this wasn’t on the itinerary

Some meals vanish before you’ve even left the table.

And then there are the meals that become part of you.
Where every bite imprints itself on your nervous system like a memory.
Where the air feels heavier—in the best way—and the olive oil tastes like it was pressed by someone’s grandfather that morning, barefoot, whistling.

Last weekend, Danny and I had one of those meals.

, I’ve been waiting to tell you about this one.

It happened at Mrizi i Zanave—a tucked-away agritourism haven in the Albanian countryside.

If you’ve never heard of it, you’re not alone—I hadn’t either, until recently.

It’s not the kind of place you stumble upon.
It’s the kind of place you hunt down. And let me tell you—it’s worth the detour.

We left Tirana early and drove north—through winding, soul-stirring roads that practically beg you to roll the windows down and just… exist.

The hills were dotted with goats.
The air? Smelled like spring in lowercase—soft, green, a little wild.
We passed sleepy towns where old men played chess on plastic tables outside cafés, moving pieces slowly like they had all the time in the world.

Google Maps didn’t stand a chance at capturing it.
Because it wasn’t just a route—it was a reminder.
A reminder of how much beauty lives in the in-between.

And then… we arrived.

At first glance, Mrizi i Zanave looks like something out of a fairytale co-written by a nutritionist and an old-world poet.

Stone cottages wrapped in ivy.
Lush gardens heavy with herbs.
Ducks strutting like they own the place.
And a vineyard that curls around the hill like it’s tucking the whole property in for a nap.

But the real magic?
It wasn’t just what you could see—it was what you felt.

The energy was calm—but not spa calm.
Not the kind of calm where you’re wrapped in a weighted blanket with Beethoven playing softly in the background.

It was deeper.
Earthy. Rooted. Alive.
Like the land itself was proud of what it was growing.
Like it had a pulse—and you could feel it in your chest if you stood still long enough.

We sat down at a table on the terrace, surrounded by families, couples, and a few tourists who, like us, had clearly heard whispers of the magic that happens here.

There’s no menu at Mrizi i Zanave.
You don’t order—you receive.

Whatever was picked, foraged, or milked that morning? That’s what shows up.
And honestly, there’s something wildly freeing about that.

No decisions.
No substitutions.
No “Can I get the dressing on the side?” energy.

Just trust.
And a glorious amount of cheese.

And when I say cheese, I mean cheese.

Freshly made ricotta, still warm and a little wobbly.
Aged rounds of sheep’s milk with that perfect salty crumble.
A yogurt dip that tasted like it had a PhD in probiotics.

All of it served with crusty, handmade bread that you just know was baked in a stone oven about 30 feet away by someone named Gjergji.

And that? That was just the warm-up.

Then came the sun-dried tomatoes, soft and swimming in olive oil.
Grilled artichokes tangled with wild herbs.
Polenta cakes—golden, crisp-edged, a little too easy to inhale.
Smoked goat so tender it made us both go silent.

And the berries.
Oh, the berries.

Tiny wild strawberries, no bigger than my thumbnail.
Sweet, tart, sun-kissed.
Paired with a spoonful of local honey that made me momentarily believe I could give up coffee forever. (I was wrong. But still.)

Somewhere between course five and “Wait… is this our tenth plate?”
I realized something that stopped me cold.

I wasn’t just full.

I was satisfied.

Like, in a deep, cellular way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Not just physically—though yes, my jeans were reconsidering their life choices.

I mean emotionally. Nervously. Energetically.

There was no food noise.
No overthinking.
No wondering if I’d need a nap… or a cleanse… or to “be good” tomorrow.

Just presence.
Just being.
Just enough.

And here’s what I haven’t stopped thinking about since:

When did that become rare?
When did eating slowly—with joy, with your phone down, with your gut actually relaxed—become the exception instead of the norm?

Because here’s the truth:
I teach wellness. I live it. I write newsletters like this every week.

But even I forget what it feels like to receive nourishment without negotiating it.

To eat because it tastes good and feels good.
To chew slowly enough to actually feel the moment.
To look around the table and think:
This. Is. It. This is enough.

I didn’t need a nutrition tracker that day.
I didn’t need supplements.
I didn’t need the protein bar stashed in my bag or the habit-stacking reminders saved on Pinterest.

What I needed was food grown with love.
I needed time.
I needed a place that made me remember the kind of old-world wisdom we keep trying to biohack our way back to—with apps, with data, with cold plunges and cortisol monitors.

And I needed to remember that this—this slowness, this simplicity—isn’t indulgence. It’s medicine.

Because these days, we talk so much about wellness as optimization.

Biohacking.
Biological age reversal.
“Clean” eating.
Metabolic resets.
Dopamine detoxes.
Cortisol hacks.

But what if the real upgrade isn’t more control...
It’s more presence.

But what if the thing we’re actually starved for… is this?

☀️ Sitting in the sun
🍅 Eating food with a story
⏳ Pausing long enough to actually taste your own life

Mrizi i Zanave is technically a restaurant.
But it’s also a reminder.
A reckoning, if you let it be.
A mirror held up to the pace we’re all moving at—
and an invitation to come back home to your senses.

Because nourishment isn’t just about what you eat.
It’s about how.

How you source it.
How you sit with it.
How you let it land.

And here’s what I’ll say, after 12+ courses of local Albanian magic:
You don’t need the perfect conditions to feel full.
You don’t need a rustic villa.
You don’t need a five-hour lunch or an escape from “real life.”

You just need to make room.

It wants presence.

So maybe this week, your Mrizi moment looks like:

Eating lunch without multitasking
Putting your fork down between bites
Lighting a candle on a random Tuesday
Buying the good bread
Sitting outside to sip something warm
Turning your phone on airplane mode—even for 10 minutes

Because here’s the real magic:

You don’t need to be at a slow food restaurant to practice slow living.
You don’t need rolling hills or homemade ricotta or a man named Altin welcoming you with a hug.

You just need to choose it.

And if no one’s told you lately—
it’s safe to choose that.

It’s safe to take your foot off the gas.
To enjoy the food.
To be in your body.
To sit still long enough for gratitude to catch up to you.

That’s not laziness.

That’s living well.

And you, my friend, deserve that.

Your friend in fresh ricotta and remembering what matters,

—Genta

P.S. If you’ve been craving more slowness, more softness, and more real nourishment—not just in food, but in life—I built something for you. It’s called The Glow Social Club, and it’s your space for wellness that actually fits your life. Come join us. We’ll save you a seat.