When I try to reflect on the past couple of years of my life, with all the changes and headaches of figuring out what to be do after 30. Friendships, breakups, moves, discoveries, and grievances – it feels so overwhelmingly drowning. When I finished my seven-year therapeutic journey aka the longest relationship I ever had – there was a lot to deal with, as it seemed like I was constantly digging deeper into myself, but one day you wake up and realise it is just another sneaky way of procrastination – it's better to stop.
People who don't know me well nod their heads, wondering how it happened that I ended up in the kitchen after all my explorations in education, arts, anthropology. Those who have spent at least a decade with me have fewer questions; for some, it is an absolutely natural shift.
Today, after three-years I found myself in southern Portugal. Lately, I've been finding myself in different places quite frequent because although I have to plan things, my nomadic spirit finds it very hard to comply. Before giving in to my nomadic spirit, I had to resist the advices of those who find such a spirit frivolous, unsettled, sometimes impossible, draining, exhausting.
Anyways, spirit blew me to southern Portugal, where three years ago I was wandering with a backpack and no direction. At that time, it led me to an absolutely wonderful little restaurant, where it was already hard to get a spot, but I was persistent and stayed longer because it felt like a calling. The restaurant is small, with nine angular tables, closer than you would like, slow service, no noise, everyone gathered as if for a mass, but the mood is elevated. The Portuguese language somehow felt familiar, I nodded my head pointing to different plates.
Every time I travel, I stumble upon very unexpected places, often they are not in any guides, sometimes not even marked on maps, but I always consider these invitations from "nowhere" to be meaningful. Sometimes they are louder, this is how I ended up in Sarajevo and Jerusalem, sometimes there is a gentle nudge, like here, in Portugal.
This little restaurant made such an impression on me three years ago that I swear – I would dream of their cataplanas.
This little restaurant gave me hope that absolutely everything is possible, it's possible to avoid the inevitable things, like winter in Lithuania, that dreams are not just for the naive, that it really is possible to escape from anywhere if you feel out of place. That somewhere there are people who are your tribe, even if you feel so lonely and out of place. This little restaurant was such a fictional reality for me, where absolutely everything, although it doesn't seem perfect – but happens as it should. The whole family, down to the dishwashers, works in the same restaurant for years, decades, the same dishes. Tired, but with smile on their faces. I shared a glass of wine with the chef. This little restaurant became such a therapeutic session for me that the rest of my three-month trip to Portugal took on entirely different colors, I unexpectedly got a dream job and gradually returned to myself. I often reflected on how, what, and the influence that things in life had on me, and I realized that I used to dig so deep that some of the digging started to seem very unnatural, but I completely ignored the everyday experiences and how they shaped me.
I grew up in a restaurant. Although it might sound enviable, it was such an everyday thing that it could not claim for any deeper reflection. At that time, gastronomy in Lithuania was limited to lunch specials and post funeral meals, especially in smaller regions. After school, I would spend my days and evenings in my grandmother's restaurant. It was like an amusem*nt park: where absolutely everyone knew me and I could taste all sorts of interesting things. Every time I had lunch, I would get everything exactly like the adults – with a lid and a flair. I remember often feeling like I couldn't find common ground with my peers and sometimes felt uncomfortable in a child's body, but only in the restaurant did someone notice that, I was one of them – I was REAL grown-up, as I wanted to be then, I was recognized.
Later followed many years of picky eating and painful lessons in the kitchen, because, no matter how spoiled as I was, I had to cook for myself. In the 90s Lithuania, not eating meat was a very hippie-like lifestyle. Later came the study years, where again so many life-changing experiences happened in restaurants and kitchens.
In the dull 2013, when Vilnius was not yet the Vilnius we all love now. It was much more pretentious, seemingly a dwelling of the chosen ones, or maybe just my small-town complex kept surfacing.. I used to sing in a wine bar every Friday, there weren't many people, as going out to restaurants in the evening wasn't a thing. Around the same time, every Friday, one woman would come. Long black hair, big eyes, and always same chair at the bar. ALONE. WOMAN. There weren’t many people, so I remember her very well. Back then, that woman embodied everything for me – absolute independence, possibility, freedom. ALONE. AT THE BAR. WOMAN.
Then many unsuccessful dates in bars, pubs, restaurants from which you could write another book. Until finally, I ended up in the kitchen – where I would rush after work, where I would meditate away all the grievances, and where the most significant conversations would happen. Then many things clicked, from when I was five and would carry all of my toys outside and organize dinners in the sand, to times when I didn't want to talk to people, but I would cook for them.
Now, having visited hundreds of restaurants, food tours, markets, finished studies at a Le Cordon Bleu culinary school, soon to have sent off almost a hundred travelers to taste the world – I understand that I am best at cooking for my loved ones, but there are so many people who have the gift of feeding others. And that is wonderful. Food CAN and SHOULD be a means to understand oneself, not to mention the social and cultural messages our plates contain, and all the beautiful events and stories that happen in kitchens.
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