There are days in a chef’s life that feel like a symphony—where every note, every scent, every face you see becomes part of something bigger than just food. The rhythm starts slow, like the soft hum of a flame catching under a pot, and builds until the air itself feels seasoned with purpose.
That morning, I stood by my kitchen counter, sipping a strong black coffee, watching my team put the final touches on dishes we had prepared with care, warmth, and the quiet blessing of the morning dew. Nairobi was calm, unusually so, as though the city was holding its breath. I glanced at my knives—sharpened, wrapped, ready. My spices had been carefully chosen, my ingredients packed with the kind of attention I usually reserve for home-cooked meals shared with people I love.
Today wasn’t just another catering gig. It was an invitation to cook for the world.
The International Day of Forests 2025 had drawn delegates from every continent to UN Gigiri. The event pulsed with conversations about climate change, indigenous knowledge, sustainability, and food systems. My role? To bring those conversations to life—not through speeches or slideshows, but through taste. And not alone.
The sun filtered through the lush canopy of trees surrounding the UN grounds, a poetic backdrop for a celebration of forests. Our setup stood at the heart of it all: sleek counters gleaming under white tents, pots bubbling gently, spices laid out like a painter’s palette. The buffet was a spread of thoughtful, forest-friendly dishes—but the real action was at the cooking stage.
I had been invited to host a live cooking experience: The ABCs of Forests Cooking Show. A celebration of forest-friendly food, live and unrehearsed, before an international audience. The concept was rooted in three ideas—Adapt, Balance, Change—and through each, I would showcase a dish using ingredients that echoed our relationship with forests. But this wasn’t a solo act. Our host and moderator, an effortlessly poised woman named Mei, brought the charisma of a seasoned presenter with the warmth of someone who’d spent years learning how to listen deeply. She looked Asian—Filipino, perhaps—but her accent had the unmistakable polish of someone raised in the American Midwest.
“Chef Jonathan,” she beamed as I stepped into the stage area, “are you ready to cook with the world watching?”
I smiled. “Let’s make something unforgettable.”
Before me were rows of seats filled with eager eyes and curious palates. Cameras clicked. Notepads flipped open. A breeze carried the scent of fresh herbs across the stage. Somewhere near the back, I heard someone whisper, “It smells like home already.”
Our first theme was A – Adapt. Mei introduced it with her signature spark: “How do we adapt food systems to work with forests, not against them?” And with that, she called up Valeria, a delegate from Colombia with kind eyes and the energy of someone who grew her own herbs on a balcony somewhere.
Together, we prepared vegetarian tacos—soft corn tortillas filled with grilled mushrooms, roasted red peppers, forest greens, and a drizzle of tangy tamarillo salsa. I spoke as I cooked, sharing how indigenous forest foods inspire more sustainable menus. Valeria added her voice, telling us about forest-foraging practices in the Amazon, where her grandmother still walks the same paths her ancestors once did.
The audience leaned in—curious, engaged, smiling. And when I handed the first taco to Mei, her reaction was pure poetry: “This tastes like the earth’s heartbeat—spicy, honest, and alive.”
Next came B – Balance. Balance between what forests give, and how we share their benefits. Mei called up Anika, a marine policy expert from the Philippines, to join me. We were making sesame-glazed salmon fillets—gently seared, resting on a bed of wild forest greens, with a soy-citrus dressing that sang with each bite. Anika spoke of coastal forests, mangroves, and balance—of how her people had learned to protect both fish and forest to survive. It was elegant. Uncomplicated. And yet, deeply moving.
Our final act was C – Change. This one felt close to home.
Mei turned to the audience. “To close, we want to bring you a dish that speaks of East Africa’s relationship with its land and traditions. Let’s welcome Mr. Kazungu from Uganda to the stage.”
He walked up smiling wide, already talking before the mic reached his mouth. “You know,” he began, “in Uganda, we call chicken enkoko. The Baganda roast it slow and spicy. In Kenya, the Luhya call it ingokho—and they don’t joke when it comes to chicken. In Swahili? It’s kuku—and when done right, it brings people together like a fire brings stories.”
Together, we grilled marinated chicken over an open flame—aromas rising into the Nairobi air. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t styled. It was real. Fire, spice, and memory.
As we plated the final dish, a gentle hush fell over the audience. You could feel it—the way flavors connected us. Across continents. Across languages. Through forests and farms. Through adaptation, balance, and change.
After the cooking show, we invited everyone to the buffet—where the flavors we’d demonstrated were served alongside other regional favorites like jollof rice, sautéed greens, and spiced lentils. Conversations flowed, laughter bubbled, and connections deepened over every shared plate.
By the end of the show, we weren’t just chef and audience—we were a room full of people reminded of the simple, profound truth: food is a storyteller.
As I packed up, still smelling of garlic, charcoal, and ginger, Mei came over, laughing. “You turned a policy conference into a potluck.”
And I smiled, wiping sweat from my brow. “That’s what food does—it invites people to the table.”
If you’re planning a corporate event in Nairobi, don’t settle for bland and forgettable. Let’s create an experience your guests will remember—not just for the food, but for how it made them feel. With A Tasted Cuisine, we don’t just serve meals. We serve meaning.
