Fine Dining and Flower Power: A Night Out of My Comfort Zone
- neph23
- Mar 2
- 2 min read
I’ve never been comfortable in fine dining establishments. I grew up with a grandfather who had strong opinions about etiquette, and although I learned which fork to use for each course and how to sit up straight, I also developed a strong preference for more relaxed settings. Give me mismatched chairs, a backyard BBQ, and food I can eat with my hands any day. I’ve never been one for opulence—my travel dreams are fueled more by a desire to explore the world than by any longing for luxury. And when it comes to food, I’m pretty simple: I know what I like, what I don’t, and the rest is just… food.
That said, I found myself at a reservation-only restaurant in Chiang Mai, the type of place where the chef decides the menu for the evening. It was undeniably high-end, but the atmosphere was surprisingly welcoming. It felt more like a large family dinner than a display of wealth, and the cost was the equivalent of a large pizza back home.
I can’t rave about the food itself, but that’s on me—I’m just not a seafood person. I’ve tried to like fish. I really have. But even beautifully prepared salmon didn’t do it for me, though I ate it because old habits of proper manners die hard. And when a friend encouraged me to eat a whole shrimp (head, eyes, and all), I just couldn’t. Maybe if it weren’t staring at me, but that was a line I wasn’t prepared to cross. Still, the dishes were beautifully presented, and I genuinely appreciated the chef’s passion and the stories behind each plate.
The setting was stunning—a patio surrounded by lush greenery, koi ponds, and motorcycles that looked more like art installations than parked vehicles. There was even a dog lounging nearby, adding to the relaxed, almost homey vibe. It was a beautiful space, and in many ways, it felt like the perfect place to spend an evening with friends.
I loved the ongoing debate at our table about green mango versus red. It was a conversation that had us all laughing and created a core memory from the night. And while I wasn’t wild about all the dishes, I was fascinated by the flower that tasted like pepper. Leave it to me to go to a fine dining restaurant and be most impressed by a flower.
Looking back, I realize my discomfort had less to do with the restaurant itself and more to do with my own baggage. I carry the echoes of past experiences that make me hyper-aware of my movements in such settings. It’s a part of me that I’ve learned to navigate by avoiding these situations altogether, which my wallet appreciates.
Still, I don’t regret the experience. The evening was fun, the company was cherished, the atmosphere was beautiful, and the food was undeniably art. It’s just not my scene. But if I ever got an after-hours invite to sit on turned-over milk crates with the staff, eating whatever they threw together while sharing stories and laughs—I’d be all in. That’s my kind of dining experience.
