Last week, my office organised a breakfast at a fancy restaurant. It was a generous gesture, the kind of occasion that signals appreciation. I arrived, sat down, and opened the menu.
I could barely understand what was written on the menu.
Not a single item looked familiar. The dishes had names that sounded elegant, with ingredients listed in parentheses that offered no further clarity. I’m egg intolerant, which means I can’t afford to guess. A wrong choice isn’t just uncomfortable, it ruins the day. I thought about asking the waiter to explain each item. I thought about quietly searching my phone under the table. Both felt like declaring defeat in a room where everyone else seemed entirely at ease.
Instead, I folded the menu and said: “Just bring me toast and jam, and black tea, please.“
It was the safest thing I could think of. And it worked. The toast was warm, the tea was good. But I sat there surrounded by an elaborate international spread, having ordered something a child would order, and felt the gap between where I spend my life and where that restaurant assumed I’d come from.
I’m glad the fancy restaurant exists. I’m glad my office brought us there. It was a kind thing to do, and exposure matters. Sitting with an unfamiliar menu, even if you order toast in the end, leaves a small map in your mind. Next time, the territory will be slightly less foreign.
There’s also the practical reality: the restaurants I have access to serve food I know. They do it well. The menu is short, the options are clear, the tea is always exactly as strong as it should be. No translation required.
I work in hydropower and transmission line projects. Most of my work happens far from city centres, in valleys carved by rivers, along ridgelines where mobile signal flickers in and out, in communities that see more engineers and turbines than taxis and coffee shops. Recently, solar energy projects have pulled me a little closer to towns. But only a little.
It’s the strange trade-off of this profession: the landscapes are extraordinary, the work is meaningful, but the everyday world, the one with restaurants, events, conversations about the latest things, moves on without you. You return to the city feeling like someone who stepped off a long flight and is still adjusting to the time zone. Except the flight is ongoing, and you never quite land.
There’s a kind of honesty in ordering toast. It says: I know what I need right now. I know my limits. I’m not going to perform comfort I don’t feel.