There are people who walk down a street with purpose. They know where they are going. They have an ETA. They may even arrive at their destination at the time they originally intended.

I’m apparently not one of these people.

Because if I’m walking somewhere and notice what appears to be a small cabin tucked onto a side street in Fort Lee, New Jersey, with enormous windows and a suspicious number of people sitting cozily inside, there’s very little chance I am going to continue walking without investigating.

This is how I found Cheongsu.

From the outside, the place caught me before I knew anything about it. There was something almost incongruous about it, a warm little structure nestled into the surrounding streets, the kind of place that makes you wonder whether you have somehow wandered into another setting entirely. Through the windows I could see people gathered around tables. It looked warm. It looked busy. It looked like somewhere I wanted to be.

So I went in.

This particular personality trait of mine has resulted in a considerable amount of unnecessary eating over the years. I consider this one of its benefits.

Inside, Cheongsu continued the cabin illusion. There is wood and warmth and that particular kind of café energy where people seem to settle rather than simply consume something and leave. I started looking around, which is always dangerous, because looking around leads to looking at menus, and looking at menus leads to ordering things I had absolutely no intention of consuming five minutes earlier.

And then I saw the drink.

It looked like someone had taken a crème brûlée and decided it had been living an unnecessarily restrictive life as a dessert.

Naturally, I ordered it.

What arrived had a caramelized layer across the top and, importantly, instructions. I was handed a tiny wooden spoon and told that I needed to break through the top.

I appreciate foods that come with assignments.

There is something deeply satisfying about cracking the surface of a crème brûlée. It is culinary bubble wrap. You know exactly what you are supposed to do, and yet the tiny act of destruction feels disproportionately rewarding. I tapped through the top, scooped up a bit of what I had just shattered and tasted it.

Oh.

The top had that familiar burnt-sugar crunch, followed by the creamy sweetness underneath, and for a moment I was drinking a beverage and eating dessert and participating in a small craft project all at once.

This is the kind of experience that keeps me wandering into places.

I have realized that I increasingly like discovering towns this way. I can look up the “best” cafés. I can read rankings and reviews and save lists to my phone that I will promptly forget exist. There is something much more fun about noticing a window, wondering what is behind it and walking through the door.

Maybe it is also why I enjoy creating content so much. I am constantly looking for the little thing that makes an ordinary moment worth stopping for. A painting that seems to have something to say. A dish that deserves its own story. A café that looks like a cabin. A tiny wooden spoon handed to me with unexpectedly important responsibilities.

I am constantly looking for the little thing that makes an ordinary moment worth stopping for.

None of this was on my schedule.

Which, if you know me, is probably exactly why I enjoyed it.

And now I have another problem.

I saw several other things at Cheongsu that I didn’t try.

Obviously, I’m going to have to go back.