good makes you question every past version you’ve praised.

Alongside it: snails with wild garlic.
A dish that could easily slip into cliché,
but here it didn’t.
It was clean, bold, and deeply alive.

A parsley butter candle flickered at my table—
a small gesture, maybe,
but it felt like someone thought about how the room should feel,
not just how it should taste.

Sevrier beetroot, smoked with juniper,
came next, dressed with horseradish cream and chervil oil.
Sharp, earthy, quietly stunning.

Lake Geneva Féra, served crudité-style—
the kind of fish that tastes like the water it came from.
Briny, soft, untouched.

The grilled trout with sorrel jus and oxalis (part of the wood-sorrel family)
was another whisper of a dish.
Delicate, almost translucent,
it tasted like someone had learned to listen
before they learned to cook.

Then came the crescendo—
suckling lamb, three ways:
a grilled chop with a spicy sausage with just the right kick,
a lamb kebab with caramelized onions,
a shoulder confit that dissolved without resistance.

Savoie chickpea hummus with caraway and preserved lemon,
and confit onions—both red and white.

The showstopper was the bulb of roasted garlic, served whole.
Soft as butter. Caramelized to perfection.

The cheese—made from milk
from the cows I watched over lunch—
was grassy, floral, and real.

Dessert started with Bauges Mille Fleurs honey—
floral and light.
Then came green Chartreuse, served cold—
a strong herbal liqueur made with over 100 plants
by monks in the French Alps.
It was sharp, earthy, almost medicinal.
Not easy, but refreshing—like moments in life that wake you up.

The Edelweiss liqueur that followed was softer
and more floral, a nice contrast.
It reminded me how gentleness can land just as strongly as boldness.

The meal ended with lovage cream with strawberries under sorrel ice.
Lovage is a herb that tastes a bit like celery with a hint of mint.
When it’s made into cream, it’s not sweet like vanilla—
it’s fresh, green, a little unexpected.

The strawberries were chilled,
topped with a thin layer of sorrel ice—
which added a tart, lemony bite.

It looked like winter,
but tasted like spring starting to peek through.

It reminded me:
not everything hits you right away.
Some flavors—and some things in life—
need a little time to make sense.

Behind the plate

Chef Florian’s story unfolded like a novel.
An Annecy native, he began his journey at 15 as an apprentice at Le Clos des Sens, then under Michelin giants:
Rostang, Veyrat, Marx, Frechon.
By 2015, he was Executive Chef at The Lanesborough in London,
before consulting for luxury hotels in Singapore and China.

Sandrine’s story is just as compelling.
Born in Marseille, she moved to Paris young, managing a restaurant by 20.
She joined Thierry Marx, where she met Florian,
and later Frechon.
Her natural grace and dedication earned her
the Prix Michelin du Service in 2024.

In 2018, he and Sandrine returned to his roots,
transforming a former pizzeria in a mountain village
into a 2-Michelin-starred haven.
The irony is they didn’t chase stars.
They built a home.
His mom still lives there.

Together, they created L’Auberge de Montmin—
a place where culinary brilliance meets the warmth of true hospitality.

And here’s the truth:
You don’t just taste their story.
You feel it.

This lunch reminded me that growth doesn’t always mean expansion.
Sometimes it means return.
Sometimes presence outshines ambition.
Sometimes, your best work begins
when you stop running
and decide to stay.

L’Auberge de Montmin is that kind of place.
Refined, rooted,
and exactly where it’s supposed to be.
Highly recommend! (more recs here)

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Till the next bite,
Hungry Helen

Chef Franck Derouet cooks like he’s honoring a promise.
A promise to the land.
To his mentor, Laurent Petit,
who built this place on a radical idea:
What if excellence didn’t require excess?
What if we stopped chasing more
and chased depth instead?

And honestly?
That idea—that excellence can be quiet—
has stuck with me more than any of the flavors.

A soft kind of conviction that crept into my bones.
One that made me ask:
What if the most powerful thing you could do is stop performing?
What if being deeply yourself
without apology or embellishment
is what people remember most?

We spend so much of life performing.
In meetings. On dates. Online.
We curate. We edit.
We try to be what others will applaud.

But this meal reminded me:
You don’t need to prove you’re worth noticing.
You just need to live in alignment.
To choose what matters and hold the line.

We stayed upstairs in the old stone mansion that houses the restaurant.
There was no room service. No fancy menu.
Just someone from the same kitchen making your breakfast.
It was one of the quietest joys I’ve felt in a long time.
Not because it was grand.
Because it was considered.

And maybe that’s the legacy of Clos des Sens.
A reminder that you don’t need to overcompensate when you know who you are.

Here’s what we ate—and what stayed with me

The first bite asked me to slow down.
The tart was earthy, bright, soft in a way
that reminded me of spring mornings.
Féra is a freshwater fish native to Lake Geneva—delicate,
often compared to trout or whitefish.
Here, it’s dehydrated into something sheer and crackling,
like a fish-skin pastry.
It’s not trying to be crunchy for crunch’s sake.
It’s saying: this land is enough.

Lavaret is another lake fish, a cousin of féra.
It’s lean, almost neutral, which makes it a perfect canvas.
A dab of garum—a fermented fish sauce,
ancient and deeply savory—brought umami without weight.
A brush of horseradish woke it up.
And that was it.
They could’ve done more.
They didn’t.

This was one of my favorite bites of the night.
It wasn’t showy.
Just local Savoie mushrooms,
handled with care.
Earthy. Honest.
Like someone cooked them for someone they loved.
It made me realize how rarely I taste vegetables treated with this kind of respect.

This one made me pause.
Crayfish—small, sweet, and delicate
—met something deeper and darker.
Poultry offal refers to the organs:
liver, heart, gizzards.
The parts most people avoid.
But done well,
offal adds something primal
and grounding.
It’s not elegant, but it’s real.
A high note and a low note,
sharing space.
Together, they created tension.
And then balance. (ugh, yum!)

Trout, soft and pink.
Féra poutargue—
salt-cured and dried fish roe,
grated like bottarga—
added salinity and depth.
It was a quiet kind of luxury—
like someone who knows where they’re from
and doesn’t need to say it out loud.

A palate cleanser disguised as a dish.
Bright. Bitter.
Almost medicinal in its greenness.
Like the kind of food
you don’t realize your body needed,
until you eat it.

Pike is a muscular,
slightly coarse fish.
It doesn’t flake like cod or melt like sea bass.
It fights back.
That made it memorable.
The jus—made from grilled bones—
was smoky, deep, almost primal.
This was one of the heartier moments in the meal.
But even here, it never tipped into indulgence.
Just weight, when weight was called for.

There are over 200 herb varieties
grown in their garden a stone’s throw away.
Some bitter, some peppery, some floral.
Sound cliché—but the salad felt alive.

The cheese was rustic and familiar—
like the meal suddenly dropped its formality and whispered,
Welcome to our home.

I didn’t expect hay to make me feel anything.
But it did.
There’s something almost nostalgic about the taste—
dry, grassy, honest.
It pulled me out of the dining room and into some imagined countryside.
One where someone’s grandmother might have dried herbs on the table
and made bitter coffee from roasted chicory root.
Not a sugar rush.
Not even dessert, really.
More like the epilogue of a great book.
Gentian is a bitter alpine root—used more often in amaro than pastry.
Here, it grounded the dish.
The hazelnuts gave it texture,
and the sage tied it all back to the beginning.
Sage was the first and last thing we tasted.
It felt like closure.

The end, but not really

I can’t sit through 9-course tasting menus every week.
And I don’t believe we should glorify fine dining
just because it’s rare or expensive.
But I do believe everyone should experience true excellence at least once.
Not to feel fancy—
to feel recalibrated.

Because a meal like this doesn’t try to win you over.
It invites you to notice.
To taste with intention.
To understand that sometimes, doing less
takes more courage.

Le Clos des Sens didn’t just feed me.
It made me ask better questions—
about food, about effort,
about what really matters.

That’s what I’ll remember.
Not the stars.
But the courage to do less, intentionally.

More recs here.

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Till the next bite,
Hungryhelen

six girls, my bachelorette.
we walked into Mingles, unsure what we’d find.
back then, it had two Michelin stars.
we were loud (oops!),
got a gentle reminder to tone it down,
but still—we felt welcomed, not just tolerated.

fast forward: March 2025.
Mingles makes history—
the only restaurant in South Korea to earn three Michelin stars.

but this isn’t a story about winning.
it’s about what it takes to build something that doesn’t exist yet—
and the quiet strength of staying rooted when everyone’s asking you to translate.

The Bite

Chef Kang Min-goo was a teenager when he discovered the Michelin Guide.
He didn’t speak the language, but he understood the dream.
He decided, quietly, that he’d be in it one day.

After culinary school, he left Korea to learn from the world.
He started in Spain, training under Martín Berasategui, where precision was everything.
He learned balance. Stillness.
How to plate ambition without ego.

Then came Nobu—first in Miami,
then in the Bahamas,
where he became the youngest head chef in the group’s history.

But somewhere along the way,
he realized he could cook the world’s food
—just not his own.

So he went back home.

In 2014, he opened Mingles in Seoul.
A small, serious restaurant named for the thing he wanted to do most:
mingle Korean tradition with global technique,
honor fermentation and temple food,
and still make room for invention.

Early days weren’t easy.
Diners weren’t sure how to categorize it.
Was it still Korean food if it came in courses?
Was it fine dining if it smelled like doenjang?

But Kang kept going.
He studied temple cuisine with the Buddhist nun, Jeong Kwan (yep, the same JK featured on Netflix’s Chef’s Table).
He learned from Korean culinary matriarchs like Cho Hee-sook.
He returned to the language of jang
—soy, chili, fermented bean.
Not as a condiment, but as the foundation.

One dish, known simply as the Jang Trio, captured that vision perfectly:
three fermented sauces—turned into a dessert of layered, savory-sweet ice cream.

It became a signature not because it was shocking —
but because it resonated.
A dish that made you pause.
A dish that made you remember.

The Shift

Maybe you’re in a season of building quietly.
No spotlight. Just trust in the work.

Mingles knows that rhythm.

It earned its first Michelin star in 2017, the year Michelin arrived in Seoul.
A second followed in 2018.
Then a move to a new space in Gangnam
— still intimate, still restrained, but with more room to breathe.
Then a pandemic (yep, feels like we almost forgot that happened).
Then a second restaurant, Hansik Goo, in Hong Kong
— opened mid-pandemic, with Kang directing remotely from Seoul.

Every move felt like a risk.
But he kept betting on the same dream:
if the food was honest enough,
it would find the people meant to taste it.

His team grew.
Tables reduced.
The menus shifted.
The flavors deepened.
But the heartbeat stayed the same.

And on March 2025, the third star arrived.

In a video released by the Michelin Guide, Kang receives the call.
You can see it in his face — the disbelief, the overwhelm.
He smiles, covers his eyes, breaks into tears.
After two decades of chasing precision—
he finally arrived at something that felt like peace.

But instead of triumph, he spoke of pressure.
“I feel even more responsibility now.
Because three stars aren’t the end.
They’re a promise — to keep going. To keep growing.
To keep honoring what made it matter in the first place.”

The Nudge

What Mingles taught me: beyond the food, beyond the stars
—is that not everything has to happen fast.
That you can build something slowly, with stubborn gentleness,
and still move a whole culture forward.

That dinner reminded me:
hospitality isn’t just service.
It’s presence.
It’s how a team of excellence handled six girls on a bachelorette.
How they gave us room to be who we were,
without compromising who they were.

And maybe that’s the whole point.
Not to polish ourselves into perfection,
but to keep getting closer to something honest.

If you’re building something right now.
A dream, a dish, a version of yourself—
remember: it doesn’t have to explode to matter.
It just has to stay true.

And if you ever forget, go to Mingles.
The food will remind you.

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forward this to someone who needs to be reminded that staying rooted—
might just be the most radical thing you can do.

trust the fermentation.

p.s. if you’re interested in a list of Seoul restaurant recs from our trip—
let me know by hitting like, or go old skool and DM me.

with gratitude and leftovers,
hungryhelen
@yourhungrybff

That’s Row on 5.

On the surface, it looks like just another upscale London restaurant. And yes, it earned a Michelin star just four days after opening. But what makes it unforgettable isn’t the star.

It’s what they don’t say. What they don’t overdo.

It’s the feeling that something unexpected is about to unfold.

🧠 Learning #1: Real hospitality doesn’t scream. It listens. A reminder that the best service is invisible when it needs to be, and brilliantly human when it counts.

The Dinner Party You Didn’t Know You Needed

Row on 5 doesn’t have that hushed, sterile fine-dining atmosphere where you feel like you’re being judged for using the wrong fork. Instead, it’s a masterclass in balancing excellence with warmth.

The lighting? Flattering. The service? Intuitive but never intrusive. The crowd? People who know their food but aren’t obnoxious about it. The type of guests you’d want at your dream dinner party—ones who sip their wine thoughtfully but aren’t afraid to throw their head back and laugh.

🧠 Learning #2: This is one of the biggest things I walked away with: designing a space where excellence and ease can coexist is an active choice. But, it only works if the people running it really believe in both.

And then… Fantastic Fiona walks in.

A sous chef with the kind of energy that pulls you in. She radiates passion—not in the “let me recite a scripted monologue about the origins of this dish” way, but in the way that makes you feel like you’re in on something special.

By the end of the night, she wasn’t just a sous chef; she was part of our experience. Fantastic Fiona, as we now call her, made the night feel personal—like we weren’t just customers, but guests at a dinner thrown by a dear friend who also happens to be incredibly talented in the kitchen.

🧠 Learning #3: The best hospitality is human. It doesn’t over-explain. It connects.

Little Extras We Didn’t Expect

This is a restaurant that sweats the small stuff. And not in an annoying, over-curated way. More in the wow, they actually thought of that?! kind of way.

First surprise: They customize your chopsticks. Halfway through dinner, they brought out chopsticks with our names engraved on them. Turns out, we were the first to ever do nicknames—and I’m claiming that as a historical moment ;)

Second surprise: They’ll dry-clean your jacket for you while you dine. Yes, really. Apparently, they’ve got a good relationship with their Savile Row neighbors (a nod to Kingsman, ha!), so if you walk in with a little city grime on your coat, you can walk out fresh.

Third surprise: You don’t just stay in one place. The entire dinner is an experience that moves—you start in one part of the restaurant, get taken upstairs at a certain point, then return downstairs for dessert. Like a perfectly choreographed performance, except you don’t know what’s coming next.

🧠 Learning #4: People remember the unexpected. Surprise can be subtle—but it’s unforgettable when done well.

The Dish That Stole the Show

Every great restaurant has that one dish—the one that, mid-conversation, makes you forget what you were saying.

For me, it was almost every dish served. But if I had to choose, it was the cheese and onion tart (first row below, furthest right). A quiet, classic dish.

You know that feeling when something tastes so good you want to slow down—but also can’t stop eating? Well, it was all the above. It had layers, it had depth, and it made me want to corner the chef and demand to know every single technique that went into it.

🧠 Learning #5: The best details aren’t for show. They earn your appreciation quietly.

The Best Part? It’s Michelin-Starred, but It Feels Like Home

Usually, at restaurants of this caliber, you spend half the meal feeling like you’re doing something wrong. Are you eating too fast? Too slow? Are you asking the right questions?

Not here.

At Row on 5, they let you in on the magic. They tell you how much prep goes into making the experience seamless. They share instead of perform. The whole night, the vibe was just right—polished, yet relaxed. You could geek out over the techniques, or you could just sit back and enjoy. Either way, they’ve got you.

And just when you think it’s over, they hit you with one last move—leading you downstairs for dessert in a way that feels more like a secret passage than just another course.

🧠 Learning #6: You don’t have to invent something new. A classic done with care can feel brand new.

The “Oh Sh*t, We’re Spoiled Now” Moment

At the end of the three-hour dinner, I braced myself for my friends to tell me they were over it. But instead? They all said the same thing:

“Our bar has officially been raised. It’s going to be hard to top this.”

With the sheer number of new restaurants opening all the time, it’s rare to find one that actually feels different. But this? This felt different.

Row on 5 has only been open for a couple of months, and yet, they’ve already pulled off what most restaurants spend years trying (and failing) to do. A Michelin star in four days. A vibe that’s unshakable. And the kind of attention to detail that makes you feel seen.

It took me hours of research to find this place, and I can confidently say: favorite restaurant in London to date.

If You Go (and You Should) 🎭

🚪 If you want to say you ate here before it became impossible to get in, book a table now. They got a Michelin star in four days. Four. Days. This is about to be one of the toughest reservations in London.

💸 If you’re willing to splurge, go for the wine pairing. This isn’t a place where you order “just a little something.” You commit to the experience.

🍷 If you don’t know much about wine, don’t worry—their collection is ridiculous. Just trust them. You’ll be impressed.

🏆 If you love a restaurant that gets every detail right, this is it. The food, the service, the surprises, even the damn chopsticks.

🧠 What Row on 5 Taught Me About Hospitality

Row on 5 reminded me of why I care about this space. Why I want to build in it. Why hospitality matters so much more than most people realize.

Because when it’s done well—really well—it lingers.

It inspires you to raise your own bar. It gives you language for what great feels like. It resets your idea of what dining out can actually be.

Here’s what stuck with me most:

1. Real hospitality doesn’t beg for attention. It pays attention.
The best service isn’t loud. It doesn’t hover or perform. It watches, listens, and then shows up at exactly the right moment. That’s the magic—feeling taken care of without being fussed over.

2. Excellence and warmth can live in the same room.
You don’t have to choose between being polished and being relaxed. The best spaces are the ones that pull off both—where everything is executed with care, but nothing feels uptight. That balance isn’t an accident. It’s a decision made by people who care deeply about how you feel in their space.

3. Human connection beats the perfect pitch.
Hospitality isn’t about information. It’s about presence. People don’t remember the script. They remember how you made them feel.

4. Thoughtful surprises > flashy gimmicks.
It wasn’t the engraved chopsticks or the Savile Row dry-cleaning that stood out—it was the intention behind them. Real luxury is quiet. It makes you pause and say, “Wait… did they really just think of that?”

5. The details that matter don’t scream. They land.
That cheese and onion tart didn’t need fanfare. It just needed to be that good. The kind of good that makes you stop mid-sentence and forget what you were talking about. That’s what craft does—it demands your attention without asking for it.

6. You don’t need to reinvent the wheel. Just roll it better.
Nothing at Row on 5 felt “innovative” in the tech-bro sense of the word. It felt intentional. Familiar things executed with such care they felt brand new. Sometimes the best kind of creativity is just doing the basics beautifully.

Row on 5 is what fine dining should feel like—flawless food, great vibes, and an experience that makes you walk away feeling like you just gained a new perspective.

It’s rare. It’s special. And it’s about to be impossible to book.

If you find yourself in London, make the time—even if you’re not usually a “sit for three hours” kind of person.

Till the next bite,
xo, Hungry Helen 🤌

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