Bacon is one of the few things on earth that a man can use to measure whether he’s home or not. After eight weeks of European breakfasts, I needed three mornings in a row at table 19 in the Midtowner before the question got settled. The bacon here is cooked the way bacon was meant to be cooked – crisp at the edges, no microwave shortcuts, not the almost-raw, European, ham-like floppy pork I ate for the better part of two months. Bacon, done right.

The Europeans have us beat on a few things. Olive oil. Old masters. Pasta dishes. The general willingness to spend two hours on a meal that probably didn’t need to take more than 30 minutes. Fair enough, no argument from this writer. But pancakes and bacon are ours, and it isn’t even close. Eight weeks of European breakfasts, and I’m here to tell you the cold cuts and baked beans do not stack up. Not even close.

I came home grateful. Grateful for table 19. Grateful for the parking spot that’s always waiting on me in front of the restaurant at 6:45. Grateful for the team back home that ran five restaurants and two bars without missing a beat while I was off staring at a fjord. Grateful for a family who puts up with my weird schedule and numerous eccentricities. Grateful, frankly, that any of this is the life I get to live.

A morning like this one will get a man thinking.

Two months on the road has a way of stirring up the questions one tries not to ask. Now I’m back at table 19 with three glasses of iced tea (man, I miss iced tea), and the same question is still waiting on me.

What scares me isn’t failure. It’s living a life that never really mattered. Falling short doesn’t keep me up at night. Playing small does. Standing before God one day knowing I played it safe when I was called to live fully – that’s the one that does.

For years, I didn’t have a name for that particular fear until I heard someone on a podcast last year tag it as “the fear of an unlived life.” That phrase has stayed with me. The unlived life haunts me because it isn’t built in one big surrender. It’s built one small compromise at a time, one day at a time, until one day becomes a lifetime.

Gifts buried. Words unsaid. Work undone. Comfort crowding out purpose. That’s the version of my life I’m fighting against – every morning, every decision, every yes and every no.

The real loss isn’t losing. It’s never stepping into the life I was meant to live. I’m not here to coast. I’m here to go all the way.

I’m 64 years old now. Working harder than I worked at 34, and I worked hard at 34. I don’t know whether that’s age tightening up the calendar or whether I’m just more plugged in to the work than I used to be. Probably a little of both. The years feel shorter and the list feels longer, and that combination tends to make a man pick up the pace.

The actuarial tables give me about 15 more years. The insurance people peg me right around 79. With all due respect to the bean counters, I’m not interested in those numbers. My goal is a healthy 100. That isn’t me being cute – that’s an actual plan. Eat better. Move more. Sleep well. A plan, not a wish.

That isn’t 15 summers left. That’s 36. More restaurants to open. More countries to discover. More mornings at table 19. More opportunities to hand to the next generation of people who work with me. The well isn’t anywhere close to dry.

I’m blessed to love what I do – and I mean that. Restaurants, podcasts, books, tours. More than 1,500 Yonderlusters across 10 years. A team I trust enough to leave for eight weeks at a time.

I don’t take any of it for granted.

Plenty of folks can’t travel. Health, money, the season of life they’re in, kids at home, jobs that don’t allow for it – the reasons are real, and I’m not preaching from a villa. Travel isn’t the only road out of the unlived life.

A friend told me once about a guy he knows whose entire borders end at Oxford and Destin. Everything he’s ever wanted lives in the space between. Granted, those are not bad borders. Oxford is charming, and Destin’s beaches are some of the best anywhere. But the borders are the borders. He’s stayed inside them his whole life and never wanted out.

Some of us are wired to keep pushing the line. I’m one of them.

The unlived life is built out of small nos. No to the trip. No to the unfamiliar table. No to the stranger who could have become a close friend. It’s a life narrowed down to 6 square miles and 10 familiar meals, and it shrinks quietly until there’s nothing left to shrink.

And travel is practice in saying yes. You book the flight. You gas up the car. However you get there, you sit down and share a meal with people you don’t know who, within a matter of days, will become friends. Every one of those yeses is a rehearsal for the bigger yeses – the calling, the risk, the thing you’ve been putting off for 15 years.

That’s the bridge. Fear the unlived life, and travel is one of the answers. Not the cure. Not even close. But a good and faithful start.

Back at table 19. The bacon is gone. The waitress refilled my tea glass three times without being asked (they know me well). Thirty-six summers left, give or take. Plenty of time, and not nearly enough.

I came home grateful. Always do.

Onward.

MINESTRONE SOUP

Yield: 1 gallon
I created a version of this in the early days of the Purple Parrot Cafe in the late 1980s. When we opened Tabella, I revised it, and it’s a regular menu item.

Ingredients:
1/4 c. pure olive oil
1 1/2 c. onion, diced
1 1/2 c. carrot, diced
1 c. celery, diced
1/2 c. garlic, minced
1/4 c. kosher salt
1 tsp. dried basil
1 tsp. dried oregano
1/2 tsp. dried thyme
2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1/4 tsp. crushed red pepper
2 bay leaves
2 Tbsp. balsamic vinegar
1/2 c. white wine
1/4 c. tomato paste
(2) 28-ounce cans San Marzano tomatoes, chopped
1 gal. vegetable stock
2 c. zucchini, medium dice
2 c. yellow squash, medium dice
(1) 10-ounce package frozen spinach, thawed and drained
(2) 15-ounce cans kidney or cannellini beans, drained
1/4 c. pesto
1 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce

Directions:
■ Heat olive oil in a stockpot over medium-high heat.
■ Add onions, carrots, celery, salt, peppers, basil, oregano, thyme and bay leaves. Cook for 8-10 minutes, stirring frequently.
■ Add wine and balsamic vinegar. Continue cooking for 3 minutes.
■ Add tomato paste and cook 6-8 minutes, stirring constantly and being careful not to let it burn.
■ Add canned tomatoes and vegetable stock. Simmer for 1 hour.
■ Add zucchini, squash, spinach and kidney beans and cook for 8 minutes.
■ Remove from heat and stir in pesto and Worcestershire sauce.

Robert St. John is a restaurateur, author, enthusiastic traveler, and world-class eater from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He has spent four decades in the restaurant industry, written 13 books, and written a syndicated newspaper column for more than 24 years. Read more about Robert at robertstjohn.com.