A Global Table
When the 2026 World Cup drew near, I felt a familiar tug to contribute something tangible to the household during the tournament's frenzy. Living in New York gave me a pantry that stretched across continents, from the spice markets of Tehran to the fishmongers of Reykjavik, making the ambitious goal of a dish for each of the 32 participating nations feel within reach.
The tournament's expansion by sixteen teams added a new layer of complexity, pushing me to hunt down ingredients that were once obscure, like the fermented cauliflower used in Turkish baked pastries or the sweet corn souffle of Paraguay that required a precise balance of cheese and cornmeal.
More Than a Meal
Each recipe became a portal: a Cape Malay curry that traced its roots to enslaved Malaysians of the Dutch East India Company, a Korean‑American kalbijjim from Eric Kim's cookbook, or a Swiss fondue shared with friends on a chilly June evening. My wife, without prompting, took on the task of shakshuka for Tunisia, while I tackled a chicken tagine for Morocco and a green‑pepper salad with preserved lemon, turning our kitchen into a miniature United Nations of flavors.
The project also highlighted the importance of pulling one's weight when a major event looms, a lesson that resonated with the collective effort required on the field and at home. Along the way I discovered new favorite dishes, from Uzbek plov to Cape Verdean cachupa, and even learned the story behind a South African bobotie that arrived via a recipe from Claudia Roden.
By early June, just before the tournament kicked off, I had completed the final plate — a simple yet satisfying jambon‑beurre for France and a buttery batch of Norwegian hot dogs wrapped in flour tortillas. The experience left me with a deeper appreciation for the cultural mosaic that the World Cup represents and a reminder that contribution, whether on the pitch or at the stove, can unite people across borders.