I should have known what was coming. I had, after all, already eaten dinner with Abdulaziz. I had already heard him say, " This is nothing, wait until you see what comes next.” I had filed that away as the kind of thing a generous host says, a mild pleasantry, a gentle oversell.
I was not prepared. I want to be clear about that from the start. Nothing in my forty-plus years of breakfasting had prepared me for what was about to happen to that table.

​This day started with a decision.
It had been forming quietly since the moment I landed — I saw Abdulaziz in the morning in his white thobe, effortlessly elegant, looking like he had stepped out of somewhere timeless. I had watched the men around me in Jeddah move through the city in their thobes with an ease and a dignity that I found genuinely beautiful. There was something about the garment — the clean, unbroken line of white from shoulder to ankle, the way it moved, the way it seemed to belong so completely to the light and the heat and the pace of the place — that made everything else I had packed feel slightly beside the point.
Here is the thing: I had come prepared.

There is a word in Arabic — karam — that translates, roughly, as generosity. But translation is a blunt instrument, while karam is precise. It does not mean simply giving. It means giving without calculation, without ledger, without the quiet expectation of return that runs beneath so much of what passes for generosity in other parts of the world. It means making someone feel that their presence is not an inconvenience to be managed but a gift to be celebrated. I did not know this word before I went to Saudi Arabia. By the time I left, I still didn't know the word, but I understood it in my bones.
This part is about Abdulaziz. It is, in many ways, about him entirely.

The drive from King Abdulaziz International Airport into the city of Jeddah at seven in the evening is not a gentle introduction to Saudi traffic.
Abdulaziz drove the way Saudis drive, which is to say with a fluency and confidence in the language of the road that I, from the passenger seat, could only observe with wide eyes and a grip on the door handle. The highways were broad and fast — genuinely fast, not European-motorway fast, but a different category altogether — and they were absolutely not empty. Rush hour in Jeddah is a phenomenon unto itself. Headlights kept multiplying around us. Lanes changed with a decisive lack of ceremony. There was a certain smoothness to the highway dance at 100 kilometres an hour between drivers who all seemed to understand the rules of an exchange I had not been briefed on. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a classical European 'stick by the rules' guy either. My Croatian driving style is sometimes too much, even in the city I live in (Vienna, Austria), but I was deeply, profoundly grateful to be in the passenger seat. It would have been a much more stressful experience if I had to be behind that wheel.
But between the white-knuckle moments, I was looking.

​Jeddah is a true beauty of the Red Sea, known for its stunning coastline, vibrant culture, and rich history. Yet for many visitors—and even longtime residents—its greatest treasure is found on the plate. Thanks to its position as a historic trading hub, Jeddah's food scene blends flavors from across the Arabian Peninsula, Africa, and Asia, creating a culinary experience unlike anywhere else in Saudi Arabia.

When exploring Downtown LA you will most certainly find yourself within couple of hundred meters away from the Grand Central Market at one point. And when you do so, you'd be a fool not to pay it a visit! 
Within walking distance from Walt Disney Concert Hall and The Broad is this temple of food diversity and "bite and sip entertainment" that you want to check out.