There seems to be a common sentiment across all cultures: you just can't get the same quality of your food anywhere else but home. In Homesick Cookings, writers recommend the best spots across the Lower Mainland to get some traditional grub, or where to buy the authentic ingredients to make a dish at home.
Walking through the busy streets of Istanbul after having moved to Vancouver 16 years ago is an experience filled with many sensations, both familiar and not.
The rusty motorcycle took a sharp swerve, slightly tossing my damp backpack. Sitting in the backseat under the poncho flap extending from my father’s back, I tried to guess our location through the thick curtain of monsoon rain.
My sister and I drag our bags into the elevator and stand in silence after an exhausting day of school. As we ascend, I get a funny feeling in my stomach.
I still remember the smell of a freshly made plate of pasta waiting for me at the kitchen table in my Nonno and Nonna’s house when I was a kid. Whether it was a holiday, birthday or any old Sunday visit, pasta was usually involved.
Back at home, meals like fried plantains — a sickly-sweet dish of deep fried plantains that is typically served with scrambled eggs — were common, especially for lunch or dinner.
As a college student, it’s a lot rarer to have such prime leftovers to toss in, but, as I said, congee is really what you make it to be. But this time, I wanted to make it exactly the way I had it as a child.
Even though I’ve never been to Serbia, I’m connected to it through the culture I was raised with. I feel homesick for a place I’ve never been, but I can make it better by enjoying the connections I have to it here.
Couscous Royale was the last meal my father made me before leaving Montreal and it was one last reminder that when I moved out, j’allais me débrouiller — I was gonna figure it out.
With many Vietnamese restaurants peppered across Vancouver, there is no shortage of places to go — the two places below, though, have been thoroughly tested and approved by my family and me.
The last time I had my grandfather’s congee was a few years ago. He quietly stopped making it one day, as standing for hours in a sweltering kitchen grew to be too taxing. Although my dorm-room concoction will never be the same as his, it’s enough to remind me of home.