By Jack He

I left London last summer with several memorable restaurant experiences. St. John was one of them. I had begged my friend Eric—whose place I was staying at—to take me. A victim of theft, I was a financial dependent of my gracious friends during those final weeks in London. It is largely thanks to them that I enjoyed what should have been a stressful time.

By Jack He

Back in New Haven, I once joked to a friend that the café was my monastery. Every afternoon, like a studious monk abiding by a strict schedule, I approached Chapel Street as two coffee shops enter my field of vision

By Jack He

I boarded the train from Heathrow in a slouched, disheveled, and jet-lagged state. Looking out the window, sunlight kissed broad patches of shimmering grass, brightened parents’ faces, and quickened the skips of frolicking children. In that moment, London seemed too good to be true.