Zesty fries chez Dalí, BBQ-flavored spice, covering the skinny ensemble of my fries. An expat hub, smoke rising in the air, wine being poured at the table next to me. Bosoms and bare skin, revealed in someone’s backyard café, chez Dalí. Arab skater boys, attending the guests, who
This month marks one year since the sage-colored cutting board ventured into the kitchen wall gap nirvana. Ever since that moment, and the subsequent creation of a story in homage, I have carefully prepared food in the kitchen, knowing that not all potential hazards are as obvious as a
The cutting board never complains about the sharp knives, the excessive chemical treatments or the boiling water. It is taken for granted—for every sandwich structure it supports, for every hullabaloo of selected vegetables and fruits it sorts gracefully. One day, I tried to repay its countless acts of service.
The Swipe. In today’s world swiping has become a common daily activity. There are two dimensions to swiping: we have the vertical and the horizontal one. We engage in vertical swiping activities as we scroll through our camera rolls just to find that one specific memory or maybe as
Capitalism got the best of me. I stand in line to draw a number—not to receive but to give. To give of my time, my patience, my money and my joy. While I should be exploring the scars and dimples of Tōkyō, I become complicit in exploitation, counting the
21:55 in Shibuya, late-night cravings for a proper meal. The sisters follow the Turkish Kebab sign outside and find themselves in a corridor. The owner, named Ali, greets them with a smile. An unfortunate exchange with the Uzbek waiter reveals: the tavuk is not a fillet but chicken
The bags are packed, the sisters have mentally departed. A peek through the window sets off the final side quest. Unfavourable time, season and location, one sister was convinced the odds were in their favor. They rushed out of Asakusa to commute to Shinjuku. Between government IDs and bag inspections,
3 sisters in a diner in Hannam, placing orders on a screen, escaping the afternoon heat, consuming an assortment of greens. Like a drawn arrow waiting for its release, the afternoon heat tumbles from its peak. Followed by a deafening sound, millions of tears fall onto the Hannam-Dong ground.
I walked into a small bookstore on Jeju island. It was a rainy day. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. The size of the store resembled a milk carton. To my surprise I walked into a very well-curated philosophy section. I picked up a book on green
Three sisters join the flock of tourists, snapping 4:3 frame on the go. The bamboo columns provide shelter from the Kyoto midday zenith. Compressed water cubes melt in the lukewarm green tea cups. Sweaty cups and sweaty contours move swiftly until they encounter and elderly man, who resides between
On a spectrum from hangry to depleted, three sisters enter the venue with first row seats to the show. Two taps on the screen and the show begins, enter first the basil salmon twins—one for each sister. Followed by a mixed tempura duo, and a crisp and golden fries
Concentric spinning at 45 rpm. Screening Gossip Girl with Japanese subs, My sisters got great taste. Brown girls listening to Blonde, sipping on iced matcha, munching on Reccoco Baum.