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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.

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One of the reasons I go to restaurants is to steal ideas. Not recipes exactly, but combinations. A flavor I hadn't thought of putting together. A technique. Something that makes me come home and start thinking about what I could do with it in my own kitchen. That’s exactly what happened at Masala y Maíz.

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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.

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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.