My Culinary Journey Onboard Explora Journeys
Explora Journeys’ culinary philosophy, rooted in discovery, craftsmanship and effortless pleasure, sets the tone from the very first moment on board. First-time cruiser James Massoud discovered that dining on board is not simply about where you eat, but how it makes you feel, with each experience leaving a lasting impression long after the Journey ends.
There are certain assumptions you might carry with you onto your first cruise. You imagine endless horizons, immaculate service and destinations that arrive one after another like photo memories on your phone. You imagine meals, too, though perhaps only as punctuation marks between excursions: breakfast before stepping ashore; lunch somewhere between ports; and then dinner after another sun has folded itself beneath the horizon.
I boarded EXPLORA II in Athens expecting remarkable places to eat. I hadn’t expected the restaurants themselves to become places I’d continue travelling back to long after returning home.
Amuse Bouche
There's a peculiar feeling that accompanies embarkation. Airports demand urgency; railway stations encourage movement. A ship asks for neither. The moment you step onboard, time loosens almost imperceptibly. Nobody hurries you towards your suite. There are no departure gates flashing overhead. Instead, there's an invitation to simply...begin.
Before I'd even found my suite, curiosity (and hunger) drew me towards Emporium Marketplace. The word marketplace feels deliberately chosen. Calling it a buffet would be technically accurate, but still somehow wrong. Buffets encourage accumulation, marketplace suggests discovery and the distinction matters.
Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off polished stone counters laden with food that looked as though it had arrived from half a dozen countries that very morning. Fresh fruits and salads sat beside various cheeses, which shared space with glistening seafood resting on crushed ice. Bakers invitingly slid trays of still-warm goods in front of me while, elsewhere, chefs worked quietly behind open kitchens, preparing dishes to order with an ease that never felt performative.
There was movement everywhere, but remarkably little noise. People drifted rather than queued. Some lingered while others wandered slowly between stations, changing their minds as new aromas and sights attracted the senses. It felt less like dining in a restaurant and more like strolling through a neighbourhood food market where nobody had anywhere pressing to be.
Outside, Athens was slipping quietly behind us. Inside, the adventure had just begun.
Emporium Marketplace
By the second day, breakfast had already developed its own rhythm. Each subsequent morning I found myself instinctively returning to Emporium Marketplace, though never for exactly the same meal. Some mornings called for impossibly flaky pastries still carrying the warmth of the oven. Others began with fresh fruit so fragrant it barely seemed to belong in the same category as supermarket produce back home. There were mornings when perfectly folded omelettes emerged from the kitchen within minutes, mornings that started with smoked salmon and crisp sourdough, and others when the simple pleasure of thick Greek yoghurt, local honey and toasted nuts seemed entirely sufficient.
Beyond the food, it became a place to observe the gentle choreography of life onboard. The same couple sat beside the windows each morning, sharing tidbits between them. A solo traveller occupied the corner with a novel, barely looking up except to watch another coastline materialise on the horizon. Families negotiated pancakes with diplomatic seriousness while waiters somehow remembered names, coffee orders and preferences after only a day or two.
Ships develop neighbourhoods in unexpected ways. Without ever arranging it, familiar faces began appearing each morning. We acknowledged one another with the quiet nod reserved for people sharing the same temporary world.
The sea changes appetite, too. Perhaps it's the salt carried on the breeze or the simple fact that days become unexpectedly active. You walk further than you realise. Staircases become preferable to lifts. Decks invite aimless wandering. Hours dissolve almost unnoticed between breakfast and lunch. Hunger returns honestly rather than habitually.
Food begins to mark the passing of the day in the same way church bells once measured villages.
Sakura
If Emporium Marketplace celebrated abundance, Sakura explored the opposite. Japanese cuisine has always fascinated me because it demands confidence rather than complexity. There is nowhere for mistakes to hide when a dish contains only a handful of ingredients. Precision becomes generosity.
Stepping inside felt like crossing an invisible threshold. The atmosphere changed almost immediately. Conversations softened, the lighting grew warmer. Rich timber, textured stone and clean architectural lines created a room that seemed deliberately insulated from distraction. Beyond the windows, the Mediterranean stretched endlessly into deepening blues. Inside, attention narrowed to the details immediately in front of you.
The open kitchen became its own quiet theatre. Watching the sushi chefs at work was unexpectedly hypnotic. There were no dramatic flourishes or unnecessary displays of speed. Every movement appeared economical, almost meditative. Knives glided through fish with astonishing precision. Rice was shaped with fingertips that seemed to apply exactly the same pressure every time. Tiny adjustments, invisible to most diners, revealed years of repetition. Good craftsmanship often looks effortless. Only later do you realise how much discipline effortless things require.
The first pieces of nigiri arrived with almost monastic simplicity. Perfectly formed rice supporting fish whose freshness announced itself long before flavour had the opportunity. Delicate sweetness, clean minerality, fleeting bursts of citrus, while freshly grated wasabi delivers warmth rather than aggression.
The experience reminded me that refinement is rarely about adding more. More often, it's about discovering what can be removed.
Outside, the ship moved almost silently across calm evening water. Inside, every course seemed to echo that same sense of balance. Perhaps that's what made dining at sea feel so distinctive. On land, restaurants inevitably compete with their surroundings. Traffic hums beyond the windows. Phones vibrate across tabletops. Plans for tomorrow interrupt conversations happening today.
Here, there was remarkably little beyond the present moment. The sea has an extraordinary ability to edit out unnecessary noise.
By the time dessert arrived, darkness had settled completely outside. The windows had transformed into mirrors, reflecting diners back at themselves while somewhere beyond the glass the Mediterranean continued carrying us quietly towards tomorrow's destination.
Walking back along the deck afterwards, I realised something had shifted. Not dramatically, but just enough. I had boarded expecting memorable restaurants. Instead, I was beginning to understand how thoughtfully designed spaces, exceptional ingredients and the gentle rhythm of ocean travel could combine into something far more immersive. Each meal wasn't merely inspired by a destination; it seemed to prepare you for it, sharpening your senses long before land appeared on the horizon.
The journey may have only just begun but so, too, had my education.
Fil Rouge
French cuisine has always possessed an enviable ability to absorb influences without ever surrendering its identity. It is endlessly copied, endlessly interpreted and yet somehow remains unmistakably itself. Sitting down here at Fil Rouge, I realised the restaurant wasn't trying to recreate a Parisian bistro or a grand dining room on the Left Bank. Instead, it distilled the confidence that sits at the heart of French cooking: exceptional produce and disciplined technique.
The room itself encouraged you to settle in. Soft amber lighting washed across warm woods and muted fabrics, creating the sort of atmosphere where conversations instinctively became longer. Nobody appeared to glance at their watch. Glasses were topped up almost invisibly. Bread arrived warm enough to release little clouds of steam as it was torn apart.
Restaurants often reveal themselves before the first course arrives. Some encourage efficiency. Others quietly suggest that you cancel whatever plans you thought you had afterwards.
Fil Rouge belonged firmly in the latter camp. By now the ship itself had developed a rhythm I recognised. Mornings unfolded gently before giving way to afternoons ashore. Returning onboard carried its own quiet satisfaction. Light footwear exchanged for loafers. A shower. A drink somewhere on deck while the coastline gradually dissolved into dusk. Then dinner, not as a scheduled event but as the natural conclusion to another day shaped by movement. It's remarkable how quickly routine becomes ritual.
The menu felt set in Europe's great culinary traditions without becoming beholden to them. The rich sauce of the escargot possessed remarkable lightness, while the seafood retained its delicate sweetness rather than disappearing beneath technique.
The former dish in particular lingered long after the plates had been cleared, not because it was elaborate, but because it understood restraint. The kind of cooking that leaves space for ingredients to speak in full sentences rather than shouting over one another.
Around us, conversations drifted between languages as effortlessly as the ship itself crossed international waters. English merged with Italian. Portuguese folded into German. Somewhere behind us came the unmistakable rhythm of Spanish. It struck me that dining onboard possessed its own quiet democracy. Different nationalities, different cultures, different stories, all temporarily gathered around the same pursuit of eating well.
Perhaps that is one of food's oldest gifts? It translates.
Anthology
Anthology felt different before I'd even opened the menu. Where the previous restaurants possessed distinct personalities, Anthology arrived with a sense of occasion. There was anticipation in the room, not forced excitement, but genuine curiosity. Diners leaned forward as courses arrived at neighbouring tables, catching glimpses of unfamiliar ingredients and quietly wondering what might be appearing before them next.
The restaurant's very name offers a clue. An anthology gathers individual stories into a larger narrative. So too does the meal.
Rather than presenting dishes as isolated compositions, each course seemed to exist in conversation with the one before it. Flavours echoed unexpectedly, ingredients resurfaced in different forms. Textures shifted almost musically from one plate to another. It wasn't simply progression, it felt like genuine storytelling.
Some tasting menus can feel oddly competitive, as though every course is attempting to outshine its predecessor. Anthology displayed greater confidence. Nothing fought for attention. Instead, each dish gently handed the baton of conversation onto the next.
As courses unfolded, I became increasingly aware of something beyond the food itself. The pace. Nothing arrived too quickly. Nothing lingered too long. The timing possessed an almost theatrical precision, allowing conversations to breathe before quietly introducing the next chapter. Looking around the room, I noticed phones remained largely forgotten beside wine glasses or discarded from the table completely. Nobody seemed eager to document every plate. There was a refreshing absence of performance from the diners themselves.
People were simply... present. Perhaps that's the elusive Ocean State of Mind expressed through food…
The awareness that, for this moment at least, there is nowhere else you need to be.
The refined Italian tasting menu has been curated by the esteemed Head of Culinary, Franck Garanger. One course drew inspiration from Japanese techniques, while another nodded towards northern Europe before Mediterranean flavours gently reclaimed the narrative with each dish celebrating Italy’s finest ingredients, flavours and regional styles. Nothing felt disjointed. The voyage itself provided the connective tissue. Just as coastlines gradually changed outside, so too did influences on the plate.
Good cooking reminds us that cultures have been borrowing from one another for centuries. Long before airlines existed, recipes were already crossing oceans. Looking out beyond the windows into the darkness beyond, I wondered how many of those ancient trade routes lay somewhere beneath us, invisible now but no less significant. Olive oil, spices, citrus, wine – so many of the ingredients that define Mediterranean cooking owe their existence to journeys remarkably similar to the one we were making now.
Except ours happened with considerably better wine.
Med Yacht Club
By the time I arrived at Med Yacht Club, something had changed. Not the restaurants – me.
I'd stopped comparing each meal to restaurants back home. I'd stopped wondering what would come next. Instead, I'd begun to trust the rhythm of the voyage. Perhaps nowhere embodied that feeling more completely than Med Yacht Club.
Its inspiration isn't confined to one coastline or one country. Instead, it draws from a region that has spent thousands of years exchanging ingredients, ideas and traditions across the same stretch of water we were quietly sailing. Olive oil pressed in Greece finds its way into kitchens in southern Italy. Citrus planted by Arab traders centuries ago still perfumes the hillsides of Sicily. Anchovies, capers, saffron, tomatoes and wine drift effortlessly between borders that, in culinary terms at least, barely exist.
The Med Yacht Club understands this instinctively. Bright acidity sharpened delicate seafood. Herbs arrived with their fragrance intact, as though picked only moments before service. Olive oil wasn't merely an ingredient but a finishing touch, adding richness without ever weighing dishes down. Vegetables retained their identity, their texture and their colour.
Outside, late afternoon light scattered across the sea in shards of silver. Through the windows, small islands appeared and disappeared with the quiet confidence of places that have watched travellers come and go for millennia. The view could easily have stolen the evening. Instead, it became another ingredient.
There are restaurants where scenery competes with the food. Here, they completed one another. Every glance towards the horizon seemed to deepen the flavours on the plate and bring the colours to life, while every course sharpened your awareness of the landscape slowly unfolding beyond the glass.
Somewhere during that dinner, I caught myself smiling for no obvious reason. Not because of any single dish or because of the impeccable service. Simply because everything felt entirely in balance.
Perhaps contentment rarely announces itself. Perhaps it arrives quietly, disguised as an (extra)ordinary evening you'll remember for years.
Marble & Co. Grill
Every journey deserves its final chapter and Marble & Co. provided mine.
Where Med Yacht Club celebrated freshness and lightness, Marble & Co. embraced elemental, primal pleasures. Fire. Smoke. The transformation of exceptional ingredients through careful cooking rather than complicated intervention.
The room possessed an altogether different energy. Laughter carried a little further, glasses clinked more frequently. The atmosphere felt celebratory without becoming formal, as though everyone instinctively understood they were approaching the end of something worth savouring.
Open flames have always fascinated us. Long before restaurants existed, gathering around fire meant safety, warmth and nourishment. Watching chefs tend glowing embers still awakens something deeply familiar, however sophisticated the surroundings. Cooking over flame demands confidence, as there is nowhere to hide. Seconds matter. Temperature matters. Judgement matters.
The result was remarkable in its honesty. Beautifully cooked cuts of meat, their exteriors deeply caramelised while interiors remained impossibly tender, arrived alongside seasonal accompaniments that understood their supporting role perfectly. Every element earned its place.
There is an elegance to simplicity when executed exceptionally well. It struck me that this philosophy had quietly united every restaurant onboard. Different cuisines, different cultures, different techniques. The same unwavering respect for ingredients.
As dinner drew towards its close, conversation inevitably turned to home. Not with reluctance exactly, but with the peculiar awareness that every journey eventually asks you to return carrying something you didn't possess before.
Most souvenirs remain in suitcases, the important ones don't.
Petit Four
People often ask what surprised me most about my first ocean journey. They expect me to mention the destinations or the ship. Perhaps the extraordinary sensation of waking each morning somewhere entirely different from where I fell asleep. Those things were unforgettable, don’t get me wrong, but for me personally they weren't the answer.
What surprised me most was discovering how profoundly food shaped my understanding of travel itself. Back on land, most of us often separate eating from exploring. Restaurants become rewards after museums, cafés punctuate shopping streets and dinner marks the end of sightseeing.
Aboard EXPLORA II, those distinctions quietly disappeared. The restaurants weren't interruptions to the voyage, but simply became another way of navigating it.
Every breakfast anticipated the day ahead, every dinner reflected where we had been or hinted at where we were heading next. Meals created a rhythm that slowed the mind enough to notice details that modern travel too often encourages us to overlook: the changing quality of light across open water; conversations shared; the simple pleasure of lingering because there was nowhere else to rush towards.
Travel, I realised, isn't measured by distance alone. It's measured by attention: Attention to flavour; attention to craftsmanship; attention to the people who quietly shape our experiences without ever placing themselves at the centre of them.
That, perhaps, is the true luxury of life at sea.
Long after I had unpacked my suitcase at home, I found the journey returning in unexpected ways. The aroma of warm bread escaping an independent bakery. A squeeze of lemon over grilled fish. The first peach of summer. A particularly good olive oil.
Memory has an extraordinary habit of attaching itself to flavour. Tasting one ingredient can transport us thousands of miles and several months in an instant.
When I think back to EXPLORA II now, I don't remember individual menus. I remember feelings.
Morning sunlight catching the polished counters at Emporium Marketplace. The disciplined calm of Sakura. The quiet confidence of Fil Rouge. The unfolding narrative of Anthology. The effortless warmth of Med Yacht Club. The glow of open fire at Marble & Co Grill.
Each restaurant spoke with its own voice, yet together they formed a single conversation – one about craftsmanship, curiosity and the enduring pleasure of gathering around a table, wherever in the world that table happens to be.
Before boarding, I imagined a voyage would change my perspective on travel. I hadn't expected it to change the way I think about dinner. Yet somewhere between Athens and the final port, carried gently across the Mediterranean one memorable meal at a time, it did exactly that.
And, in many ways, that's the journey that has stayed with me the longest.
A Diversity of Culinary Riches through Nine Distinct Dining Experiences
Worldly, sophisticated, and well-travelled, our food and beverage experts bring an abundance of experience and artistry to the curation of our immersive, onboard dining experiences. Seasonal and soulful, each dish and drink tells a story, elevating our culinary offering to an unforgettable experience at sea.
