A Global Soul,
A Nigerian Heart
by Chef Tayo
A Global Soul,
A Nigerian Heart
by Chef Tayo
Thank you for joining us for dinner at the Ebi-Ayo Supper Club. I'm excited to share my personal journey with you, from my early years in Columbia, Missouri to the places that shaped how I cook. Nigeria, Italy, Brazil, France, Mexico, Costa Rica, and the Caribbean all left something behind in my kitchen, and you'll taste a piece of each of them tonight.
Every photo here is one I took myself. Use the menu above to jump to any country you're curious about, or move through them in order. Each one tells a story of flavor, culture, and the connections behind the dishes on your plate.
Columbia Missouri
Columbia, Missouri—where our "American Dream" began. This photo was taken during our first month in the United States. In this photo, you’ll see my sisters and me with our parents: Dad, Tade (top), and Mom, Taiwo (bottom). My older sister, Teni, is to the left of my mom, and my younger sister, Tope, is to the right.
December, 1998
Outside in the backyard of our apartment complex in Columbia, Missouri.
Who is this young man? (Haha!) I’m not exactly sure where this photo was taken, but it was likely at a grocery store or Walmart. My parents LOVED Walmart.
Abeokuta, Nigeria - This was our first family trip back to Nigeria in 11 years after we left in December 1998. This picture was taken in my hometown I was born.
January, 2009
Home, memory, and the flavors that shaped me
Nigeria is where memory and flavor meet for me. In Lagos, the markets, roadside grills, family tables, and celebrations all move with an energy that feels deeply familiar. The food is bold, generous, and built to be shared.
Lagos begins in the market, where color, sound, and scent arrive all at once. Peppers, tomatoes, onions, spices, and fresh produce fill every aisle, while each conversation becomes part of the rhythm. These markets remind me that every memorable dish starts with people and ingredients chosen with care.
Suya is one of the flavors I carry with me everywhere. The smoke, spice, and skill of the suya man turn a simple roadside stop into a ritual. Watching the meat meet the fire reminds me how technique, patience, and confidence can create something unforgettable.
Jollof rice is more than a dish. It is celebration, friendly competition, and the taste of gathering around one table. Every pot tells its own story, but the purpose is always the same: to feed people well and bring them together.
Nigeria taught me that food can hold identity, memory, and joy in the same bite. Those flavors remain the heartbeat of how I cook.
Simplicity, season, and a sense of place
Italy showed me how powerful simplicity can be. Across the south, the coast, and the cities, each meal began with respect for the ingredient, the season, and the people at the table. Nothing felt rushed, and every bite had a clear sense of place.
Along the Amalfi Coast and in Capri, the sea shaped everything. Bright citrus, fresh seafood, handmade pasta, and long meals overlooking the water showed me how atmosphere can become part of the flavor. The beauty was effortless because the cooking stayed grounded in what was fresh.
Naples brought fire, movement, and soul. Pizza fritta, street food, and neighborhood kitchens made it clear that some of the best meals are immediate and deeply rooted in daily life. The city cooks with confidence and feeds people with generosity.
From Rome to the countryside, I found dishes built on patience and tradition. Involtini, seasonal produce, olive oil, and slow meals connected technique to memory. The food was refined without losing the warmth of home.
Italy taught me to trust good ingredients, cook with restraint, and leave room for the table itself to become part of the story.
A lesson in patience and craft
France asked me to slow down. In Bordeaux, the story of flavor was everywhere, from stone streets and quiet courtyards to vineyards, cellars, and tables that seemed to stretch a little longer than planned. I watched patience become an ingredient: grapes resting on the vine, barrels shaped by hand, and wine opening slowly in the glass.
France changed the way I think about balance and how acidity can brighten richness, how texture can tell a story, and how a meal becomes unforgettable when the room, the people, and the plate move together.
Color, rhythm, and ancestral connection
Brazil arrived in color, rhythm, and motion. Rio lifted my eyes, from mosaic steps to mountaintop views, while Salvador pulled me closer to the stove, the market, and the people whose hands carry generations of knowledge.
Rio felt cinematic, but its food kept the experience grounded. Between the beach, flower stalls, city kitchens, and late night fireworks, I found a place that celebrates contrast: polished and spontaneous, relaxed and electric.
In Salvador, the connection to West Africa felt immediate. The bright streets of Pelourinho, the market cooks, the music, and bowls of moqueca all carried a familiar spirit. Ingredients crossed an ocean, but the instinct to feed people generously remained.
Brazil reminded me that food is memory in motion. It encouraged me to cook with more color, more boldness, and more joy.
Fire, texture, and everyday ritual
Mexico unfolded one bite at a time. The deeper I traveled, the more I saw how food could be ancient and immediate at once, built on corn, fire, patience, and the confidence to let a few strong ingredients speak clearly.
Mexico City is one of my favorite cities because every neighborhood offers another way to taste and understand it. I could begin with tacos from a crowded street stand, fresh coconut in the market, or food served along the canals of Xochimilco, then sit down at Pujol for one of the most thoughtful meals I have ever experienced. That range is what makes the city unforgettable. You can eat your way from everyday traditions to a restaurant celebrated around the world without ever losing the sense of place.
The food is only part of the journey. Teotihuacan, local markets, mariachi music, mezcal, art, and the people behind each meal opened another window into Mexico City’s history and culture. Every stop taught me something, and every bite gave me another reason to return.
Puerto Vallarta shifted the rhythm toward the sea. I watched oysters opened, whole fish grilled, tortillas pressed, and cocktails mixed with an ease that came from repetition and pride. The hospitality felt direct and unforced. It was the kind that makes a visitor feel like a regular.
Mexico sharpened my appreciation for char, acidity, heat, and texture. It reminded me that some of the most memorable food begins with a simple technique practiced until it becomes instinct.
Where the Pacific changed my cooking
Guanacaste is where my love for ceviche and fresh fish truly took root. Along Costa Rica’s Pacific coast, the food felt connected to the landscape. Bright citrus, seafood fresh from the water, cooking over an open fire, and ingredients that tasted like the place they came from.
The heart of this journey was meeting Chef José Lopez. We went on an incredible hike, and during the time we spent together I came to know José not only as a chef, but as a person. I learned about his story, his journey, and the experiences that shaped the way he cooks.
José was the one who showed me how to make ceviche. He taught me to respect the fish, let citrus and seasoning bring it alive, and understand when the dish was ready. It was more than learning a recipe. It was a lesson in how memory, place, restraint, and technique can live together in one bite.
Throughout the trip, I saw the thought he put into local ingredients, tradition, sustainability, and the people behind the food. Watching him cook and listening to his story gave me a deeper appreciation for cooking, not only for what reaches the plate, but for the journey, discipline, and generosity behind it.
Chef José became a good friend and remains one to this day. Whenever I make ceviche or cook with fresh fish, I carry a piece of Guanacaste, that hike, and his generosity into my own kitchen.
Four islands, one generous spirit
The Caribbean is not one flavor or one story. Across Roatán, Barbados, St. Kitts and Nevis, and Turks and Caicos, each island carried its own rhythm, but the invitation was always the same: come closer, eat well, and stay awhile.
Roatán gave me one of those meals that stays with you because of who made it and where you ate it. We stopped along the roadside and were welcomed by someone’s aunty, who served us a home cooked plate of oxtails so tender they fell from the bone, rice, and sweet plantains. The food was so good that I forgot to take a picture before I started eating. Some memories are captured by the camera, and others live in the feeling of that first bite.
Beyond the table, I watched the sunrise stretch across the water, traveled to the highest point on the island, and joined a rum tasting. The coconut rum stood out immediately and remains one of the best rums I have ever tasted. Roatán reminded me that the most unforgettable parts of a journey can be wonderfully simple: a generous home cooked meal, a beautiful view, and something delicious poured into a glass.
Barbados brought me into the heart of island creativity when I attended the Barbados Food and Rum Festival. The festival celebrated bold plates, local rum, open kitchens, music after dark, and cooks who made generosity feel effortless. Moving from one tasting to the next, I could feel how naturally the island connects food, culture, and community. That energy stayed with me long after the final bite.
St. Kitts and Nevis welcomed me with mountain views, warm people, and a food culture that made the islands feel both relaxed and alive. I came for the Nevis Mango Festival, where I learned the island grows 44 varieties of mangoes and watched chefs turn them into dishes that were sweet, savory, and completely unexpected. Between bites of grilled red snapper, Goat Water stew, lobster, and mango in more forms than I could count, I saw how Caribbean, African, and European traditions meet on the plate. What stayed with me most was the generosity of the Nevisians, who shared their food, stories, and island with an ease that made every meal feel personal.
Turks and Caicos centered the sea. Conch, seafood, open air grilling, and boats glowing at sunset made the journey feel both simple and luxurious. It was the kind of luxury that comes from freshness, not excess.
Together, these islands reminded me that hospitality is an ingredient. Food may change from shore to shore, but the desire to welcome, nourish, and celebrate one another travels everywhere.