How I Learned to cook again: A Culinary Tragedy

I ate at the best restaurants all the time. Then the pandemic happened, and I had to work my kitchen

- By Howard Chua-Eoan

My long-lost friend Keith found me on Facebook in the middle of May. He’d retired from the U.S. post office and, with nothing to do in New Jersey during the lockdown, was surfing links and lists—and there I was. I hadn’t heard from him in almost 20 years. I could tell from a rush of likes that he’d clicked through scores of the hundreds of photos I’ve posted of my meals at some of the best restaurants in the world. Under the most recent one, he commented: “Who’s got it better than you.”

“You don’t understand,” I replied from isolation in London. “I used to have it better than me. I used to eat out every day. Every day! Now, I have to cook. And do the dishes. And complain about what I prepare.” Most of my best pictures were months old. He’d put the comment under one of my home-cooked meals from the day before: a microwaved sausage roll and a cup of tea. I was flabbergasted. Didn’t he get the irony? He replied with an emoji howling with laughter.

It’s a ridiculous situation. I’m one of those stereomythical city dwellers who use the kitchen to store shoes, books, and the odd tax form. When I lived in New York, I pulled the plug on my refrigerator—it was on only for ice and made this awful rattling sound that scared the neighbors. When I moved to London two years ago, the real estate agent showed me a lovely flat with a spectacular view but apologized that the fridge was barely bigger than half a dozen stacked shoeboxes. I took the apartment. The kitchen was my least concern. I lived alone. I ate out every day. Restaurants defined my existence.