USA

“Burgers, Bagels & Borderline Food Comas: My Delicious Rollercoaster Across the USA”

Traveling across the United States is kind of like flipping through a chaotic, oversized cookbook where every state thinks it has the best dish, and honestly? They all kind of do. From sipping coffee on Seattle’s rainy waterfront to sweating through spicy tacos in the Arizona sun, my tastebuds went on an emotional journey — and my jeans haven’t fit the same since.

I kicked off in Seattle, where the food is as moody and magical as the weather. Pike Place Market greeted me with salty sea air and the heavenly scent of fresh doughnuts — those warm mini ones that are somehow better when you eat them while dodging flying fish (yes, literally). I tucked into a creamy bowl of Pike Place Chowder that felt like a warm hug on a misty afternoon, and then cracked open buttery Dungeness crab legs with my hands like I was born for it. And of course, coffee. Real Seattle coffee. Not just Starbucks (though I did stop at the original one for the pic). I’m talking smooth, velvety espresso poured with intention, consumed while people-watching like a Pacific Northwest local with mysterious hobbies.

Then came Las Vegas, where self-control goes to die — deliciously. Forget the poker chips and neon lights; the real jackpot was food. Specifically: Hell’s Kitchen. Walking into Gordon Ramsay’s famed restaurant felt like stepping onto a high-stakes cooking show. The flames. The open kitchen. The red and blue brigade. It was intense in the best way. I had the salmon Wellington, and I kid you not, I considered proposing to it. The perfectly cooked pastry, the rich mushroom duxelles, the tender fish — it was a bite of absolute perfection. And the sticky toffee pudding? Don’t even get me started unless you want me to cry again.

Outside of Hell’s Kitchen, Vegas fed me like it was trying to knock me out. I hit one of those infamous buffets and blacked out somewhere between my fifth crab leg and third dessert plate. Late-night pizza was practically a rite of passage, and don’t even ask how many times I ended up at White Castle “by accident.” Spoiler: it was not an accident.

Next stop? The chaotic culinary circus that is New York City. There’s no such thing as a “light” eating day in NYC. The bagels alone are enough to ruin all future bread experiences. I had one that was so fluffy and chewy it brought actual tears to my eyes — topped with thick cream cheese, smoked salmon, capers, and red onion like it was trying to win an award. The pizza? Folded in half, piping hot, and eaten standing on a random sidewalk. It’s not just a meal. It’s a ritual. I roamed from Korean BBQ in K-Town to dumplings in Chinatown to food truck falafel in Brooklyn, and I never once felt full in a bad way. New York doesn't let you just eat. It forces you to feel something.

Orlando surprised me. Sure, there were Mickey-shaped waffles and theme park snacks the size of my face (hello, turkey leg), but the local eats? Way too underrated. I found a roadside Cuban spot that served the crispiest, juiciest Cuban sandwich I’ve ever had — pork, mustard, pickles, toasted bread straight from heaven. One night, I devoured a plate of hot honey fried chicken that made me forget every bad decision I’ve ever made. The food trucks tucked around the city delivered everything from birria tacos to bubble tea, and every meal felt like a happy accident I didn’t deserve.

In Montana, the vibe shifted — slower, simpler, but in a comforting, soul-restoring way. I had a bison burger so hearty and flavorful it made me want to chop firewood and stare into a mountain sunrise. And don’t even get me started on the diners. Pancakes the size of steering wheels, bottomless mugs of strong coffee, and the kind of staff who call you “hon” while refilling your cup. Oh — and huckleberry everything. Syrup, jam, pie. I still don’t fully know what a huckleberry is, but I am now emotionally attached.

Arizona came in hot. Literally. The desert sun was doing the most, and so was the food. My tastebuds were living their best life between bites of elote — messy, spicy, mayo-slathered corn on a stick that I’d gladly ruin a shirt for — and Sonoran hot dogs wrapped in bacon and overloaded with toppings. Each taco I had was better than the last, especially the ones made fresh by the abuelas running tiny taco stands. Oh, and the prickly pear margaritas? Bright pink, sweet but not too sweet, and dangerously refreshing. A few sips in and I was texting people I had no business texting.

By the end of my cross-country feast, I was full, slightly broken (in the best way), and 100% certain that food is how America tells its story. Every city has a flavor, a rhythm, a chaos. And every bite — from bagels in New York to bison burgers in Montana — left me wanting more. Would I do it all again? In a heartbeat. But next time, I’m bringing stretchier pants and no shame.

Have you had a food moment that made you emotional? Which city would you eat your way through first? Let’s get into the cravings and the chaos — drop your favorite U.S. eats below! 🇺🇸🍴👇