Romance doesn’t always arrive in grand gestures or candlelit dinners. Sometimes, it comes quietly — in the clink of spoons in cereal bowls, the crinkle of deli wrappers, or the fizz of a soda split between two vintage glasses. One recent Saturday night, my partner and I came home late, a little buzzed from laughter with friends, and hungry in that casual, contented way that only comes after a long day. Too lazy to cook, we poured ourselves bowls of Corn Flakes, added a generous splash of milk, and perched at the kitchen counter as we watched an episode of The Baldwins. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t elaborate. But as Alec and Hilaria juggled seating arrangements for their seven children, I felt something unexpected: romance. The ordinary felt extraordinary — domestic, sweet, and full of quiet intimacy.
That moment stuck with me, and I began to wonder — what other seemingly random foods carry that same romantic weight for other people?
When I floated the question to my group text, the answers flooded in, each one its own mini love story.
“My husband Brian still brings me Chipwiches from the deli sometimes,” wrote Jessie Randall. “We had them at our wedding reception, so every time he surprises me with one, it’s like a little nod to that day.” There’s something deeply touching about those small rituals — a frozen treat that carries the warmth of a thousand shared memories.
Not all romance is sweet, though. For food writer Adam Roberts, love tastes like a home-cooked meal. “Roast chicken with root vegetables, a nice bottle of wine, and warm chocolate chip cookies for dessert — that’s my husband Craig’s ‘welcome home’ meal,” he told me. “It’s cozy, it’s comforting, and it never fails to make us feel close.” There’s a certain tenderness in that kind of preparation — knowing someone’s favorite meal and recreating it just because they’ve been away. That, too, is romance.
Cookbook author Eric Kim shared a softer moment. “In the evening, my fiancé and I split an Olipop. We pour it into vintage wine glasses we found together in Philly — it’s such a small thing, but it adds a sparkle to our evening.” What elevates that simple drink isn’t the taste, necessarily, but the intention — the quiet ritual of sharing, of creating beauty in the mundane.
Of course, not all food memories are rose-tinted. My friend Liz Libré still grimaces when she thinks of the “disgusting pastrami sandwich” her husband brought to the hospital — and ate — while she was in labor. “The butcher paper grazed my arm,” she said, laughing. “No more pastrami ever!” Some meals mark moments not because they were beautiful, but because they were unforgettable in their absurdity. And somehow, even that becomes part of the story you share.
So what foods feel romantic to you?
Maybe it’s the spaghetti you ordered on your first date — the one where you couldn’t stop laughing and nearly knocked over your wine glass. Or maybe it’s something less obvious: the banana your partner slices for you every morning without fail. The candy bar they always remember to buy when you’re having a rough week. The soup you make when they’re sick. These are not candlelit-table-for-two moments. But they’re intimate, tender, and often more honest than any Valentine’s prix fixe menu.
The romance of food doesn’t have to be curated. It doesn’t require white tablecloths or Michelin stars. Sometimes, it’s just a bowl of cereal at midnight or a shared soda in chipped glasses. What makes it romantic isn’t the food itself — it’s the memory it carries, the hands that prepared it, the glance across the table, the inside joke you’ve told a hundred times.
So here’s to the unassuming foods that make us feel seen and loved. The random snacks that remind us of each other. The Chipwiches, the roast chickens, the Olipops — and yes, even the Corn Flakes.
Because in the end, food is love language. And sometimes, love sounds like a spoon scraping the bottom of a bowl.
