Kilroy Was Here

They are a staple to millions, and a romantic treat to others. From busy wedding buffets to quiet funeral plates, their unctuous flavours mark both joy and loss across the changing chapters of our lives.

For me, noodles are both comforting and invigorating - thanks mostly to that extra hot dalle khursani I like to add. Perfect for solitude. And a natural choice for sharing too.

From kings to beggars, noodles are nourishment.

You may think noodles ask nothing of you. Except, perhaps, whether you should add more hot sauce.

But they do ask for patience. Watch how time slows down as they cool. That moment needs to be nurtured, embraced, as anticipation builds quietly - all the while, hunger willing you to attempt that first steaming hot forkful.

And dexterity with an implement is required too. This means concentration. And yet noodles disappear effortlessly when there is conversation to be had.

For me as a chef, noodles were always something more - a place of solitude. A place of reflection. A place of quiet planning. And then, just like the steam that wafts from the wok, they are gone in a matter of mouthfuls.

And what is left? Aside from that chilli tingle still dancing on your lips, you are left with the sense that the world feels brighter. A world more at peace. A world where humble dishes like noodles can connect and unite us more than any army can invade and conquer.

And there’s a bowl to wash up too. A small price to pay for an appetite settled and a head full of worldly wonder.

Kingdoms rise and kingdoms fall. But noodles will always be there, waiting to soothe your soul and lift your day.

Time to fire up the wok, I think.

There’s something interesting that happens when you sit down to write a story you think you already know.

You remember the headline moments - the big names, the photographs, the feeling of it all. But as you start to piece it together properly, the details begin to melt away like ice in your drink. Small things you’d forgotten resurface. Other parts turn out not quite as you remembered them.

Writing this piece about Kilroy’s and cooking for some big characters in the Everest generation became a bit of a journey in itself - part research, part reconstruction, and part rediscovery.

It took me back to a time when Kathmandu felt like the centre of a very particular world - one that I had the privilege to stand inside, even if only for a while.

A good reminder that memory is a storyteller… but not always a precise one.

Especially when drink is involved like the cocktail sampling casually happening in the photo below with record-holding mountaineers Alan Hinkes and Babu Chirri Sherpa. (A lifetime ago when drink was definitely involved.)

If you’re curious, here’s the full story: Cooking for the Everest generation

A few weeks ago I had one of those quiet moments where a small dream finally came true.

Seeing the Mona Lisa with my own eyes - up close - had been on my personal bucket list for many years. Standing there in the Louvre, I felt a deep sense of gratitude.

Life has taken me on quite a journey - from kitchens and adventures in Kathmandu many years ago, to moments like this in Paris. And it reminded me of something simple but powerful.

Dreams do matter.

No matter where we come from, if we set our hearts on something, stay patient, and keep moving forward, life sometimes brings us to places we once only imagined.

Paris was that place. Kathmandu will be again.

Because life has a beautiful way of rewarding those who keep walking towards their dreams.

🙏

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world… she walks into mine.”

It’s one of the most famous lines in cinema, spoken by Rick in his bar, Rick’s Café Américain, in the film Casablanca. Whenever I hear it, I can’t help smiling - because in my own small way, something very similar happened to me… and with very much the opposite of that brooding melancholia that Rick oozes throughout the scene.

Of all the restaurants, in all the cities, in all the world… Arati walked into mine.

And how lucky was I that she did? The restaurant in question was Kilroy’s of Kathmandu, and we had only been open a few months.

Thanks to some favourable reviews and a handful of celebrity diners (~ I’m looking at you Rajesh Himal!), it was already gathering a little momentum across the city… not to mention the climbers and expedition teams passing through Kathmandu on their way to scale the Himalayas – something I later reflected on in cooking for the Everest generation.

The open kitchen, the garden setting, and the sense of occasion also helped as our understated, yet vibrant atmosphere enveloped guests away from the hustle and bustle of the city beyond.

Around that time an enterprising Radio DJ approached us with an idea. Being as Saturday night - 13 February 1999 - would be the night before Valentine’s Day, she wanted to host a large ‘Valentine’s Eve’ party at the restaurant and sell tickets across Kathmandu. It sounded like fun - and in true Kilroy’s fashion, we said yes.

On the night itself, over 300 guests descended on us like a rock festival. For me it was the least romantic event ever, and yet it totally worked! We were on a roll.

With live band energy filling the garden and dining rooms we had celebs, hot girls, cool dudes, and even a few diplomats dancing, mingling and playing mischief. What a great night to be a restaurateur, I thought ,as I stood in the kitchen doing what most cooks do best on a Saturday night - keeping an eye on the service and making sure everything ran smoothly. At some point during the evening, I was told that a guest wanted to speak to the chef.

That guest was Arati.

Having sold some tickets for the organiser, she came along with her friend and was looking forward to the party. She had heard about Kilroy’s in the press and was curious about the food - but the fixed party menu wasn’t quite what she had expected. (Every ticket came with a meal of Dal Bhaat and a drink!)

So she asked if the chef might prepare something different. Being the chef patron, that request came straight to me.

Introducing myself at her table, I was instantly smitten, so I prepared one of my signature dishes - Jasmine Tea-smoked Quail Breast on Salad of Oriental Dressing, if I recall - and brought it out to her personally. It seemed the least I could do for someone who had taken the trouble to ask. We chatted briefly. After I retreated to the kitchen, one of my team said they thought she may have been a Nepali celebrity actress and that I should get my photo with her for some publicity. So, before she left I cheekily suggested we take a photograph together.

When I mentioned her movie career, she laughed and handed me a business card. As it turned out, Arati was working across town as Guest Relations Manager at a casino in Kathmandu, leading a team of more than sixty people in her department! I was so embarassed. And happy too, As I wouldn’t have taken the photo otherwise. I mean, who does that!?

A few weeks later we met again. This time at her casino when she was on duty, and our conversation flowed effortlessly. So, I invited her for dinner at Kilroy’s to properly enjoy my cooking from the menu. Dessert was on the menu.. as was a cheeky foot rub which she enjoyed as our romantic evening played out. Before long we were dating, and the story that began on a crowded Valentine’s Eve night quietly turned into something much more meaningful.

In October 2000 we were married at the Bhadrakali Temple in the heart of Kathmandu, surrounded by family and friends. Our daughter Jade was born in a private hospital in Putalisadak, Kathmandu and later we travelled to the United Kingdom where we celebrated again with a big fab Irish church wedding.

As I write this, it has been twenty-seven years since that unexpected evening at Kilroy’s. Looking back, it’s one of those moments that reminds you how unpredictable life can be. An unexpected restaurant booking. A menu request. A quick conversation between courses. And somehow, two became three because of it.

Looking back now, it feels even more fitting that the story of Kilroy’s – and the idea of bringing it back to Kathmandu one day – began with that simple moment across a restaurant table.

Over the years our story has appeared in the press, both in the UK and in Nepal, including a feature about Nepali and international couples joining hands and hearts. You can read that article here.

And recently we returned to one of the world’s most romantic cities to celebrate that chance meeting once again. If you’d like to see how that story has unfolded twenty-seven years later, you can watch our short travelogue here.

As Rick famously says in Casablanca: “We’ll always have Paris.” For us, it all began on a Valentine’s Eve in Kathmandu.

~ Thomas 🙏

Kathmandu has always been loud. Loud in the best way and the worst way. Horns leaning on patience. Motorbikes threading gaps that don’t quite exist. Music, voices, bargaining, laughter, incense, and a quiet acceptance of that sheer chaos - all layered at once. Thamel, in particular, doesn’t ease you in. It hits you head-on.

And the moment you did, something magical happened. The music beckoned. An oasis invited you in.

Inside those walls stood some of the tallest trees in the city, their branches forming a quiet canopy above the garden. Water cascaded down a mountainous stone fountain with no interest in who you were or where you were from. You crossed a small footbridge that slowed you just enough to take it all in.

Before you saw a menu or spoke to anyone, Kilroy’s of Kathmandu had already asked something of you. Not your attention – your curiosity.

The idea behind it all was simple: contrast.

Not luxury for its own sake, but relief. A sense that for the next hour – or two, or three - you didn’t need to compete with the city. You could chill. Catch-up on the gossip.. Eat at your own pace. Or just have a drink. And just be.

Inside, Kilroy’s offered choices. Garden or dining room. Bar or terrace. Trekkers fresh off the trail, couples on first dates, expats unwinding, Nepali businesspeople hosting clients – all coexisting without anyone feeling out of place.

That mattered more than we knew at the time.

Kilroy’s trusted the experience to do the talking. In a city defined by intensity, we offered welcome with plenty of warmth. Atmosphere that had character. Food with soul..

People often described it as an oasis. Looking back, I think they were right. That feeling still matters to us.

Kilroy’s was that kind of place once. And that’s the feeling we’re excited to rediscover again.

~ Thomas 🙏

Watching the Beastie Boys Story on Apple TV last night, I found myself drawn in to a story that epitomises what it means to change and adapt.. from tearaway teens to world-famous rock stars, it was a real roller coaster of an existence for infamous trio. What struck me was really how creative they were. Sure, they were not to everyone’s taste, but they were at the vanguard of their art at the time going on to become one of the most influential hip-hop groups of all time.

Performed as a live show, Mike Diamond (Mike D) and Adam Horovitz (Ad-Rock) did their best to make sense of a tale as tall as the penis the they featured on stage in their early shows.. because.. as the band put it at the time; why the £%$k not?

It was revelatory, hilarious at times, and without doubt, very moving as they remembered their friend - the band’s founder and tour de force - Adam Yauch (MCA), who tragically died of cancer at 47 years of age.

Do give it a watch with an open mind.. you just might be as surprised as I was to see it through to the credits two chaotic hours later.

It’s on Apple TV and here’s the trailer

[Image credit: ©beastieboys.com]

For the last 15 years, a simple phrase has sat at the top of my website:

“Change is the only constant.”

It captured something I’ve always believed. Life keeps moving forward. Organisations evolve. Markets shift. The people around us grow and change. The only sensible response is to stay flexible and move with it.

For a long time, I thought those words came from the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus.

Today I discovered he never actually said them.

So curiosity got the better of me, and I went looking for what he did say.

What I found really intrigued me.

Heraclitus wrote that you ‘never step into the same river twice’, because new waters are always flowing.

It’s a powerful metaphor for describing our everyday reality. The river may look the same, but the water is always moving.

As a chef I found running a restaurant is like that. And since I’ve learned that great leadership is like that.

On the surface, organisations appear stable. The same meetings, the same teams, the same structures.

But beneath it all, everything is shifting - people, circumstances, pressures, opportunities.

When you stand in a river, the current pushes past you. But your feet are anchored by the riverbed beneath you.

In leadership, that riverbed is your values and the principles you stand on.

Everything around you may change. In fact, it will.

But if your values are clear, they give you the footing you need to stand steady in the flow.

So while the quote I’ve used for years - change is the only constant - might not be historically accurate, the philosophy behind it still feels right in spirit.

Which means, ironically, that I won’t be changing it soon. Because while the river keeps flowing, the riverbed still holds.

While standing in the doorway peering in, I could see that it had gone. Everything had gone. The tall trees mostly now felled. The huge cascading fountain… removed and tiled over. In that moment, it felt like a death in the family and I needed my moment to grieve.

It was 2023… October, during the Dashain festivities. I was happy to by finally back in Kathmandu and taking a stroll through the busy streets of Thamel. It was still that chaotic circus-land full of tuk-tuks, trekkers and tiger-balm wallahs. An assertive ‘no’ is your only way to keep momentum.

I was curious to see what became of the venue that was my old restaurant ’Kilroy’s of Kathmandu’. It had closed as a business in 2015 after the earthquake. Indeed I had not set foot in the place since 2012, which was the last time I was back in Nepal. (Where do all the years go?)

Dodging bikes and rickshaws on my way to this spot that ‘people in the know’ once raved about, I tried to imagine what to expect. In truth, I couldn’t. And it certainly owed me nothing after 13 years of not going back. But still, I needed to see what became of my beloved Kilroy’s. Partly out of that curiosity. Mostly to find some form of closure.

And now as I peered in, I could see it was still a restaurant. For the moment, Korean. It felt totally different as an expression of what it once was, or even what could have been. With a team busy looking after guests at tables, it appeared to be quietly thriving as I perused the menu - trying to blend in and be left alone. An inquisitive member of the team approached me to ask if I wanted a table. I didn’t like to disappoint as I declined the offer, but said I’d have a drink in the bar if it was OK for me to have a quick look around the place.

“Of course!” he said as he wandered back to his station and I made my way up the stairs. Again, different. The original stairs were gone and these went the opposite way up - a climb I’d taken thousands of times, but today in a different direction. It felt surprisingly weird, and yet so very trivial.

The dining room had been stripped of all the wooden panels that once made it look like a Swiss chalet. In its place was a series of partitioned dining spaces along the windows. The panoramic view over the garden now looked out onto a plastic gazebo cover.

The cosy bar and fireplace? Ripped out and bereft of any atmosphere.. like the forgotten corner of a furniture store. I definitely wouldn’t be booking a table up here any time soon. The soul of what we once created had now left the building.

(Check out the side by side picture below.. for context, the pilar at the back of both photos is the same one!)

As I made my way back down to what could be described as an atrium, that sense of grief suddenly welled up inside me. This loss felt so raw. So final. After all these years of quietly daydreaming about bringing it back, I was facing the stark reality that my love affair with this venue was over. This oasis that gave so much to me in my formative years was finally being laid to rest in my mind.

I sat at the counter and reminisced for a few minutes with the bartender over a fresh lemon soda which he made with Himalayan salt. He didn’t know what Kilroy’s looked like back then, but he had heard about it and called his colleagues over. The young team of bright-eyed waitstaff were all intrigued by this foreigner wearing a suit who knew so much about this tiny corner of Kathmandu.

I finished my soda, thanked the team and made my way back out into the teeming streets to fight my way back across town. Riding pillion on a ‘motorbike taxi’ - in my Gucci suit with no helmet! - was the only way through. The exhilaration helped exorcise those ghosts I had finally had the chance to face.

A bittersweet experience, I’m glad I got to see it and say good bye in person. That chapter was closed in the most final way and I wanted to hate it. To feel angry or betrayed. In truth, I felt a sense of renewal - like a cloud had been lifted. Now I could move on and my yearning to dream it up took hold once again.

I don’t believe in reincarnation per ce, but I do believe in reinvention. (Hell, I built a career on it!). Myself and my wife Arati always knew we would be returning to Nepal to live and as that day slowly comes into view, I’m intrigued to know what this next chapter of a restaurant called Kilroys of Kathmandu will reveal itself to be.

The entrepreneur in me wonders if I would take on that same venue if it came onto the market? I don’t believe I would, but never say never. It’s not about the geography of the place. Well, not totally. But I’d definitely want to recreate that atmosphere we once had that made you want to stay longer than you intended and come back more often than you felt you should.

That’s a legacy worth chasing again.

I read some time ago about how research shows that working together boosts motivation.

You can read the article in full, but ‘their findings showed that when people were treated as though they were working together they… became more engrossed in the task and performed better on it’

I found this to be true when working with ChatGTP to run code and editorial checks while setting up this blog.

So engrossed that I skipped breakfast and lunch. Time to get some food…

I didn’t expect to end up back in RSS.

It was a recent episode of The Talk Show with Brent Simmons that nudged me there. Listening to him talk with John Gruber about feed readers took me back to a time when the web felt more coherent. Less fragmented. You chose what came into your field of vision. It didn’t arrive pre-sorted by some faceless algorithm whirring away in a data centre somewhere across the world.

The next morning I downloaded NetNewsWire again. Ten years later.

I’d forgotten how satisfying it is.

You open it and there’s just a list. Names you recognise. Writers who’ve earned your attention. No outrage ladder. No engagement bait. No invisible black box deciding what deserves oxygen.

One of the default guest feeds is Manton Reece. His posts struck me straight away. Snappy. Immediate. Almost like tweets - except they live under your own name. Your own domain. Your own banner.

RSS might be retro. But it endures. Vinyl is retro. Fountain pens are retro. The things that last usually are.

It asks you to choose. To curate your idea swatch. To pay attention to the nuance.

If you’re reading this in a feed reader, you probably get it already. And if you’re not, you might be surprised how quickly it feels like regaining control.

I’ve decided to write more in public again, and Micro.blog feels like the right place to do it.

I’ve long admired what Manton Reece has built here - a durable, independent space for people who still believe in owning their words. I’ve learned a great deal over the years from writers like John Gruber at Daring Fireball and Ben Thompson at Stratechery, and I continue to be inspired and entertained by their discipline of showing up, thinking clearly, and publishing consistently.

This feed is where I’ll share thoughts while they’re still fresh. Hot takes. Short reflections. A photograph that deserves a caption longer than a tweet. Sometimes longer essays too - but without the friction of formatting them over on Squarespace (~ another Gruber influence!) into something they’re not yet ready to be.

Over the past year I took up lifting weights and learned something along the way that applies here. Progress doesn’t come from motivation. It comes from consistency. Turning up when you don’t feel like it. Repeating the reps. Letting compound effort do its work.

Writing, I suspect, is no different.

www.thomaskilroy.com will be home to these stories, hot takes and reflections. while [www.kilroysofkathmandu.com/blog] documents the return of a restaurant I founded in Nepal two decades ago.. and the wider story of food, hospitality and culture of a changing Nepal.

This space is the notebook. The training ground, if you will.

Consistency beats motivation. Consider this post my first rep.