The dish arrives under a glass cloche, filled with smoke. As the server lifts it away with a flourish, the smoke spills out in swirling ribbons, carrying with it a savory, woodsy scent. Beneath the haze, two U-10 scallops are revealed—perfectly seared, their golden crust giving way to tender flesh. They rest on a bed of creamy pea purée, crowned with a delicate Dungeness crab mousse. Beside them, a gleaming cylinder of Florida honey polenta, accented with crisp and colorful garnishes, completes the composition. Every element feels intentional, every detail designed to engage the senses.

This is more than dinner. It is an experience to be savored.

I’ve always loved food—not simply as something to eat, but as an experience that involves every sense. Savoring a meal, for me, involves engaging all my senses. The clink of glasses, the glow of candlelight, the hum of conversation, the aromas wafting from the kitchen, the art on the walls, the centerpiece and tableware. These details contribute to the experience as much as the flavors themselves.

That awareness began early. My grandmother’s kitchen was my first classroom in the art of savoring. Her meals were never complicated, but they were abundant with care. She showed me that food could nourish more than the body—it could comfort, connect, and linger.

Culinary school later gave me the skills—the knife work, the sauces, the timing—but more importantly, it deepened my respect for food as art. Every dish is a fleeting masterpiece, disappearing in a few bites yet living on in memory.

I think often of my 40th birthday at Fleur de Lys in San Francisco, one of the most incredible meals I’ve ever had. One of the courses was a bacon crusted scallop, served on a bed of black beluga lentils with pork belly, pickled shallots and harissa. When the plate was set before me, I felt a kind of awe. The scallop was delicate and sweet, balanced by the pork belly that was salty and slightly smokey. Within the dish there were layers of flavors and textures. In that moment, I understood how a single dish could hold celebration, reverence, even joy. That meal changed me.

Years later, as I tasted the scallops at Three Six Bistro, that memory came rushing back. Different location, different season of life, but the same lesson: food can carry us across time and place. One bite can transport you.

The meals we remember aren’t always the most elaborate. It might be a grandmother’s chicken and dumplings, or a birthday dinner celebrated with loved ones, and sometimes it might be an unexpectedly memorable scallop dish in a local bistro. What matters is how those meals root us to who we are, where we’ve been, and the people we’ve shared them with.

As I finished my plate of smoked scallops mornay at Three Six Bistro, I felt grateful—not only for the dish itself, but for what it represented. A lifetime of savoring. A reminder that food, when prepared with care and enjoyed with attention, is never just food. It is an experience that when shared, is a connection. It is art.