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It started in the ladies' room at Pujol, where I became completely obsessed with the hand soap. Is Xínú a little pretentious? Probably. I don't really mind.

A Microplane, a digital scale, measuring spoons down to 1/64 of a teaspoon — and a little Mexican ex-voto of the patron saint of cooks that has nothing to do with cooking at all.

One suitcase, a carry-on and a backpack each — and honestly, it's still too much. Fourteen things I wouldn't want to be without, organized by the senses.

Sometimes the way I like to eat is a progression — a drink under the lanterns at Hotel San Fernando, tuna on the street at Koku, then a seat at the bar at Plonk.

We turned up on a rainy night with no reservation and no expectations, and they walked us to the chef's table. That night we happened to get the best seat in the house.

Honolulu's Chinatown feels alive, which I can't say for a lot of Chinatowns across America — and Senia is the place to grab a table, or better yet, a seat at the bar.

I'm not even a big pasta eater, but the lemon ricotta ravioli got me before I'd taken a bite — candlelight, a record player, and pasta drying in the window.

There is something I really like about places that don't make a big fuss about themselves — the corn-and-masa offshoot of Pujol is one of those places.