About / Philosophy

On the Art of Leisure

To make living itself an art – that is the goal.

Henry Miller

Almost a year ago, I found myself scrolling through what felt like the hundredth photograph from a marketing shoot. The images were meant for a restaurant’s catering campaign. Hot plates all perfectly lined up, wine glasses polished you could see your reflection, and servers making sure there was not a single wrinkle in the linen.

As I went through the photos, I started thinking: how would people really see this? Would they think of extravagant dining reserved for the rich and thirsty – for people with generous wine budgets and a fondness for expensive steaks? But the longer I looked, the more ordinary it seemed. Without overthinking it, the picture becomes simple. It’s just people gathering around the table. Someone has decided that moment is worth marking. A birthday, a celebration, or maybe nothing more ambitious than a Saturday night with friends. Grand at first glance, I suppose. But in truth, it reminded me of home.

I grew up in a place where people took dining seriously – not in a stuffy way, but in a way that mattered. In my hometown, dining meant being proud of where the food came from. Mention lechon, and someone will immediately insist that one version is superior to every other. Someone else will argue about the skin. Another will swear it’s the sauce. A third will simply shake his head and say you clearly haven’t eaten the right pig.

Then there’s the bakery that somehow became an institution. It doesn’t have to be on any list, but everyone agrees it always has been the best. People who moved away still insist on visiting the place the moment they return home. Spend any time among Ilonggos, you learned quickly that some opinions are better left unsaid. For instance, casually referring that a chain restaurant serves a respectable version of inasal, and you’d be hushed before finishing your sentence. Blasphemous, they’d declare, and that would be that. No debate necessary.

Meals back home were rarely rushed. Everyone has a habit of stretching lunch well into the afternoon. Conversations go back and forth between politics, childhood stories, and the eternal question of who makes the best lechon. And then, who cares for another round of coffee? These days people like to call it slow food. Back home, it was simply how things were done.

Later in life, I found myself in the dining industry. Not exactly in the kitchen – my corner of it was marketing. It meant spending an inordinate amount of time observing restaurants from a slightly different angle, watching how they present themselves to the world. From that vantage point, you begin to notice a dining room is never just about the food. Spend enough evenings observing guests and you begin to notice the small changes that take place over the course of a meal. At first people arrive slightly stiff, checking their phones and glancing around the room. Then the wine appears. Shoulders relax. Laughter finds its way to the conversation. By the time dessert arrives, the table has become its own little world: warm, soft, with a pleasant buzz in the air.

Traveling, of course, offers endless opportunities to practice this kind of attentiveness. My husband is the perfect companion for this sort of exercise. For anyone who enjoys eating, traveling is essentially an endless tour of dining rooms. The languages shift, the wines change, and the menus become wonderfully unpredictable. Yet it remains comfortingly familiar: a table, a meal, and people gathered together for the simple pleasure of being in each other’s company.

But before we even reach that table, there is the arrival. That familiar excitement as you step off the plane, suitcase in hand. From here, things can go one of two ways. You might be the strong-minded traveler, determined to wrestle a week’s worth of luggage up the Tokyo subway stairs (a spectacle that tests your patience, your balance, and maybe even your sense of humor). Or, if you are the more leisurely type, you are greeted by a waiting chauffeur and can simply let the city roll by as you settle in the back seat. It’s a small choice, but it does tend to set the mood for the days ahead – whether you are rushing or taking things a bit more slowly.

And then there’s where you end up calling home for a few days. I’ve started to think of it as a bit of a little tradition whenever I’m somewhere new. I used to have a proper checklist: location, convenience, being right in the middle of everything. These days, I’m not quite as strict. I don’t mind staying a little out of the way, as long as something else makes up for it. Good service, yes, but more than that, it’s the little things. A proper jazz bar just around the corner, the Italian server at breakfast remembering how you like your coffee, or a room that just gets it – nice view when you feel like it, and privacy when you don’t.

In many ways, the pleasure of a long meal, a cozy hotel stay, or a slow walk in a new city is the same. They are all little routines that make you pause and notice the world around you. Scuba diving is like that too. First, there’s gear check, making sure everything is just right. Then the mask, adjusted with the same care you’d give a wine glass. A few nods to your dive buddy and then, you simply breathe. In, out, in, out. Time slows. Underwater, there are no phones, no emails, hardly any talking – just silence, and it feels strangely luxurious in its own way. This is wellness you can touch, taste, and hold. It’s a little practice in patience, in being fully present. And when you take it all in, it leaves you, well, wonderfully content.

Mrs Leisure, I think, didn’t really start as a plan or idea. It started as a feeling, the kind of slow, sunny realization you get halfway through a really lovely lunch.

Imagine it: you’re sitting somewhere nice and relaxed – maybe at a cozy bistro in Singapore or barefoot by the water in Maldives. Lunch was supposed to be just lunch, but then the wine came, and then another bottle, and before long, nobody cared what time it was. There’s a warm breeze, a few laughs, and that wonderful feeling that nothing else really matters right now.

It’s moments like these that make Mrs Leisure make sense. Not indulgence exactly, but more like paying attention to life. Taking your time over a meal instead of rushing it. Strolling down the streets just because they look interesting. Maybe sitting on a bench and taking photographs because the skyline looks especially pretty. And before you know it, the day has passed in the most satisfying way.

It isn’t having more. It’s living more. It’s going slowly, noticing the small things, diving deep into the places you love, and occasionally taking a long lunch… just because you can.