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News18
21-06-2025
- Entertainment
- News18
In Riyadh For Esports World Cup? Check Out This Ultimate Food Guide
Ahead of the EWC in Riyadh, here's the ultimate foodie guide to experience the best that the city has to offer in terms of cuisine, and culture. As Riyadh hosts the Esports World Cup, the city is buzzing with excitement. Gamers, fans, and visitors are arriving from around the world, and while all eyes are on the games, there's something else that's just as exciting – the food. Across the city, from bustling food halls to serene fine dining spaces, Riyadh offers an unforgettable culinary experience. Local classics are getting a fresh twist, global names are leaving their imprint, and hidden neighbourhood gems are winning over those craving something unexpected. Whether you are in between matches or out for a celebratory evening, this is your guide to the best places to eat in Riyadh while the games unfold. Where To Taste Traditional Saudi Food In Riyadh? To truly explore the region's roots through food, head to two of Riyadh's most beloved Saudi restaurants, each presenting a distinct interpretation of local culinary heritage. At Suhail, traditional Saudi recipes are refined with modern precision. Dishes like Hijazi mabshor (a grilled lamb dish served with yoghurt) or lamb kabsah (spiced rice with slow-cooked meat) are served with the finesse of fine dining. The atmosphere is refined, the plating elegant, and the ingredients, such as dried limes, dates, and fragrant spices, remain true to their traditional essence. By contrast, Najd Village is all about warmth and nostalgia. Here, meals are shared cross-legged on floor cushions, just as they have been in Saudi homes for generations. The décor leans rustic, and the setting is intimate. Dishes like jareesh, qursan and matazeez arrive in generous, hearty portions, cooked slowly and with care. Among the standouts is chi SPACCA, the Los Angeles steakhouse from Nancy Silverton, famous for bold, fire-grilled meats and unapologetic rustic charm. For a dash of Paris, head to Les Deux Magots, a famed Saint-Germain café, where French classics are served with elegance and ease. Gymkhana presents a different kind of decadence. For vegetarians, there are plenty of delicious options that feel just like home. One of the restaurant's two tasting menus is completely vegetarian, offering a variety of rich and flavourful dishes in every course. You can start with crisp gol guppas filled with jaljeera and sprouted moong, followed by tasty samosa chaat and chana masala. For the main course, enjoy favourites like paneer tikka, tandoori broccoli, or a fragrant biryani made with gucchi mushrooms and truffle. Prefer something more laid-back? Head to Over Under, a London café serving speciality coffee, brunch plates and mocktails. Apart from the delicious food, ELLE Café charms with its pastel interiors and Instagram-worthy vibe, perfect for a laid-back afternoon break. Where To Head For Touristy Activities In Riyadh? For those who prefer to stay in the thick of the action, Boulevard City is a one-stop culinary hub. With restaurants nestled right in the heart of the Esports zone, you're never too far from your next bite. Kabana serves comforting Afghan fusion dishes with a Mediterranean twist, perfect for a satisfying meal between matches and for those looking for authentic Middle Eastern flavours, Al Nakheel is the place to be. Pressed for time? Shake Shack never fails with its fast and familiar burgers and fries. If you want to keep things light but energising, Poke Bar's poke bowls and their signature Berry and Banana Acai are just the pick-me-up you need. And here's the best part: with cafés and kiosks like ½ Million and Coic Lounge dotted throughout the gaming zones, grabbing a snack or a drink is effortless and never out of reach. Still Looking For Something More? Located inside Riyadh's iconic Kingdom Centre Tower, Al Mamlaka Social Dining is a modern take on the food hall concept. Here, you can sample dishes from over 20 local and international brands all under one roof, perfect for groups with varied tastes. You'll find Nozomi serving sushi and contemporary Japanese plates, La Rustica firing pizzas from wood ovens, and Assembly, putting a modern spin on Middle Eastern comfort food. For non-alcoholic drinks with flair, Blended by Lyre's mixes up inventive spritzes and concoctions like no other. Round things off with something sweet from Floozie Cookies or a slice of layered cake from Hanoverian, the German patisserie brand that's already a hit in Riyadh. After your meal, head to the Sky Bridge on the 99th floor for panoramic views of Riyadh. It's especially striking at sunset, and a perfect way to cap off your visit. The News18 Lifestyle section brings you the latest on health, fashion, travel, food, and culture — with wellness tips, celebrity style, travel inspiration, and recipes. Also Download the News18 App to stay updated! tags : food lifestyle Riyadh Location : Delhi, India, India First Published: June 21, 2025, 16:00 IST
The Age
14-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Age
‘I've been chasing that feeling ever since': Besha Rodell reflects on her most formative meal at a Melbourne icon
Yes, there was a trip to France. A tower of profiteroles at Les Deux Magots. Breakfasts that included flaky, buttery croissants and fine porcelain cups of le chocolat chaud, so thick and creamy it has taken up residence in my sense memory as a paragon of deliciousness. But my journey into a life in food did not begin there. It began in Melbourne, Australia, at a restaurant called Stephanie's. Stephanie's was Melbourne's grandest restaurant at the time, housed in a majestic old home in Hawthorn and run by Stephanie Alexander, a chef who is credited with changing the way Australians ate. She trained many of the cooks who went on to become the country's most prominent chefs. The name Stephanie's was synonymous with the finest dining. In 1984, I was aware of none of this because I was eight and living with my American mother, my Australian father and my three-year-old brother, Fred, in a share house in Brunswick, an inner-north neighbourhood of Melbourne. The hulking old terrace where we lived − white, with black wrought iron framing its verandahs − had previously housed an elderly order of nuns. When my parents rented it, with the idea of filling it full of other like-minded hippie/academic/journalist types, its sweeping staircase and stained-glass windows and high-ceilinged rooms were filthy. They scrubbed it, claimed its grandest bedroom upstairs, and advertised the downstairs rooms for rent. Some of the first housemates they attracted were a single mother and her daughter, Sarah, who was about my age. Sarah was small, with dark hair and freckles and a gap-toothed grin, the opposite of my pudgy, blond, self-conscious self. She quickly became the leader of our gang of two, bossing me into compliance, though I did manage to inspire some awe with my firm belief that I was the queen of the fairies. (At night, while she slept, I flew away to fairyland, where I lived in a rosebush with my many fairy princess daughters. This is the subject for a different book entirely.) The central mythology in Sarah's young life had to do with her father, who was mostly absent. He was, she told me, handsome and rich and lived in a fancy house with his beautiful new wife. (The narrative was quite different when Sarah's mother told the story.) About once a month, Sarah would disappear for the weekend to her father's house and come back with 50-cent pieces that he had given her – more proof that he was 'rich', since our parents would never have bestowed such lavish wealth upon us. I distinctly remember after one such weekend, Sarah leading me dramatically to the milk bar near school and pointing to the wall of candies at the counter. I could pick whichever one I wanted, and she would buy it with her paternally acquired riches. (Did I mention my parents were hippies? Candy was not part of my usual diet.) When Sarah turned nine, her father proved Sarah's mythology by taking both of us for a celebratory birthday meal at the fanciest restaurant in town: Stephanie's. I have almost zero recollection of the food. There was a huge, beautiful chocolate souffle that haunts me to this day, but other than that, I cannot recall a thing I ate. I remember the brocade seating and deep red curtains, which gave everything a feeling of grandeur. I remember the lighting, the tinkle of glasses, the swoosh of the waiters, the mesmerising, intense luxury of it all. I remember feeling special, truly special, that I was allowed into this room where people were spending ungodly amounts of money on something as common as dinner. Quite honestly, I can't remember much about that year or my life at that time, other than the fact that my mother started sleeping with men other than my father and he moved into a different bedroom and cried a lot and then eventually she moved out of the share house and into a tiny, crappy house somewhere else with the guy who would end up becoming my stepfather. But I remember Stephanie's. My family did not frequent restaurants like Stephanie's, and in fact I do not remember any specific restaurant meal in my life before the one that occurred there, although I'm sure there were a few. I didn't need an education in food. I grew up with fantastic food, some of it just as good – and in some ways better! – than what was served at Stephanie's. My father was an academic and an occasional farmer and a gardener and a devotee of Julia Child. I was reared on homegrown fruits and vegetables, rich cream sauces, chocolate mousse made with egg whites and heavy cream and not a lick of gelatin. My mother had melded her American upbringing with her hippie sense of exploration. She spent her earliest years in Hollywood, where my grandfather was a screenwriter and many of his friends were Syrian. Rice and yoghurt became staples of her childhood meals, a tradition she never gave up. My father did most of the cooking while they were together, but when she cooked, lemon juice was added to everything: chicken livers, broccoli with butter, salads full of olives and feta bought from the Greek stalls at the Queen Victoria Market. No, I did not need an education in food. I needed – or more accurately, I desperately wanted – an education in luxury. After my meal at Stephanie's, I began haranguing my parents on my own birthdays. No longer satisfied with the family tradition of picking a favourite home-cooked dish as a birthday meal, I told them I wanted to eat at restaurants instead. They tried. My mother and my new stepfather took us out – now with a baby sister, Grace, in tow – to a neighbourhood Lebanese restaurant for my 11th birthday, something I'm sure they could not afford. I was disappointed. The food was good, but the luxury was lacking. This instinct, this need for extravagance where it is wholly unearned, runs in my family. Wealth has come and gone on both sides of my lineage, but it has never settled in and stayed. My paternal grandfather owned Malties, a cereal company that was one of Australia's most popular brands in the early 20th century. Then he had a heart attack and died, leaving my grandmother with five children and no idea how to run a business, and before long, the cereal company and the grand house in Eltham were lost. My maternal grandfather grew up exceedingly wealthy in Philadelphia and spent his life squandering that wealth on fancy cars and trips to Europe and multiple divorces, including two from my grandmother, all the while fancying himself some sort of genius playwright. Both of my parents grew up resenting the lack of luxury that should have been their birthright. I somehow absorbed that, but from a very early age, the thing I thought I ought to have, in a just world, was meals at fancy restaurants. I did not need an education in food. I needed an education in luxury. Money was a constant stress when I was growing up; I'd be lying if I said it hasn't remained a constant stress in my own adult life. And yet my mother has a thing for vintage cars, French soap, French underwear, Chanel perfume, tiny pieces of luxury that she should not be able to justify given that she is the type of woman who carries an extra canister of gas in her car because she runs out so frequently because she never has the money to fill her tank. (I know this makes no sense; you need not explain that to me.) In fact, the trip to France was a case in point. When I was 13, my mother came into a small amount of money and decided to whisk me off for an around-the-world trip, even though she and my stepfather were struggling with a mortgage and my sister Grace was a toddler and leaving her alone with my stepfather for months to take me to France and America was a wholly ridiculous thing to do. But this is my mother we're talking about, who drove a vintage red MGB convertible rather than a normal car, who believed her teenage daughter must see Paris to understand the brand of sophistication she believed we deserved to inhabit. I have endeavoured, in my life, to be more pragmatic. I have mostly failed. If I thirst for designer clothes, I know how to find them in thrift stores. I do not long for money, other than the kind that relieves you of the deep, existential dread that accompanies poverty. What I long for – what I've longed for since I was eight years old, sitting wide-eyed in that grand restaurant – is the specific opulence of a very good restaurant. I never connected this longing to the goal of attaining wealth; in fact, it was the pantomiming of wealth that appealed. I did not belong in that grand room! And yet there I was! It was intoxicating. I have been chasing that feeling ever since. This is an edited extract from Hunger Like a Thirst by Besha Rodell, published by Hardie Grant Books, RRP $35
Sydney Morning Herald
14-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
‘I've been chasing that feeling ever since': Besha Rodell reflects on her most formative meal at a Melbourne icon
Yes, there was a trip to France. A tower of profiteroles at Les Deux Magots. Breakfasts that included flaky, buttery croissants and fine porcelain cups of le chocolat chaud, so thick and creamy it has taken up residence in my sense memory as a paragon of deliciousness. But my journey into a life in food did not begin there. It began in Melbourne, Australia, at a restaurant called Stephanie's. Stephanie's was Melbourne's grandest restaurant at the time, housed in a majestic old home in Hawthorn and run by Stephanie Alexander, a chef who is credited with changing the way Australians ate. She trained many of the cooks who went on to become the country's most prominent chefs. The name Stephanie's was synonymous with the finest dining. In 1984, I was aware of none of this because I was eight and living with my American mother, my Australian father and my three-year-old brother, Fred, in a share house in Brunswick, an inner-north neighbourhood of Melbourne. The hulking old terrace where we lived − white, with black wrought iron framing its verandahs − had previously housed an elderly order of nuns. When my parents rented it, with the idea of filling it full of other like-minded hippie/academic/journalist types, its sweeping staircase and stained-glass windows and high-ceilinged rooms were filthy. They scrubbed it, claimed its grandest bedroom upstairs, and advertised the downstairs rooms for rent. Some of the first housemates they attracted were a single mother and her daughter, Sarah, who was about my age. Sarah was small, with dark hair and freckles and a gap-toothed grin, the opposite of my pudgy, blond, self-conscious self. She quickly became the leader of our gang of two, bossing me into compliance, though I did manage to inspire some awe with my firm belief that I was the queen of the fairies. (At night, while she slept, I flew away to fairyland, where I lived in a rosebush with my many fairy princess daughters. This is the subject for a different book entirely.) The central mythology in Sarah's young life had to do with her father, who was mostly absent. He was, she told me, handsome and rich and lived in a fancy house with his beautiful new wife. (The narrative was quite different when Sarah's mother told the story.) About once a month, Sarah would disappear for the weekend to her father's house and come back with 50-cent pieces that he had given her – more proof that he was 'rich', since our parents would never have bestowed such lavish wealth upon us. I distinctly remember after one such weekend, Sarah leading me dramatically to the milk bar near school and pointing to the wall of candies at the counter. I could pick whichever one I wanted, and she would buy it with her paternally acquired riches. (Did I mention my parents were hippies? Candy was not part of my usual diet.) When Sarah turned nine, her father proved Sarah's mythology by taking both of us for a celebratory birthday meal at the fanciest restaurant in town: Stephanie's. I have almost zero recollection of the food. There was a huge, beautiful chocolate souffle that haunts me to this day, but other than that, I cannot recall a thing I ate. I remember the brocade seating and deep red curtains, which gave everything a feeling of grandeur. I remember the lighting, the tinkle of glasses, the swoosh of the waiters, the mesmerising, intense luxury of it all. I remember feeling special, truly special, that I was allowed into this room where people were spending ungodly amounts of money on something as common as dinner. Quite honestly, I can't remember much about that year or my life at that time, other than the fact that my mother started sleeping with men other than my father and he moved into a different bedroom and cried a lot and then eventually she moved out of the share house and into a tiny, crappy house somewhere else with the guy who would end up becoming my stepfather. But I remember Stephanie's. My family did not frequent restaurants like Stephanie's, and in fact I do not remember any specific restaurant meal in my life before the one that occurred there, although I'm sure there were a few. I didn't need an education in food. I grew up with fantastic food, some of it just as good – and in some ways better! – than what was served at Stephanie's. My father was an academic and an occasional farmer and a gardener and a devotee of Julia Child. I was reared on homegrown fruits and vegetables, rich cream sauces, chocolate mousse made with egg whites and heavy cream and not a lick of gelatin. My mother had melded her American upbringing with her hippie sense of exploration. She spent her earliest years in Hollywood, where my grandfather was a screenwriter and many of his friends were Syrian. Rice and yoghurt became staples of her childhood meals, a tradition she never gave up. My father did most of the cooking while they were together, but when she cooked, lemon juice was added to everything: chicken livers, broccoli with butter, salads full of olives and feta bought from the Greek stalls at the Queen Victoria Market. No, I did not need an education in food. I needed – or more accurately, I desperately wanted – an education in luxury. After my meal at Stephanie's, I began haranguing my parents on my own birthdays. No longer satisfied with the family tradition of picking a favourite home-cooked dish as a birthday meal, I told them I wanted to eat at restaurants instead. They tried. My mother and my new stepfather took us out – now with a baby sister, Grace, in tow – to a neighbourhood Lebanese restaurant for my 11th birthday, something I'm sure they could not afford. I was disappointed. The food was good, but the luxury was lacking. This instinct, this need for extravagance where it is wholly unearned, runs in my family. Wealth has come and gone on both sides of my lineage, but it has never settled in and stayed. My paternal grandfather owned Malties, a cereal company that was one of Australia's most popular brands in the early 20th century. Then he had a heart attack and died, leaving my grandmother with five children and no idea how to run a business, and before long, the cereal company and the grand house in Eltham were lost. My maternal grandfather grew up exceedingly wealthy in Philadelphia and spent his life squandering that wealth on fancy cars and trips to Europe and multiple divorces, including two from my grandmother, all the while fancying himself some sort of genius playwright. Both of my parents grew up resenting the lack of luxury that should have been their birthright. I somehow absorbed that, but from a very early age, the thing I thought I ought to have, in a just world, was meals at fancy restaurants. I did not need an education in food. I needed an education in luxury. Money was a constant stress when I was growing up; I'd be lying if I said it hasn't remained a constant stress in my own adult life. And yet my mother has a thing for vintage cars, French soap, French underwear, Chanel perfume, tiny pieces of luxury that she should not be able to justify given that she is the type of woman who carries an extra canister of gas in her car because she runs out so frequently because she never has the money to fill her tank. (I know this makes no sense; you need not explain that to me.) In fact, the trip to France was a case in point. When I was 13, my mother came into a small amount of money and decided to whisk me off for an around-the-world trip, even though she and my stepfather were struggling with a mortgage and my sister Grace was a toddler and leaving her alone with my stepfather for months to take me to France and America was a wholly ridiculous thing to do. But this is my mother we're talking about, who drove a vintage red MGB convertible rather than a normal car, who believed her teenage daughter must see Paris to understand the brand of sophistication she believed we deserved to inhabit. I have endeavoured, in my life, to be more pragmatic. I have mostly failed. If I thirst for designer clothes, I know how to find them in thrift stores. I do not long for money, other than the kind that relieves you of the deep, existential dread that accompanies poverty. What I long for – what I've longed for since I was eight years old, sitting wide-eyed in that grand restaurant – is the specific opulence of a very good restaurant. I never connected this longing to the goal of attaining wealth; in fact, it was the pantomiming of wealth that appealed. I did not belong in that grand room! And yet there I was! It was intoxicating. I have been chasing that feeling ever since. This is an edited extract from Hunger Like a Thirst by Besha Rodell, published by Hardie Grant Books, RRP $35
Yahoo
14-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Bourgeois beverages and the best coffee in town: Where to drink in Paris
Drinking in Paris is a different ball game to London. It's more moderated; the French aren't completely pickled at 5pm on a Tuesday. Until recently, however, Paris's drinks scene was surprisingly limited. Who remembers the viral tweets of people ordering oat milk lattes and being told 'Non'? Although many of Paris's bars are institutions, immortalised in romantic ideas of Hemingway ordering a dry martini at Les Deux Magots, getting a decent craft beer or a soft drink not laden with sugar used to be tricky. But no longer. A new wave of sobriety has swept through the capital, this one full of joy, colour and fermented juice. Gone, too, is Paris's reputation for bad coffee, with hipster-happy cafes left, right and centre. Even the cocktail bars have had a makeover: Hemingway could have had his dry martinis on tap. Whatever your tipples, here's where to drink in Paris. It's a sacrilege to write this in a newspaper, but at Bonjour Jacob, ditch the news and dive into the escapism of coffee-table travel magazines. A vinyl and indie magazine shop-cum-cafe, the coffee is strong enough to jet-propel you around Paris all day. There are now three in Paris, the others at Canal St Martin and Printemps Haussmann, but the monochrome branch in Paris 6, which looks a little like a cassette tape, is the most aesthetic. Matcha lattes with oat milk are always on the menu. Read more: The best budget hotels in Paris Crates of fruit stacked along the walls give you a vitamin boost just by looking at them, and that's exactly what you get from Jah Jah by Le Tricycle's juices. It's hard to decide which is more colourful, the drinks or the window display. Hibiscus or ginger are mainstays, and the 'guest' juice changes daily. There are regular evening events and DJ sets where you can boogie around, goblet of fruit in hand, with no fear of a hangover. Read more: The best free museums in Paris A better cup of coffee is hard to come by. Café Pigalle is the epitome of Pigalle's gentrification. Boasting wood-panelled rooms with ceramic and cork lamps, it's like a mash-up between an IKEA showroom and a Finnish sauna – worlds away from the gaudy neon lights of neighbouring sex shops. Pair your coffee with a snack: the dark chocolate and sea salt cookies are heaven for those without a sweet tooth. Limited savoury dishes sell out early. Le Clos Montmartre isn't a bar at all, but a museum and a vineyard. Back when monasteries produced the majority of the country's wine, Île-de-France was the largest wine-producing region of France, outstripping even Burgundy and Bordeaux. Now, there are (understandably) very few vineyards in central Paris. This is the oldest, and the first grapes were harvested here in 1934. For €39, you get a tour of the vineyard, a tasting, and entry into the museum. Read more: The best vegan places to eat in Paris, from restaurants to patisseries In a concept that would make many old Franchouillards roll their eyes, Paris's bistrots are (finally) starting to embrace alcohol-free options. Non-drinkers who've ever bemoaned being stuck with a sugary soda or a tap water rejoice: 'sobrelier' Benoît d'Onofrio has invented a range of fermented, all-natural and short-circuit drinks to pair with any dish – all alcohol-free. As d'Onofrio says, a sommelier is 'one who studies drinks, not just wine'. Although he has plans to open a restaurant with a weekly rotation of guest chefs, at present you can only taste his creations in his workshop, La Sobrellerie. 114 Rue de Meaux, 75019 It could be argued that this is a bar for people who hate cocktails (ironic, when the menu has 27 of them). In fact, it's a bar for people who hate the faff that comes with cocktails. The first bar in France to serve exclusively cocktails on draught changes its menu each week, and prices are extremely reasonable (no more than €14 euros for an alcoholic beverage or €10 for a mocktail). It fills up as soon as the doors open, but the ease of pouring cocktails like pints means that however buzzing it is, you'll never wait long to be served. Read more: The best things to do in Paris Guillotining their monarchs didn't stop the French fascination with everything that's glittery and gold. Unfortunately, a night in a palace hotel will set you back thousands. Fortunately, some have found a way of (almost) catering to the masses. Sure, a cocktail at Les Ambassadeurs, Hôtel de Crillon, will set you back €30, but the decor is worthy of Versailles. Think walls painted with cherubs, mirrors and gold gilding, and chandeliers heavy enough to decapitate a royal. Flavours are seasonal and original. Butternut squash with whisky and maple syrup? It works. Now somewhat of a countrywide institution, it's hard to beat LBF for French craft beers. The original is in Pigalle, sandwiched between drag clubs and sex shops, popular with moustache-twirling hipsters. Expect pine-infused beers, flavours such as pepper and raspberry or sour apricot, and plenty of crafty brewery classics. You can even take a workshop and learn to brew your own. Read more: The six Paris districts you should know
