Okay Fine Dining Abroad, I’m writing this literally sitting on a hostel bathroom floor in Naples because the Wi-Fi is better here than in the dorm and also I’m hiding from my roommate who keeps asking why I’m “crying into cold tagliolini.”
Short answer: Yes, but also no, but also YES, but I hate myself.
Long answer: Let me break down the trauma.
Make You Question Fine Dining Abroad Your Life Choices (In a Good Way)
There are moments, actual moments, where fine dining abroad feels like mainlining joy straight into your veins.
- That time in Copenhagen when the chef brought out a “memory of his grandmother’s garden” and it was literally a plate of dirt you could eat and it tasted like childhood summers I never even had. I cried. The Danish couple next to me cried. The waiter cried. We all needed therapy and hugs.
- The 2 a.m. pasta course in Modena where the nonna-aged parmigiano literally melted on my tongue and the chef whispered “this wheel is older than you” and I felt personally attacked by dairy in the best way.
- Sunset on a cliff in Portugal, raw carabineros so fresh they were still twitching, paired with a 40-year-old tawny that tasted like my soul and said “girl, you’re doing okay.”
Those moments? Worth selling plasma.
The Lows That Make You Question Your Life Choices (In a Bad Way)
But then there’s the other 40%.
- The €420 bill in Paris that arrived on a silver tray like it was another course. I laughed. Then I didn’t.
- The 3-star place in Barcelona where the server corrected my pronunciation of “esferificación” and I wanted the spherified olive to just choke me and end it all.
- Accidentally ordering the 18-course menu instead of the 8-course because I nodded when the sommelier said “do you want the full experience?” in French and I thought he was asking if I wanted bread.
- The time I spent my entire monthly budget on one dinner and then ate supermarket bread and Nutella for the next five days while telling myself it was “culinary balance.”
The Actual Math (Because I’m Having a Breakdown)
| Experience | Cost (2025 prices) | Emotional Damage Rating | Would Do Again? |
|---|---|---|---|
| 3-Michelin-star blowout (e.g., Osteria Francescana) | €800-1200 pp | 10/10 (pure ecstasy + terror) | Yes but I’d need therapy first |
| Solid 1-2 star tasting menu | €180-350 pp | 7/10 (magical but survivable) | Literally tomorrow |
| Bib Gourmand / great local spot | €40-90 pp | 9/10 (joy without PTSD) | Every single night |
| Tourist trap near major monument | €80-150 pp | 11/10 regret | Never again, I’m begging me |
My Current Mental State (Live Updates)
- I have eaten cold €45 truffle pasta off a hostel toilet tank at 3:17 a.m.
- I am wearing the same dress I wore to dinner because everything else is dirty.
- I just Venmo-requested myself €20 with the memo “stop doing this.”
- I am still thinking about that pasta.
The Verdict, Written in Red-Wine Stains
Is fine dining abroad worth the hype?
For the memories you’ll tell your grandkids about while ugly-crying? Yes. For your bank account and dignity? Absolutely not. For the version of yourself that exists for three glasses in who believes she deserves edible gold leaf? Obviously.
Here’s the deal: Do it once or twice per big trip at the places that make your soul vibrate. Then spend the rest of your budget on gelato and street food like a normal psychopath.
I have to go now. The hostel cleaning lady just walked in and saw me eating cold truffle pasta off sanitary ware. I think this is rock bottom. Or maybe it’s just Tuesday.
