The Most Memorable Meals of 2015

City: Tokyo, Japan Address and phone: 1 Chome-22-7 Jinnan (+81 3-3463-3667) Website: ichiran.co.jp It was 3am in Tokyo, and I had just tried to take my fresh-off-the-plane-and-hungry friend to an izakaya that seemingly evaporated overnight. We wandered the neon-lit phantasmagoria that is Shibuya, deliriously tired and more-than-slightly confused. A plan emerged: We must find ramen, and we must do it immediately. Enter Ichiran, a 24-hour chain specializing in pork-rich tonkotsu ramen. I walked in and punched my order into an automated machine, then sat in my own partitioned booth, shrouded in privacy. I dutifully filled out a paper form indicating how firm I’d like my noodles, how heavy I’d like my broth, and how many inches of scallion I’d like using as topping. I sat back and waited, unsure of what came next, until a pair of anonymous hands emerged from a small window in front of me, bearing a bowl of liquefied pork fat and noodles tailored to my exacting palate. The body that the hands belonged to disappeared before I could sputter out an arigato. The whole meal occurred without so much as a single visual or verbal interaction between another human and myself. I ate in silence, alone in my little ramen cage. It was a little lonely, a little weird. It was also the perfect antidote to the insane throbbing city outside, with its labyrinthine alleyways and cigarette-smoke haze and incomprehensible traffic patterns that threaten to blow your sensory inputs to smithereens. And though Ichiran is not necessarily considered best in show by Tokyo ramen freaks, in those strange, blurry hours between midnight and dawn, it was the most perfect meal I ate all year.—Jamie Feldmar

City: Oakland, CA Address and phone: N/A Website: N/A A restaurant meal is only the end of the story, the right-hand limit on the time slider bar under a long, slow narrative of a chef’s experience and inspiration. In July, I got a frame-by-frame look at James Syhabout’s food mind at an afternoon barbecue the Oakland chef and his mom cooked for the Laotian refugee community that’s been partying here for decades. Besides his two–Michelin star Commis, Syhabout owns Hawker Fare, casual Issan Thai/Lao places in Oakland and San Francisco where the cooking is bright and slashing. Syhabout came to Oakland in the early ‘80s as a toddler with his mom and dad, refugees who settled on a block with other Laotians in a rough part of Uptown. Families have scattered, but they still get together for things like funerals and births, or when Syhabout’s mom, Da, visits from northeast Thailand, like she did last summer. Syhabout and Da cooked the most unforgettable food I ate in 2015, set out on patched-together fold-down tables in an Oakland backyard open to the street. Pale, sticky raw shrimp laab with charred bitter eggplants; nam khao (crispy rice salad) with shredded fermented pork sausage; grilled, uncured beef brisket with a charred tomato dipping sauce containing two types of bile, harvested from separate stomachs of a cow (one’s clean and bracing, the other’s rich and funky), from a guy you have to be hooked up with to score. A Lao band played, aunties and uncles danced. Women circulated with ice-cold bottles of Hennessy and a single glass, pausing to pour and hand you a shot; a guy in sunglasses at the end of the driveway waved a cigar-sized joint for anyone wanting to go get lit. It was Oakland. It was Laos. It was unforgettable.—John Birdsall

City: Charleston, South Carolina Address and phone: 464 N Nassau St Website: lewisbarbecue.com I had 6pm reservations at Husk, Charleston's most famous restaurant and one of America's most-regarded spots, too. So why was I standing in a snaking line in the Revelry Brewing Co. parking lot at 4pm, in 102-degree heat, waiting for some pop-up spot's BBQ? Because I'd been told John Lewis was the "next Aaron Franklin," in reference to the Texas 'cue maestro who had redefined the cuisine in America. (Lewis, it turns out, happens to be one of Franklin's proteges.) Despite several hours of waiting and the distinct possibility of ruining my "tough res" at a James Beard Award-winning chef's restaurant, Lewis's BBQ exceeded the hype. When I finally got to the front of that line, I was greeted by a friendly little twig of a man, bearded and with horned-rim glasses, humbly chopping his own smoked meat. My wife and I didn't want to eat too much, what with dinner in just a couple hours, so we went with "only" a half pound each of beef brisket and pulled pork, supplemented by two links of Lewis's famed "hot guts" sausage. By the time we were finished, we already regretted the missed opportunity to get several pounds more. Lewis' brisket is the best I've ever had, smoked in a pit of his own jury-rigging, with a bark as dark as jerky surrounding a fatty deckle so tender it has nearly become liquid beef. And no disrespect to the deservedly legendary Husk, but this was easily my #1 meal for the day.—Aaron Goldfarb

City: Williamsburg, NY Address: 310 Bedford Avenue (718-218-8809) Website: vanessas.com 2015 was a record-breaking year in NYC, but for reasons a newly arrived Californian couldn’t bear to hear: “Coldest winter in over 100 years”; “Siberian Express.” My first snowfall was to be one for the ages, quite literally. Meanwhile, back at home, the West Coast sun throbbed, reaching unprecedented highs. I had traded one extreme for the other. This shift slowly dawned on me over the next several months as I trekked in my ill-suited pea coat from my apartment to FWF headquarters in midtown, slogging through the slush, helplessly fending off the wind chill. The physical world tested my wits, but so did everything else during that period of my life: a furious work tempo I was unaccustomed to; exhaustion from weight loss and insomnia; and a deep sense of loneliness that FaceTime couldn’t cure. I crawled into bed each night feeling like a former shell of myself, washed up before I had even begun. Desperate to snap out of this spell, I knew I needed a routine, something consistent to offset my uneasiness. That’s how I came upon Vanessa’s, a franchise dumpling restaurant a few blocks away from my shoebox apartment. For $3.75, I could have my fill of eight boiled pork and chive dumplings. Rather, I could crush them, spike them with sambal, or drown them in tangy vinegar. It felt like I had cheated the system, deriving so much happiness—however brief it was—for so little, in a town full of rip-offs. It was my own little triumph at a time when victories were scarce. The only soul-soothing warmth I could rely on was not the central heat in my apartment, but rather the penicillin sloshing around in those dumplings. So I ordered them consecutively, for weeks at a time, savoring those 10 minutes it took for me to kill them off. That is, until I couldn’t stand the sight or smell of them. Nor could I initially wrap my mind around this prolonged dumpling spree. Maybe my palate had grown bored; but I'd like to think it was a sign that I had improved. I’ve since moved to a different neighborhood, but I’ve never had the temptation to go back to Vanessa’s. With perspective, I see their dumplings for what they are—serviceable, unremarkable. And while I may haved dined on lavish omakase meals and oyster flights in 2015, all that extravagance seems trivial compared to what I actually needed in that moment: nourishment. It was a love fulfilled, but one I’d prefer to leave in the past. To which, I humbly say, “Thank you.”—Justin Bolois

City: Hong Kong, China Address and phone: 160 Wellington St (+852 2544 4556) Website: linheung.com.hk When I was a kid, Vancouver's whispered derogatory nickname was Hongcouver, a reference to its massive Cantonese population. That's the food I grew up on: BBQ pork and gai lan during the week, dim sum every weekend with my dad. Over the years I learned to get there early with the old people to avoid the crowds, how to wash my chopsticks and cup in hot tea before using them, how to ask for my favorites in Cantonese, har gow and siu mai and char siu bao. It's where I learned the sport of cart-chasing, though even then the cart system was outdated, dying out as restaurants switched to more efficient menus. So when I went to Hong Kong this spring, there was no question: I needed dim sum, and I needed carts. In my research I read about Lin Heung, a nearly 100-year-old tea house described as “intimidating to foreigners” and “the Hunger Games of dim sum.” It was my Mecca. On our first morning in town we got to Lin Heung crazy early—jet lag for once with the assist—and found a room full of elderly people reading newspapers, families feeding kids their first dumplings, and carts swarmed with patrons too eager to wait for them to roll past their tables. It was the Olympics of cart-chasing, and I went for the gold, elbowing and waving with the crowd, straining to catch the Cantonese words I knew and pointing for whatever looked tasty. Nobody gave me the white-guy side eye, as they did so often in the next two weeks of our trip through Asia. I was at home. And the char siu bao were delicious.—Regan Hofmann

City: Santa Monica, CA Address and phone: 1119 Wilshire Blvd Website: rusticcanyonwinebar.com My dad and I needed to remember there was good in the world, and food did that for us. Last December, my dad Rick was only one month away from his death. He had prostate and bone cancer, and was on a cocktail of Fentayl and Percocet at the time, plus other fun drugs not prescribed by his oncologist. Sometimes the medicine made him nauseous, causing him to recoil if anything bigger than a prep bowl of food was placed before him. But tonight was different; tonight, for whatever reason, he was hungry. We decided to capitalize on his energy and appetite and treat ourselves to Rustic Canyon, which worried my mom. My dad had a landscape-design business in Los Angeles, and he was the sole breadwinner in the family. What would we do—emotionally and  financially—without him? No one knew at the time, and we’re all still figuring it out. All I knew is that my dad and I were the ultimate dining companions; we were both constantly searching for the platonic ideal of a dining experience—one complete with beautiful plating, attractive lighting, effortless timing, and meaningful conversation. You know that moment when you taste something and your senses sharpen and you’re catapulted into a state of bliss? There is no one I would rather share that feeling with than my father. We started with cocktails: something citrusy with vodka for Rick, and something darker for me. Then came the warm bread, lavender almonds, and olives marinated in fennel and orange. Dinner for Ricky and me was both a mediation and a marathon, a challenge to see how much enjoyment we could leach out of a single experience. And so we continued with a bowl of velvety sunchoke soup with Fuyu persimmon, then Monterey squid with aioli nero. But it was the salad my dad ordered—a towering stack of gem lettuce, covered in an herb-and-crème fraiche dressing and accented with grapes and green beans—that caused us to pause. Because of his profession, my father was in tune with nature; he knew the exact moment grapes were at their peak, or when a lettuce plant needed water. So this salad was more than a salad for Rick: It was a collection of living things tended to and prepared with the utmost care. After that last leaf was devoured, there was more laughter and joy and a veil of deep sadness that shrouds everything when someone is gone or about to be. For reasons that escape me now, we stopped at the grocery store on our way home from the restaurant. My dad’s medication had begun to wear off, so he was shivering and experiencing a physical pain that I could not fully comprehend. We were searching for something at that grocery store—maybe Haagen Dazs for dessert, or a bottle of Advil—when my dad approached a towering stack of Halo mandarins. I pulled out my iPhone and snapped a picture of him standing there, below the stupid mandarin mascot gazing up at its halo, with my white winter coat wrapped around his shoulders. That night was the last time I went to a restaurant with my father. A few weeks later, he was throwing up his food, and then he was incoherent, and then he was gone. It’s been almost one year since my dad passed, and if I could be granted one wish, it would be to sit down with Rick and share a meal. Since that's not a reality, I return to my memory of eating bread and olives with him at Rustic Canyon, or frying meatballs in a cabin in Lake Arrowhead, or the two of us eating Beluga caviar at a smoky underground Russian bar in New York City. What is my most memorable meal? Every single meal I shared with my father while he was alive.—Erin Mosbaugh

City: Nashville, TN Address and phone: 112 19th Ave S (615-678-4794) Website: hattieb.com *Note to the reader* Look: I ate at Noma this year, and there's nothing I could say here that could possibly do justice to the experience. The only comparison I have is seeing Einstein on the Beach at BAM two years ago—it definitively recallibrated the way I hear music and see performance. Such was the case with Noma, worth every insanely expensive penny, and probably then some. But everyone will tell you something like that about Noma—if they don't, they're lying, full of shit, or simply doing so for the sake of. Thus, I submit the following: I was with my girlfriend's family in Nashville for a wedding, and we stayed at an AirBnB in the Gulch. The afternoon of the wedding, while everyone was getting ready, I secretly called in an order to Hattie B's (known for their hot fried chicken), made my way over, picked it up, snuck back into the apartment, and shoved two bags in the fridge, nobody the wiser. Cut to 2am that night, we all stumble back in the apartment, and I rip that motherfucking bag out of the fridge like it's the key to El Dorado, or an emergency parachute. Trust me when I tell you: It was, helping us blissfully navigate that terrible space between wedding whiskey shitfaced-ness and the hard ground that was to be an early morning flight back to our respective cities the next day. And yes, I know—Hattie B's is no Prince's, considered the progenitor of cayenne-laced golden bird, but there's little discernment at 2am on a Sunday night when both places are closed. And quite frankly, that chicken was fantastic. It was the second time I ate it on that trip. The first was when I gorged myself on it, meeting my friend Matt's new baby for the first time, possibly scarring it for life with my totally unrestrained violent eating of hot chicken. Anyway, all of that's to say: The only thing as great as going to Noma is tearing into some Nashville hot chicken, face on fire, with friends and family, like your goddamn life depends on it. And maybe, when you look back on it, it did, or at least the life best lived, anyway.—Foster Kamer

City: Bow, WA Address and phone: 2182 Chuckanut Dr (360-766-6002) Website: taylorshellfishfarms.com

The experience that stands out this year didn't involve a restaurant, or even a chef. On our way up to the San Juan Island, my fiancé and I pulled off the scenic and excellently named Chuckanut Drive and wound our way down to what looked like an semi-abandoned fishing dock on the banks of the Samish Bay. After poking around a few outhouses, we found a rough-and-ready man to sell us what we were looking for: a metal bucket full of Shigoku and Kumamoto oysters, a paring knife, and a lemon. He walked us out to a picnic table at the water's edge and gave us a quick shucking tutorial, then disappeared back into the shop.

As amateur shuckers, we butchered a fair share of the bivalves, leaving shrapnel in the meat and spilling precious liquor onto the ground. But everything clicked in that moment: the fortress of pines rising off the shore like a Bob Ross painting; the physicality of poking and prying for our reward; and the crisp, briny sea air matching the bracing jolt of each slurp.

For me, it was a necessary reminder of what food really is: Not something that makes you wonder "how did chef do that?", but rather "how did people figure out how to open these fuckers up in the first place?"—Chris Schonberger

City: Montréal, Canada Address and phone: 361 Rue Saint Paul E (+1 514-544-0446) Website: crownsalts.com/lebremner 2015 was a rough one. I'll save you all of the gory details, but let's just say that I went through some shit. Outwardly, I think I did a decent job holding it all together. But in truth, I was a roiling mess, not really knowing what to do about anything—my career, a steady source of income, or the overwhelming desire to set things on fire… So when my good friend Scott Vivian (Beast Restaurant, Toronto) invited me to cross the border to cook a dinner with him and our other good friend, Ryan Lachaine of Houston, I leaped at the opportunity. I needed to distance myself from San Francisco, and Scott had an idea: When we were done with the formalities and responsibilities of cooking, we would board a train to Montreal. The trip was the usual whirlwind of heavy drinking, getting outrageously crushed with food by psycho Canadian chefs, while fending off some of the most glorious hangovers of my life. But Montreal felt different. Everyone was speaking French, and no one gave a fuck about us. We ate at Le Bremner our first night there, and everything about that place spoke to me. The tiny kitchen. The stickers covering the ventilation units. The mix of old and new—and then, of course, the food.  For fucks sake, the food! There was the best seafood tower I'd ever had in my life; a broccoli caesar salad (that I'm totally going to steal someday); lamb heart; a faux filet au poivre; a stack of the most perfect pancakes. And, you know, like, 14 shots of Jameson. Chef Danny made us feel like his closest brothers, all through the magic of good hospitality. It was a hell of a feeling to be in a foreign city, with two of my best friends, feeling like we were being welcomed into someone's home. There would be stunning meals in the days to come at Joe Beef, Park, and Au Pied De Cochon, but the way that Bremner not only inspired me, but restored my soul, has stuck out as my most memorable meal of 2015.—Richie Nakano

City: Lausanne, Switzerland Address and phone: Rue du Grand-Chêne 7 Website: lausanne-palace.com Laussanne Palace & Spa opened in 1915. A full century later, the stately hotel overlooking Lake Geneva retains an inimitable opulence. Its "casual" restaurant, Brasserie du Grand Chêne, is dressed in leather and brass. The staff has attended to Italian beauty Monica Bellucci and members of the Rolling Stones. In March, it fed my friend, tattooist Maxime Buchi, and I. We'd spent the day with the Leu Family in nearby Sainte-Croix, interviewing the legendary tattooing clan for our forthcoming book on influential tattoo studios. The exchange amounted to eight hours of unlocking trade secrets and learning about the potential of technical virtuosity from a true master, Filip Leu. Tattooing since age 12, Filip has watched tattooing rise in artistic ambition and change through mechanical (i.e. tool) advances. Still, he remains rooted in tradition and firmly understands the power of simple, calculated gesture. On return to Lausanne, we ate Meunière perch fillets—locally caught, beautifully sautéed in butter and capers—with crisp, shoestring potatoes. The dish, elegant but uncomplicated, complemented the day's experience and reminded me that perfection in any discipline—art, cooking, etc.—doesn’t require theatrics.—Nick Schonberger

City: Mexico City, Mexico Address and phone: Francisco Petrarca 254 (55 55453507) Website: pujol.com.mx I only had a day and a half in Mexico City with my girlfriend to research tacos for a new Mexican restaurant I planned to open in Brooklyn, El Atoradero. Apart from our taco extravaganza, we knew without hesitation that we had to go to Pujol, Enrique Olvera's refined homage to Mexican cuisine. It’s the rare meal that surpasses already sky-high expectations, but maybe we were just lucky (or that we had no context for what it means to be the "16th best restaurant in the world" according to the wholly arbitrary San Pellegrino list). The perception of Mexican cuisine is one of humble ingredients served simply, yet this is clearly overly reductive, and these expectations are slowly being overturned by chefs such as Olvera who have successfully shown how easily Mexican ingredients can mesh with haute cuisine. The menu is tasting only, but within that structure your options are plentiful. My lechon taco was perfectly balanced, with a pickled red onion bite that counteracted the fatty pork and lurking chile heat atop a freshly made blue corn tortilla. Better yet, the quality of ingredients was unassailable: the single best piece of chicken liver of my life tasted nearly indistinguishable from foie gras; the shrimp in our tostada was perfect raw; and the slight gaminess of a rabbit enveloped in pipian rojo shone through the sauce. Our savory courses concluded with a plate of two moles: one new and one aged, served unadorned alongside fresh blue corn tortillas. "Mole Madre" was aged 822 days, with the previous days' moles accumulating over time to form a Frankenstein's Monster of a mole imbued with deep tobacco flavors, tannins, and an intense hit of ripe fruits. It was spectacular, especially when contrasted against the vibrancy of the new mole. Nothing else was necessary. Only a few weeks later, every bite is as vivid as that evening.—Noah Arenstein