Category Life
Published March 30, 2025
The Feast of Acheloüs, by Peter Paul Rubens and Jan Brueghel the Elder
A delicious meal has the ability to act as life’s flavour enhancer. A special moment becomes even more memorable thanks to the food that accompanies it, carrying it forward in your memory. Savouring a dish can, therefore, be a portal, transporting us not just to places but to people, to feelings and fleeting moments crystallised in time.
Birthdays, more than most days, are marked by the details that linger long after the candles are blown out. The clink of glasses in celebration, the warmth of good company, the first bite of something exquisite—all of it intertwines, forming the kind of memory that stays with you, rich with taste and texture. Anthony Bourdain once said, “Context and memory play powerful roles in all the truly great meals in one’s life.” And perhaps that’s why the meals we cherish most are never just about what’s on the plate. They are about the hands that prepared them, the stories exchanged between bites, the way a particular dish becomes a bridge—between past and present, between friends and strangers, between who we were and who we are becoming.
This birthday dinner at Gorka was one of those meals. The kind where food isn’t just savoured but felt. Where each dish, in its own way, seemed to hold a lesson, a quiet truth about how friendship feeds us.
Gorka is the culinary collaboration of two exceptionally talented young chefs, George Patrick Brown and George Anthony Husband, set within the romantic backdrop of Italo—an iconic deli and café nestled in the heart of Bonnington Square, Vauxhall. As an itinerant culinary initiative, Gorka presents an ever-evolving menu that highlights seasonal British produce reimagined through a Basque “flavour-first” lens. Rooted in the heritage of traditional flavours yet uplifted by innovative techniques, their approach honours the essence of each ingredient, balancing boldness with refinement and offering dishes that feel at once familiar yet refreshing, comforting yet full of new life.
Stepping into the narrow, candlelit bistro, we were immediately wrapped in warmth. The soft glow, the low hum of conversation, and the intimate atmosphere made it feel less like a restaurant and more like the home of a friend—one who knows how to host elegantly yet effortlessly. As a large group, we were guided downstairs to be seated in the pantry, where walls were lined with pasta boxes, canned chickpeas, and bottles of wine. The informality of the space felt like the perfect backdrop for a dining experience that, above all, seeks to celebrate the beauty of eating together — stripped of pretence, rich in flavour, and meant to be savoured with copious amounts of wine.
We didn’t know it yet, but chefs George and George would manage something only our mothers and grandmothers usually do best: elevating food beyond the sensory, feeding us an experience that nourished more than just our appetite. So, as I recount the dishes we enjoyed, I’ll also share the thoughts on friendship this meal evoked. I can’t claim that our actual conversation that night followed these exact musings—far from it, in fact. But the feelings? Those were all there.
Tuna, Pork, Bergamot, Golden Kiwi, photo by Gorka
Let us start from the beginning. How does one go about making a friend?
In my experience, it doesn’t always happen the way you expect. Some friendships unfold slowly, built over time. Others arrive fully formed, demanding recognition from the start. That’s how it was with her—the birthday girl. I was reserved, detached, still feeling my way through the room, when she turned to me and, without hesitation, declared: “I’ve decided we will be friends.” Just like that. No preamble, just a simple, matter-of-fact certainty. And she was right.
The “Tuna, Pork, Bergamot, and Golden Kiwi” arrived in much the same way – bold, undeniable, setting the tone for everything that followed. It was an opening act of contrast: lush, buttery tuna paired with the electric brightness of bergamot, the crisp snap of pork, and the unexpected sweetness of golden kiwi. Soft met crunchy, rich met sharp. And yet, together, they didn’t cancel each other out. They brought each other to life.
That’s the thing about real friendship. It doesn’t require sameness. In fact, it thrives on difference. The strongest bonds aren’t always the ones built on easy similarity but on the friction of opposing forces—where one softens what the other sharpens, where contrast becomes complement, where something unexpected is created in between. Some people challenge us, jolt us awake, bring out parts of ourselves we didn’t know existed. And that’s precisely why we need them.
But then, not all friendships make themselves known with a confident bang. Some sneak up on you, disguised as something else entirely—an acquaintance, a passing familiarity, someone you assume you already understand. You think you know their edges, their defining traits, the limits of what they can be. And then, something shifts.
Sardine, Grape, Shiso, photo by Gorka
The “Sardine with Grape and Shiso” dish was a lesson in that kind of shift. Sardines are briny, assertive—the kind of ingredient that doesn’t ask for company. But here, something unexpected happened. The grapes, syrupy and sweet, softened the salt’s sharp edge. The shiso wrapped it all together, fresh and fragrant, turning something that looked familiar into something entirely new. It reminded me of the friendships that start in places you least expect—the ones that don’t seem to fit at first, until one day, they just do. The ones that make you reconsider, that broaden the way you see people and, crucially, the way you see yourself.
So, here’s the lesson: let yourself be surprised. Be open to the possibility that things can change in ways you never anticipated. That someone who once felt distant can, with time and the right conditions, become something essential in your life. Growth happens when we allow ourselves to experience something new—not just in food, but in each other.
At this point in the meal, Gorka had completely won us over. The verdict was in: this was going to be a dinner to remember – or, in my case, to write a little article about.
Naturally, the conversation followed suit. We moved past the wide-eyed excitement of the first two dishes, past the flurry of mutual updates and fresh news. Instead, we settled into something warmer, something steadier—the kind of conversation that comes from knowing each other well. Laughter didn’t need an introduction. Stories didn’t need backstory. We weren’t just catching up; we were sinking into the comfort of shared experience.
Hasselback Cucumbers, Crispy Oyster Mushroom, Queso, photo by Gorka
The “Hasselback Cucumbers with Crispy Oyster Mushroom and Queso” arrived at just the right moment, and it became an instant favourite. Cool, crisp cucumber met the earthy depth of crispy mushrooms and the warmth of melted cheese. Simple, yet unexpectedly satisfying. There was something nostalgic about it, too—a mix of childhood flavours reimagined, the kind that made me wonder why I hadn’t eaten them like this before.
It reminded me of the “girl dinners” we used to have as university students, stretching our budgets and our creativity in equal measure. The ones thrown together at a kitchen counter with whatever’s in the fridge—pickles, cheese, crackers, something to share. The kind of meals that aren’t really about the food at all, but about the people you eat them with. The ones who show up, who linger, who turn ordinary moments into something whole. The ones who, over years and countless unremarkable but irreplaceable moments, become family.
Friendship isn’t just about who you’ve known the longest. It’s about the people who make you feel at home, no matter where you are. The ones who turn simple moments into rituals, who remind you that family isn’t just blood—it’s the people who gather around your table, however small, however simple, and make life feel fuller just by being there.
Chicken + Liver Skewer, Hazelnut, Lovage, photo by Gorka
By then, we had fully settled in. The meal had taken on a slower rhythm, the kind that comes when you know there’s nowhere else you need to be. The conversation stretched, deepened, softened. The wine had stained our lips, its warmth settling in, making us drowsy in the most contented way. We let pauses linger without needing to fill them. There is a kind of trust in that—being able to sit together in the quiet, knowing that presence alone is enough.
The “Chicken + Liver Skewer, Hazelnut, and Lovage in Dashi Broth” that came next encapsulated this feeling well. It was grounding, unhurried, meant to be eaten slowly. The broth was warm and rich with depth. The chicken and liver—silky yet hearty—felt like something familiar, something you could return to. While I ate, my mind brought me back to the meals my grandmother would make to comfort me on gloomy days — bowls eaten in silence, with a runny nose, teary eyes, but a rewarmed heart. There was no need for conversation then, just as there was no need for it now. Some things are understood without being said. The best friendships, like a slow-simmered broth, do not need constant stirring. Too much, and you risk overcomplicating what is already enough. Sometimes, the deepest closeness isn’t in words but in quiet companionship—the ability to simply exist together, without expectation, without effort, knowing that nothing needs to be said for it to mean something.
Koji Sugar Pit Double Pork Chop, Clams, Mentaiko, Pan Sauce, Chimi De Rappa, photo by Gorka
And, at last, came the indulgence: the “Koji Sugar Pit Double Pork Chop with Clams, Mentaiko, and Pan Sauce” — a dish that commanded attention and jolted us all to alertness. The table momentarily hushed, everyone pausing in silent reverence before forks clashed and appetites took over once more. It was a celebration of family-style feasting: decadent, abundant, unapologetically messy. The kind of meal meant to be torn into, passed around, devoured with laughter and no concern for etiquette. A dish that refused to be eaten neatly—and was all the better for it.
In many ways, this felt like the ultimate celebration of friendship. It is not always tidy. It is not always graceful. Friendships, like meals, are meant to be experienced fully. To be messy, to be honest, to be shared without reservation. The kind where you grab at life with both hands, where you let things get a little sticky because that’s where the richness is.
Finally, dessert. If the earlier courses had invited animated conversation, followed by thoughtful reflection, these last bites sparked something different: childlike giddiness. The “Tea + Biscuit Set Custard” with its brown bread crumble and the “Tonka Bean Tres Leches with Blood Orange” were playful yet masterful—another reminder that great food isn’t just about taste, but about feeling. The cake was particularly magnificent—moist, sweet, citrusy, the kind of dessert that makes you pause mid-bite just to appreciate it. It wasn’t just indulgent; it was joyful.
Tea + Biscuit Set Custard, Brown Bread Crumble, Strawberry Granita, Apple Marigold, photo by Gorka
This final course brought us back to an earlier version of ourselves. For a moment, we weren’t just grown women with careers and responsibilities. We were girls again, laughing, indulging, letting ourselves be a little ridiculous together. And that, perhaps, is one of the greatest gifts of friendship: the reminder not to take life too seriously. To play, to wonder, to delight in something simply because it makes you happy. To let go of the weight of the world for a moment and rediscover the thrill of ordering dessert like it’s an act of rebellion. To be reminded that there is still so much sweetness left to savour.
A heartfelt thank you to chefs George and George, whose vision and care turned our birthday dinner into something far more lasting. If you ever have the chance to experience Gorka, don’t hesitate—you may leave with more than you expected. Their food didn’t just delight; it invited us to be present to what unfolds when flavour meets feeling. And in that way, it reflected a truth we so often forget—people, like any meaningful creation, need to be tended to with heart.
This meal was extraordinary because we lived it as a lesson in friendship. Opposites that sharpen and strengthen. Unexpected sweetness that softens and surprises. Familiarity that feels like home. Trust that asks for nothing. The messiness that makes it real.
And above all, the joy of sharing it all, together.
