My life has been a series of adventures, moves, and discoveries, and through it all, food has been a constant companion, teacher, and source of joy.
From the nostalgic tastes of my hometown to the intricate culinary traditions of Asia, I’ve found that what we eat, how it’s made, and the passion behind it can offer profound lessons, not just for the palate but for how we approach our work and life.
Table of Contents
From LA to Tokyo: My Global Food Journey
I never planned for food to become the running thread through my life, but every move I’ve made—from Los Angeles traffic jams to Shanghai skyscrapers, Bangkok night markets, and finally the back alleys of Tokyo—has been bookmarked by whatever was on my plate (or sizzling on my stove).
As I’ve moved from Los Angeles to Shanghai, spent time in Southeast Asia, and finally settled in Japan, I’ve collected culinary experiences that have shaped not just my palate but my philosophy on business and life.
In-N-Out Nostalgia: The Taste of Home
I grew up in Los Angeles, where a Double-Double and animal-style fries are practically a rite of passage. Even after living in Japan for over five years now, I still miss In-N-Out Burger.
It’s been about six years since my last visit home, and that distinctive California flavor remains something I crave.
It’s food that’s unapologetically simple, consistent, and proud of its lane—qualities I try to bring into every brand I build.
Shanghai and the Art of Slow Perfection
My journey into Asia began in 2008 when I moved to Shanghai. The city was electric, the New York City of Asia, buzzing with entrepreneurial energy.
I ended up living there for about 11 years, during which I met my wife, and my son was born.
During my time in Shanghai, I fell in love with classic Shanghainese dishes, particularly hong shao rou – a braised pork belly that’s rich and unctuous with soy sauce and sugar.
It’s a classic dish, slow-cooked to perfection and divine over rice.
My in-laws taught me to braise pork belly the proper way—low heat, rock sugar, dark soy, and time. The glossy cubes took hours, but the payoff was melt-in-your-mouth perfection.
I also deeply miss the vibrant and fiery Sichuan spicy food. That’s one flavor profile that’s hard to replicate authentically elsewhere, especially in Japan, where the local palate leans away from intense spice.
Bangkok Street Food: Flavor Over Fancy Gear
Our path to Japan had an unexpected, albeit memorable, detour through Southeast Asia.
During our time in Thailand, which extended to about three to six months, I fell in love with Bangkok street food.
The pad kra pao, the grilled chicken leg you could just grab from a street stall – it was incredible. You’d see office workers flocking to these stalls for lunch.
Vendors armed with nothing more than a wok, a blowtorch flame, and decades of muscle memory.
It’s a testament to the idea that you don’t need fancy gear or a high-end establishment to create amazing flavor.
It’s about the skill, the fresh ingredients, and the direct connection with what people want to eat.
Vietnam by the Lake
Even in Vietnam, the culinary ingenuity was astounding.
I remember a little restaurant by a lake that served the best prawn and shrimp soup I’ve ever had – so fresh, a flavor I haven’t been able to find even in Japan.
The Vietnamese cooks achieve this with pure skill, often without the fanciest equipment.
It’s a powerful reminder that dedication to flavor and core quality can triumph over superficial trappings.
The $7 Michelin Lunches of Tokyo and the Shokunin Spirit
Our “waiting out COVID-19” plan eventually led us to divert to Japan in January 2020, starting in Okinawa and eventually settling in Tokyo. And here, the food scene is just on another level.
One of the top things I love about living in Japan is the food. Here in Tokyo, you can get a Michelin Bib Gourmand lunch for around $7, which would easily cost $30 in Los Angeles.
The competition for quality is fierce—any restaurant serving subpar food quickly goes out of business.
Tokyo’s restaurant scene is crazy. The Japanese are extremely harsh food critics. On Tabelog (Japan’s version of Yelp), a 3.9 out of 5 is considered an excellent rating. The standards are incredibly high.
That relentless competition keeps standards sky-high and prices honest—a daily reminder that marketplaces, whether culinary or digital, reward obsession with quality and ruthless self-editing.
One of my absolute favorite spots in Tokyo is a place that serves Tonkatsu – a fried cutlet. It’s a small, family-run joint, with just a counter around the kitchen.
The cook, an older gentleman probably in his 70s, just makes these perfect breaded chicken cutlets, crab croquettes, or fried fish cutlets.
It sounds simple, but it’s served with rice, miso soup, a little salad, mustard, and tonkatsu sauce, and it’s just exquisite. It costs around $8 or $9 for lunch.
This, for me, embodies the Japanese concept of shokunin – a craftsman who dedicates their entire life to perfecting one thing.
Cooking Wagyu at Home: What a Perfect Steak Taught Me About Focus
Being in Japan also means access to incredible ingredients. I’m really into cooking in my spare time, and you can get world-famous A5 Wagyu for surprisingly cheap here.
When my wife wants steak, I can prepare it at home, getting that perfect sear, and serve it over rice. It’s a simple pleasure but immensely satisfying.
Sometimes the supermarket will have a sale, and I can pick up an A3 Wagyu ribeye steak with amazing marbling for around $10 for a 300-gram piece.
In the U.S., that would be about $100, or $700 in a restaurant.
The Journey Continues: Brazil and Beyond
While working in Shanghai, my boss was Brazilian Chinese, and many of our business partners were Brazilian. I learned Portuguese and traveled to Brazil at least once a year for business.
I became passionate about Brazilian cuisine as well—to the point where my Portuguese is actually better than my Japanese.
Here in Tokyo, if I bump into a Brazilian person or visit a churrascaria, I can still converse fluently.
Conclusion
From LA to Shanghai, Bangkok to Tokyo, every meal, every cooking lesson, and every market visit has added a layer to my understanding of not just food, but of dedication, innovation, and the universal language of quality and care.
It’s a journey that continues to feed my wanderlust and my entrepreneurial spirit.
What I’ve learned from my global food journey applies directly to business and life: focus on mastering your craft, like the 70-year-old tonkatsu chef who dedicates himself to perfection.
Whether I’m experimenting with miso-glazed vegetables for Thursday date lunch with my wife (which I block out in my calendar as unmovable) or teaching my son to code a dinosaur-themed video game (with a little AI assist), the lesson is identical: pick something worth doing and sharpen your edge daily.
Shokunin isn’t about fame; it’s about the quiet satisfaction of knowing you served the best burger, braise, or business summit you could possibly deliver.