This isn’t a book you rush. It’s one you dip into, wander away from, then return to with a mug of tea and a small hunger you didn’t have a minute ago. A Thousand Feasts gathers moments rather than telling a single story: notebooks opened, memories lifted gently, pleasures noticed before they slip past.
Slater writes from kitchens and corners of the world — Reykjavik, Japan, Vienna — but place is almost secondary. What matters is attention. Miso soup for breakfast. A mango eaten in monsoon rain. The quiet comfort of macaroni cheese when the world has gone a bit sideways. Food here isn’t performance or perfection; it’s companionship.
The entries range from a single, perfect sentence to a few lingering pages, and the rhythm feels just right. Some land like a soft tap on the shoulder, others stay with you longer. Each one adds another shade to Slater himself: observant, tender, quietly funny, deeply grateful for the ordinary.
What surprised me most was how sensory the writing is. You don’t just read about food, you taste it. I found myself pausing to look things up, planning meals I hadn’t intended to cook, and feeling re-inspired in the kitchen. Slater reminds you that cooking isn’t about performance, but about pleasure, curiosity and paying attention — values that sit at the heart of how I approach food and travel.
This is food writing, yes, but it’s also a gentle memoir, revealed sideways through what Slater loves. Cosy, nourishing and deeply humane. His prose is the rarest delicacy of all: vivid and exquisite yet effortless, filled with warmth, humour and a real tenderness for life as it is.
A feast, in every sense.