Tastes Like Home – The Quiet Comfort of Familiar Dishes in Unfamiliar Places

June 2025

I grew up in Dhaka, Bangladesh and spent a few years in Sydney, Australia - two homes that couldn’t be more different: one loud, sticky, and full of extended family, the other breezy, structured, and sunlit in a softer way. Moving between them felt normal, until it didn’t. Until the places started to blur and the only constant was the way food tasted in each.

Ironically, I wasn’t always drawn to traditional Bengali food. I preferred the simpler things, cheesy pasta, sandwiches, cereal out of the box. I’d wrinkle my nose at mustard oil and avoid anything that looked too green or too saucy. But even in resistance, those foods made their way into my memory: the hiss of oil, the grinding of spices, the steamy swirl of rice being scooped onto a plate.

When I moved to the United States for college, food took on a new role. It became not just something to eat, but something to feel. In those first few months, everything was new, people, routines, even the way the light fell in the afternoons. I was busy and excited, moving through orientation games and midnight snack runs, comparing dining hall options and learning the difference between a Target and a Walmart.

But the novelty began to fade as winter crept in. Thanksgiving passed. Then Christmas loomed, and campus emptied. Friends packed up and flew home. I didn’t. Flights back to Bangladesh were too expensive, and Sydney felt even further away. For the first time, I was completely alone.

Homesickness came in slowly, not in dramatic breakdowns, but in tiny, accumulating aches. The silence of an empty dorm. The feeling of being an observer rather than a participant in other people’s traditions. I missed my family, yes, but I also missed the background noise of home: pressure cookers whistling, my dad grumbling about too much salt, the comfort of knowing what a meal would smell like before walking into the kitchen.

One day, mostly out of boredom, I picked up red lentils from a tiny international market. Then cumin. Then turmeric. That night, I cooked daal and rice in the dorm kitchen. It wasn’t good, too thick, too bland, the rice clumped at the bottom. But it smelled right. And that was enough. As the scent filled the hallway, something softened. I wasn’t in my family’s kitchen, but I wasn’t completely lost either. A dish I had once ignored became my anchor.

From then on, food became my way of navigating unfamiliar places. I began to look for familiar tastes wherever I went. In Budapest, I stumbled across a small storefront called “Dhaka Kebab.” The sign was peeling and the lighting inside was harsh, but I walked in. The kebab came wrapped in greasy paper, the beef charred and spicy, the naan chewy and warm. I took one bite and was back in Dhaka, high school afternoons, noisy traffic, kebabs eaten on the sidewalk with fingers stained red from chutney.

Life-changing duck dish in Budapest, Hungary!

In Lisbon, I wandered into a family-run corner restaurant on a drizzly evening and ordered lentil soup. It was mild, made with olive oil and garlic, nothing like my grandmother’s spiced version, but something about the texture, the slowness of it, made me feel safe. In Paris, it was the scent of cumin drifting from a Moroccan café that stopped me in my tracks. The couscous was fragrant, the broth rich with vegetables, and the server reminded me of an uncle I couldn’t quite place. I ate slowly, savoring the feeling of being known, even if only through flavor.

My semester abroad in Milan deepened this relationship with food and place. Milan was elegant, meticulous, and slower than I was used to. At first, I missed the chaos of my own food, its boldness, its unapologetic spice. Italian food was beautiful but restrained. But over time, I came to love its simplicity: sage butter over fresh pasta, bitter greens with lemon, soft cheese melting into bread. I began to appreciate that care wasn’t always loud. Some flavors didn’t shout, they lingered.

Italy didn’t feel like home immediately, but it quietly became one. I’d wake up and walk to the café downstairs, order a macchiato and stand at the counter like a local. I’d browse the street markets for zucchini flowers and fresh tomatoes, even if I didn’t really know what to do with them. Food wasn’t just nourishment, it was how people expressed joy, built community, and marked time.

And then, just when I’d settled in, I had to leave. I didn’t expect to feel homesick for Italy, but I did. Back in the U.S., I found myself craving parmesan that didn’t come from a green can, lingering over lunch in a way that felt distinctly un-American. I missed the espresso rituals, the slowness of meals, even the quiet pride Italians took in their olive oil. Homesickness had become layered. I wasn’t just missing home, I was missing all the places I had learned to call home.

To carry so many homes is both a gift and a quiet grief. At any given moment, I’m missing someone, somewhere. But food helps. A lot. Cooking lets me visit places I can’t always return to. Eating lets me feel connected to people I love, even when they’re continents away.

My grandmother used to say that food tastes different depending on who cooks it, not just because of skill, but because “their hands carry their life.” And she was right. I can follow her recipe exactly, but it never tastes quite the same. Still, I keep trying. Because in that effort, I feel close to her, to Dhaka, to every kitchen I’ve known.

My favorite food in the whole world: Fuchka, a Bangladeshi street food

Now, whenever I move somewhere new, I unpack two things first: my clothes, and my spices. I’ve learned which ones travel well, which ones leak, and which ones customs agents tend to question. I’ve learned to improvise, to turn American supermarket greens into shaak, to make makeshift parathas with tortillas when necessary. It’s never perfect, but it’s always enough.

I still crave different things depending on the day: my mother’s mashed eggplant, a simple caprese sandwich from Milan, kebabs eaten standing up on a side street in Budapest. I miss all of them, often all at once. And I’ve made peace with that.

When I can’t go home, I cook. And somehow, with each bite, I find my way back.