You know that moment. You are halfway through a spoonful and you time-travel. Not in a sci-fi way. In a very human way. You see the kitchen tiles you grew up with. You hear a laugh you have not heard in years. You are sitting at a cheap table that somehow felt like a throne because the right person was across from you. A tomato can do this. A bowl of soup can do this. Even a drink that used to be a holiday-only treat can do this. It is annoying, a little bit, because you were just trying to eat. It is also a relief, because for once your body and your brain agree about what matters. Scientists have a tidy phrase for it. Food-evoked nostalgia. The idea is simple. Taste is not just taste. It is smell, texture, heat, the soft scrape of a spoon, the way steam fogs your glasses. There is a popular estimate that much of what we call taste is actually smell. The nose connects to the limbic system, which is where the brain keeps feelings and memories on quick dial. You eat, you smell, the brain lights up two places at once. Emotion and regulation. Suddenly you are not only tasting. You are remembering how you felt the first time you loved this thing. Grandma’s chicken soup is the obvious example because it is perfect. Distinctive recipe. Distinctive house. Distinctive hug at the door. If you encounter anything close to that soup, your brain does a neat trick. It matches the pattern. It fills in the missing furniture, the wallpaper, the holiday music that everyone pretended not to like. You feel love and comfort. Maybe you also feel the ache that follows love around like a shadow. Both can be true in the same spoonful. This is not just about grief. It is also about small vacations. If you first tried coconut water on a beach, your brain stamped that with sun and idleness and salt dried on skin. You might reach for a carton on a bad Tuesday and feel your shoulders drop two centimeters. No plane ticket. No influencer itinerary. Just a cold sip and five minutes of peace. Internet life has its own version. A recipe clips into your feed. A stew that looks like your aunt’s. A pastry that lives at the corner bakery of your childhood. The comments say made this for my boyfriend. The quiet subtext says made this to feel like a person again. You do the thing modern people do. You screenshot the ingredients. You text the family chat. You ask for measurements your relatives never wrote down. A handful. A pinch. Enough until it looks right. The response in the group chat is its own nostalgia loop. An uncle remembers a different brand of spice. A cousin insists on another cut of meat. Someone posts a blurry photo of a birthday spread that looks like every birthday spread your family ever had. The recipe becomes more than food. It becomes a story you all keep editing because it keeps all of you alive in the same place for a few minutes. Not every memory is tender. Some are complicated. If junk food arrived as a reward for being good or quiet or brave at the dentist, grown-up you may reach for the same brand during adult storms. The point is not moral judgment. The point is how quickly a flavor can unlock a room you have not visited in years. Sometimes you open the door. Sometimes you walk past and pretend you did not see it. Both are valid strategies. There is another twist. Memory is not a museum. It is a remix. Each time you recall something, you also rewrite it a little. You do not keep the original file sealed in glass. You save over it. That might be why Grandma’s soup gets more golden in your mind. Why the tomatoes get sweeter. Why the kitchen gets brighter. The brain is generous. It adjusts the lighting to flatter the story. Food nostalgia and memory work together like that. A duet. A soft filter. A kindness you pay yourself. People also use food as a ritual for love that cannot be said out loud. You may make a dish a person loved, not because you now love it, but because eating it feels like sending a postcard to them across time. You do it on birthdays you do not celebrate anymore. You do it on quiet afternoons when you want a visit that no one else needs to see. It is not performative grief. It is a small ceremony for one. There is a wellness angle, but not the kind that asks you to buy a new pantry. The ritual itself can calm you. Smell the broth. Listen to the simmer. Chop at a pace that lets your heart slow down. When life is frantic, repetition is the closest thing we have to safety. You can build gentler memories on purpose. Not by forcing joy. By noticing what a meal does to your mood and choosing meals that tilt you toward better days. People do this in tiny, almost invisible ways. A bowl you only use for noodles because it feels like Sunday. A glass that makes every drink taste like summer. A habit of eating fruit on the porch where the light is kinder. None of that requires a trend or a hashtag. It is design for a feeling. It is choosing the objects that keep you tethered to yourself. Nostalgia is not only backward. It can be future tense. Today’s firsts are tomorrow’s anchors. A friend cooks soup for you after a hard week. You do not know it yet, but that flavor will become a shorthand for safety. You will chase it in two years when another hard week arrives. You will text them for the recipe. They will send a photo of crumpled notes with sauce splashes like punctuation. You will keep the stain. You will call it part of the instructions. There is also the social part that lives outside family trees. Neighborhood food is culture in motion. A stall that sells four things, all perfect. A cafe that seasons everything with the memory of a city you never lived in but feel attached to anyway. You eat there enough times and suddenly you belong to a place. Not by birth. By taste. The line at lunchtime is a chorus. Everyone is humming the same song. If this reads like romance, that is fine. Food is one of the only reliable ways strangers agree to be kind to each other. A barista remembers your order and your name. A hawker adds extra pickles because you always ask. A baker puts aside the last roll because the regulars come at nine. This is not algorithmic. This is human. Even if you found the place on your phone. So yes, eat the dish that makes you feel five again. Or skip it if today needs sturdier ground. Curate your rituals with the same care you curate your tabs. Let a smell carry you if that is what you need. Let a taste build you a bridge. Memory will do the rest. It will file the experience under a label that only you can read. In the end, food nostalgia and memory are less about the recipe and more about the reunion. You are meeting an earlier version of yourself at a table that keeps changing and somehow stays the same. You lift the spoon. You take a breath. You arrive.

Why memories have such a strong pull on our food choices

Although it might seem like a modern invention, MSG’s history goes back more than a century. In 1908, Japanese chemist Kikunae Ikeda set out to identify the source of the deep savory flavor in a traditional seaweed broth. He extracted glutamate from kelp, combined it with sodium to stabilize it, and patented the process. By 1909, Ajinomoto Co., Inc. began commercial production, and MSG quickly became a fixture in Asian cooking and later in processed foods worldwide. It was efficient, consistent, and amplified flavor without needing to add more fat, sugar, or salt. The turn against MSG in the West began in 1969 after a letter to the editor appeared in the New England Journal of Medicine describing what the writer called “Chinese Restaurant Syndrome.” The letter claimed symptoms like numbness, weakness, and palpitations after eating Chinese food, implying MSG as the culprit. Though anecdotal and unsupported by controlled data, the letter ignited a cascade of studies, many poorly designed, that seemed to suggest a link between MSG and a range of symptoms. Headlines spread faster than facts, and public opinion hardened into fear. Chinese restaurants became a common focus of suspicion, reinforcing cultural stereotypes alongside food myths. Over time, more rigorous research debunked the blanket claims. Double-blind, placebo-controlled trials—the gold standard in clinical research—showed that most people do not experience adverse reactions to MSG at normal dietary levels. In cases where high doses were administered in isolation, some participants reported mild, short-term symptoms like headaches or flushing, but these effects were inconsistent and often not reproducible. The U.S. Food and Drug Administration classifies MSG as “generally recognized as safe” when used in typical amounts. Similar evaluations by the European Food Safety Authority and the Joint FAO/WHO Expert Committee on Food Additives reached the same conclusion. Despite this scientific consensus, MSG’s reputation lags behind the data. One reason is its link to processed food. In the 1970s and 1980s, MSG became a common addition to packaged snacks, instant noodles, frozen dinners, and canned soups. As public awareness grew about the drawbacks of heavily processed diets, MSG was lumped into the same “avoid” category, not because of its inherent properties, but because of the kinds of products it was associated with. The ingredient was easy to demonize, and “No MSG” became a marketing shorthand for “healthy” even when the rest of the product wasn’t particularly nutritious. Understanding MSG’s role in food means looking at both its chemistry and its context. Glutamate, whether from MSG or from natural sources like aged cheese or soy sauce, binds to specific taste receptors on your tongue that trigger the umami sensation. This flavor depth can make savory dishes more satisfying, sometimes allowing for a reduction in added salt without compromising taste. Studies have shown that incorporating small amounts of MSG into recipes can enhance palatability, particularly in reduced-sodium meals, which could be a valuable tool for populations at risk of high blood pressure. The sodium content of MSG is also lower than table salt by weight—about one-third as much—which can help when replacing part of the salt in cooking. The question of safety shifts when you talk about quantity. Like almost anything in the diet, too much can be a problem. High doses of MSG in a single sitting—especially without other food to slow absorption—may trigger mild reactions in sensitive individuals. These reactions are rare, temporary, and typically resolve without treatment. They are not allergic responses, and the mechanism behind them isn’t fully understood. Importantly, the amounts used in normal cooking are far below the levels that have caused symptoms in experimental settings. For people with specific medical conditions, moderation makes sense. Those who need to limit sodium intake for cardiovascular or kidney health should account for MSG as part of their total sodium budget. Individuals who believe they are sensitive to MSG may choose to avoid it, though it can be difficult to isolate MSG as the cause of symptoms when dining out, since restaurant dishes often contain multiple potential triggers. In either case, the focus should be on the overall diet pattern rather than singling out one additive as the root cause of health concerns. Beyond health, there’s a cultural dimension worth considering. The backlash against MSG in the West has long been criticized for its racial undertones, with Chinese and other Asian cuisines disproportionately targeted while Western foods containing MSG—like chips, soups, and fast-food burgers—escaped equivalent scrutiny. In recent years, chefs and food writers have pushed back against the stigma, reclaiming MSG as a legitimate, even celebrated, ingredient. High-profile restaurants have begun using it openly again, and grocery shelves now carry branded jars alongside sea salt and spice blends. This shift reflects a broader trend toward re-evaluating “processed” as a blanket negative, recognizing that processing exists on a spectrum. In home cooking, MSG can be used sparingly to enhance flavor in soups, stir-fries, roasted vegetables, and even scrambled eggs. A pinch is usually enough to make flavors pop without overpowering the dish. Because it dissolves quickly, it’s easy to integrate into marinades, sauces, and stocks. The key is to think of MSG as a seasoning, not a substitute for real cooking. It can’t mask stale ingredients or poor technique, but it can elevate well-balanced recipes. Using it thoughtfully also means being aware of the other sources of glutamate already present in your meal—soy sauce, fish sauce, cured meats, and aged cheeses all contribute to umami in different ways. From a performance and nutrition perspective, MSG’s biggest asset may be in supporting appetite satisfaction. When food tastes good, you’re more likely to eat enough to meet your energy needs, which matters in contexts from athletic recovery to maintaining muscle mass in older adults. For people with reduced taste sensitivity, such as those undergoing certain medical treatments, umami-rich foods can help maintain calorie and protein intake. In these cases, MSG isn’t a shortcut—it’s a tool for ensuring nutritional adequacy when appetite is a challenge. The persistence of MSG’s bad reputation says as much about how we process food information as it does about the ingredient itself. Early anecdotes can stick in public consciousness for decades, especially when they align with broader fears about artificial additives or processed food. Once a narrative becomes embedded, it takes sustained, credible communication to shift perceptions. For MSG, that shift has been slow, but it’s happening, driven by both science and a new generation of food voices unwilling to let culinary myths go unchallenged. If you strip away the headlines, the science points to a simple conclusion: MSG, in normal amounts, is safe for the vast majority of people. It is a flavor enhancer, not a nutritional villain. Like salt, sugar, and fat, it should be used in moderation—not because it’s toxic, but because the overall quality of a diet depends on balance. The decision to use it comes down to personal taste, dietary goals, and cultural comfort. A kitchen without MSG can still produce incredible food. A kitchen with MSG isn’t automatically unhealthy. The ingredient itself is neutral; the context you put it in determines its impact. The more important question might be whether your cooking encourages a variety of whole foods, diverse flavors, and nutrient-dense meals. MSG can play a small role in that, or none at all, without changing the fundamentals. Ultimately, the conversation about MSG mirrors broader food debates: how we define “natural,” how we weigh tradition against innovation, and how we reconcile cultural narratives with scientific evidence. It’s worth remembering that the goal of cooking and eating is not to follow a rigid set of rules, but to build a way of eating that supports both health and enjoyment. In that framework, MSG is just one seasoning among many—neither miracle nor menace, but a simple tool that, used well, can make food taste just a little more like itself.

What precisely is MSG, and is it really that harmful for you?

The first sip is a small ceremony. Steam curls upward from the mug, carrying with it the deep scent of roasted cacao mingled with the softness of warm milk. The heat radiates into your palms, grounding you in the present moment. A gentle tilt and the liquid meets your lips — rich, smooth, and layered, with just enough bitterness to remind you that this comfort began as something far more intense. In that instant, you are not just drinking. You are participating in a tradition that has travelled thousands of years, across continents and empires, evolving yet somehow staying the same. Long before it was a sweet drink served in ceramic mugs, hot chocolate began as a sacred preparation among the ancient peoples of Mesoamerica. The Olmecs, and later the Maya and Aztecs, revered the cacao tree for its beans, which they called cacahuatl or xocolatl, meaning “bitter water” in Nahuatl. The name fit the drink they made from it — a dark, unsweetened, frothy mixture of ground cacao, water, and often maize, spiced with chili or perfumed with vanilla. This was not a dessert; it was a potent elixir tied to ceremony, diplomacy, and social hierarchy. To drink cacao was to align oneself with both earthly power and divine favor. In the hot and humid regions where Theobroma cacao thrived, cacao beans were treated as treasure. They were traded, counted, and even used as currency. Warriors consumed the drink before battle, nobles during feasts, priests during rituals. Preparation itself was a slow ritual: beans fermented in the tropical sun, dried, roasted, and crushed by hand on a stone metate, the rhythmic scraping a sound as familiar to households then as the hum of a kettle is today. The paste was mixed with water and poured from one vessel to another until a generous froth formed — a sign of quality and care. When Spanish forces arrived in the early 16th century, they encountered this powerful drink in the heart of the Aztec Empire. The conquistadors found its bitterness and heat challenging at first, but the intrigue was enough to carry it back to Europe. There, in the courts and monasteries of Spain, cacao began its transformation. Sugar was added to soften the bitterness, cinnamon and nutmeg for warmth, and eventually milk to create a creamier texture. In this form, chocolate spread quickly through the aristocracy of Europe, becoming a fashionable luxury by the 17th century. In Spain, it was enjoyed thick and dense, a richness that could coat the back of a spoon. In France, it became a morning indulgence served in delicate porcelain cups, often accompanied by intricate breakfast rituals. In Italy, cioccolata calda emerged — an almost pudding-like drink, velvety and decadent. Across the continent, hot chocolate became a symbol of refinement, its ingredients flowing through the arteries of global trade. But its rise was tied to a darker reality: cacao plantations, sugar mills, and spice routes were fueled by colonial expansion and the labor of enslaved peoples. Every sip in a gilded salon carried with it an unspoken history of exploitation. By the 18th and 19th centuries, technological advances brought hot chocolate to a wider audience. In 1828, Dutch chemist Coenraad van Houten developed a method to press cacao butter from roasted beans, creating a fine cocoa powder that mixed more easily with liquids. This “Dutching” process also reduced acidity and bitterness, making it more palatable to a broader public. Chocolate houses appeared in European cities, and hot cocoa began appearing in middle-class homes. The drink shifted from a marker of privilege to a shared comfort, especially in colder months. In family kitchens, the making of hot chocolate became a ritual of care. A saucepan on the stove, milk gently heating, cocoa whisked in with sugar until it bloomed into deep brown. The wooden spoon circling, the scent filling the air. Cups warming between hands after coming in from the cold. The drink that had once been a marker of wealth and status was now woven into the everyday — part of the rhythm of winter afternoons, bedtime treats, and holiday gatherings. Yet even as it became more commonplace, hot chocolate retained its ability to adapt to its surroundings. In Mexico, champurrado — a thicker, masa-based version — continued to be a breakfast favorite, often served with tamales or sweet bread. In Spain, the pairing of churros with thick chocolate caliente remained an enduring tradition. In the United States, instant cocoa packets entered cupboards in the mid-20th century, offering a quick fix that still managed to evoke comfort on snowy days. The drink proved remarkably versatile, absorbing local flavors and customs without losing its core identity. Today, the story of hot chocolate continues in kitchens, cafés, and markets around the world. Artisanal chocolatiers source single-origin cacao from small farms, highlighting flavor notes like wine labels — floral, nutty, smoky. Plant-based milks offer new textures, from the lightness of oat to the creaminess of coconut. Spices once reserved for luxury now mingle freely with cacao in home recipes, from cardamom to ginger to chili. At the same time, the global chocolate industry faces questions about sustainability, ethics, and environmental impact. Modern cacao farming often takes place in regions vulnerable to deforestation, soil depletion, and labor exploitation. As awareness grows, consumers and producers are rethinking their choices. Fair trade certifications, transparent supply chains, and direct-trade relationships with farmers are becoming more common. Supporting these practices isn’t about turning a cup of hot chocolate into a political statement — it’s about aligning the simple pleasure of the drink with a respect for the people and ecosystems that make it possible. For those who approach hot chocolate as part of a sustainable living philosophy, the choices extend beyond sourcing. Using reusable mugs instead of disposable cups, sweetening with local honey or unrefined sugar, and opting for dairy from small farms or plant-based alternatives can all be part of a gentler environmental footprint. Even in small ways, the ritual of making hot chocolate can be an act of intentional living — a moment where taste, history, and responsibility meet. There is also something to be said for the design of the ritual itself. In a home, hot chocolate works best when it has a place in the flow of daily life. Keeping cacao powder in a glass jar on the counter instead of a forgotten box in the pantry makes the act of making it more likely. Choosing a pot that heats evenly and a whisk that feels good in your hand encourages you to slow down. Some households even have a “hot chocolate shelf,” where mugs, cocoa, and toppings live together — an unspoken invitation to pause and prepare. These domestic choices are quiet but powerful. They shape how often we allow ourselves the luxury of a warm drink, how easily we can share it with guests, how much we associate it with care and connection rather than just consumption. In this way, hot chocolate is not just a recipe — it is a piece of home architecture, a system that encourages pause and warmth. Looking back across its history, hot chocolate has worn many guises. It began as a sacred beverage tied to gods and rulers. It became a colonial commodity, a symbol of power and trade. It shifted into an aristocratic indulgence, then a democratic comfort. Through each transformation, it has held onto a certain essence: the act of preparing something warm and complex to share, to savor, to mark a moment in time. This continuity matters. When you stir cacao into milk on a rainy afternoon, you are part of a chain that stretches back to the ancient temples of Mesoamerica, through the bustling kitchens of Europe’s chocolate houses, into the living rooms of families who found warmth in its aroma. Every cup carries traces of those moments — the froth poured from clay vessel to clay vessel, the silver pot over a Parisian flame, the enamel saucepan on a farmhouse stove. What makes hot chocolate special is not just its taste but the way it demands presence. Unlike coffee or tea, which often accompany multitasking, hot chocolate tends to be savored in pauses. It is a drink for lingering, for settling into a chair with a blanket, for watching rain on the window or snow drifting down. It asks you to slow down enough to feel the heat in your hands and the texture on your tongue. That slowness is a rare gift in a world that pushes for speed. The delicious history of hot chocolate is, in the end, a story about connection — between people, between past and present, between the earth that grows the cacao and the hands that turn it into something shareable. It is proof that some pleasures, once discovered, never truly disappear. They adapt, they change shape, but they remain because they speak to something fundamental in us: the desire to be warmed, to be nourished, to be part of a tradition that is both personal and collective. What we repeat becomes how we live. And when the thing we repeat is a cup of hot chocolate made with care, shared with intention, and rooted in a history worth remembering, we are not just enjoying a drink. We are carrying forward a legacy, one sip at a time.

The delicious history of hot chocolate

It’s late. The lights are low. The bar hums with weekend chatter. You glance at the drink menu, already knowing what you’ll order. It’s not just a cocktail. It’s the cocktail of the moment—the espresso martini. And when it arrives, frothy and elegant in its V-shaped glass, you’ll likely notice something curious floating on top. Three small coffee beans. Neatly placed, always the same. Never one. Never five. Just three. To the uninitiated, this may seem like a stylistic flourish, a visual choice made by bartenders for the sake of Instagram or tradition. But the presence of those three beans is anything but random. The espresso martini is a drink with a backstory, and those beans are more than decoration. They’re a ritual. A superstition. A quiet nod to history, culture, and even a bit of magic. The story of the espresso martini begins not in Italy, as one might assume given its starring ingredient, but in London in the 1980s. At the Soho Brasserie, a young model reportedly walked up to the bar and made a very specific request. She wanted a drink that would “wake her up and f*** her up.” Behind the bar was Dick Bradsell, a bartender with a flair for invention and a brand-new espresso machine within arm’s reach. He grabbed the essentials: fresh espresso, vodka, and coffee liqueur. He shook them with ice, poured the drink into a rocks glass, and handed over the very first version of what he called the “Vodka Espresso.” The name would evolve. So would the glassware. As the 1990s ushered in the martini craze—an era of appletinis, lycheetinis, and chocolate martinis—Bradsell refined his concoction to fit the new style. Gone was the rocks glass. In came the sleek stemmed martini glass. The drink was reborn as the espresso martini, and it has remained a staple of cocktail culture ever since. But the garnish? That’s where things got symbolic. In Italy, there is a longstanding tradition tied to Sambuca, the strong, anise-flavored liqueur often served after meals. A glass of Sambuca, when served neat, is typically accompanied by three floating coffee beans. These beans are not edible embellishments; they are a wish. Each bean represents something—health, wealth, and happiness. Together, they signify a toast to good fortune. The tradition likely has roots in Catholic symbolism—the number three often linked to the Holy Trinity—but its cultural power has outlasted its theological origins. According to Bradsell’s daughter, Bea Bradsell, it was this very Italian custom that her father borrowed when deciding how to complete his now-iconic drink. The espresso martini, already indulgent and stylish, gained a final flourish that gave it not only visual appeal but symbolic weight. What had once been a practical solution to a customer’s caffeine-and-alcohol request became something more—a modern ritual rooted in centuries-old superstition. Today, the espresso martini has taken on a life of its own. It has seen resurgence after resurgence, proving immune to the typical life cycle of cocktail trends. While drinks like the Aperol spritz, negroni sbagliato, and dirty Shirley come and go, the espresso martini remains a mainstay. It’s both dessert and pick-me-up. A drinkable contradiction. And, importantly, a visual icon. What makes the espresso martini so enduring? Part of it is its flavor. The combination of bitter espresso and sweet liqueur strikes a balance that feels indulgent without being overpowering. The caffeine makes it a popular choice for late dinners or second rounds. And its presentation—frothy top, deep brown color, three perfectly placed beans—photographs beautifully. In an age where every cocktail is evaluated not only by taste but by how well it performs on social media, the espresso martini delivers on both fronts. But beyond aesthetics, the drink offers something else: a sense of ritual. Whether you're ordering one in a swanky hotel bar, a cozy speakeasy, or your local gastropub, you expect it to look a certain way. That familiarity is part of the appeal. It’s comforting to know that no matter where you are, your drink will arrive with the same three-bean garnish, a tiny toast to good fortune floating just beneath the foam. Bartenders, too, understand this ritual. Some insist that the three beans are non-negotiable. Others have fun with the tradition, riffing on the base ingredients or embellishing the garnish. There are espresso martinis with chocolate syrup drizzles, whipped cream crowns, or flavored vodkas that nod to everything from vanilla to pistachio. And yet, more often than not, those three coffee beans remain. What’s fascinating about the three-bean rule is how little most people know about it. Ask the average drinker why there are three beans on their espresso martini, and you’ll likely get a shrug. “That’s just how it’s served.” But dig deeper and you’ll find that even unspoken rituals hold meaning. They persist because they resonate—because they make the ordinary feel a little more sacred. In that way, the espresso martini isn’t just a cocktail. It’s a micro-ceremony. A moment of pause between the chaos of the night and the comfort of caffeine and alcohol colliding. The drink itself is layered with contradictions. It’s a stimulant and a depressant. A throwback and a trend. A bar staple and a showstopper. And floating above it all are those three little symbols, whispering promises of health, wealth, and happiness to anyone willing to believe—even for a moment. Of course, not everyone drinks their espresso martini with reverence. For many, it’s just a tasty drink that happens to look nice. But even then, the ritual holds. People may not know why they expect three beans, but they notice when they’re missing. That, in itself, is the power of tradition. It becomes muscle memory. Aesthetic becomes expectation. And expectation becomes cultural norm. Interestingly, this isn’t the only cocktail with a garnish that carries symbolic weight. The olive in a martini is famously customizable—some prefer one, others two, and some go for the drama of a skewer full. But ask around, and you’ll find that even martini drinkers have opinions about numbers. One is classic. Two is balanced. Three? Too much. With the espresso martini, however, three is not excess. It’s precision. There’s also something quietly beautiful about the garnish being coffee beans. Unlike citrus twists or maraschino cherries, the beans aren’t meant to be consumed. They aren’t functional. They don’t infuse the drink with flavor. They simply float. Present, symbolic, untouchable. You can chew them if you want, but most people don’t. They let them sink, like wishes dropped into a well. In an era where food and drink are increasingly deconstructed, analyzed, and reimagined, it’s comforting to know that some traditions persist simply because they feel good. The espresso martini, with its triple-bean crown, doesn’t need to justify itself. It just needs to arrive, elegant and caffeinated, reminding us that a drink can be more than a drink. It can be a little ritual. A tiny spell. A toast in three words. Health. Wealth. Happiness. And maybe—just maybe—a good night out. So the next time you raise your glass and see those three beans smiling back at you, don’t brush it off as bar flair. Acknowledge the quiet intention. The story carried through decades. The borrowed superstition that now belongs to you, for the length of a cocktail and the mood it creates. Even if you’re not the superstitious type. Even if you don’t believe that three beans floating on a caffeinated cocktail can influence your fate. There’s still something grounding about it. Something soft and human. We don’t always need logic to make a moment matter. Sometimes all it takes is three beans and a sip.

Dining

Why memories have such a strong pull on our food choices

What precisely is MSG, and is it really that harmful for you?

The delicious history of hot chocolate

Why every espresso martini comes with three beans (and no, it’s not random)

Dining

Why memories have such a strong pull on our food choices

What precisely is MSG, and is it really that harmful for you?

The delicious history of hot chocolate

Why every espresso martini comes with three beans (and no, it’s not random)

Subscribe to Our Newsletter