You know how some experiences are so delicious and perfect in the moment that you’re certain you will remember them forever? And then you do remember them forever? And they get sweeter with every remembrance? Of course you do. If they involve food or drink, they are especially evocative. But any such experience can’t be duplicated. These three, I cannot forget nor relive.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean I will stop trying.

One afternoon many years ago in Paris, in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, after I’d walked leisurely through the Jardin du Luxembourg and past the Fontaine Saint-Sulpice, I ended up at Les Deux Magots, which was frequented by Hemingway and Sartre and de Beauvoir and Picasso in a previous era. I stopped for a glass of Bordeaux and a salad and sat for a while and— what else?— wrote in my journal. I had another glass of Bordeaux. Sated (I thought), I wandered back toward the Boulevard Saint-Michel, meandering through the narrowest streets of the 6th arrondissement, a little giddy.

At least I think that’s where I was.

A tiny storefront caught my eye as if it sprung up from nowhere. I looked, and it wasn’t there. I looked, and it was there. I remember the storefront being a rich brown with fancy gold hand-lettering on the glass, but I can’t swear to that. The patisserie’s window was filled with an array of sweets I hadn’t seen the likes of. A chocolate tarte the size of an espresso saucer sang out to me. And while it is a bit rude in Paris to eat while you’re walking down the street, I couldn’t wait until I got to a park or a bench. The tarte was exquisite in taste and texture. I did manage to save half of it for when I got back to my hotel.

But as much as I enjoyed eating it, I dreaded finishing it. Because then it would be gone.

I’ve been back to Paris a couple of times since. I cannot find the patisserie. I cannot even be sure of the street. I’ve searched for it online. It really is as if it sprung up from nowhere— and then went right back.

Many years later, on a trip to Italy with my husband, a poet, I had another unforgettable experience. We were staying at a seaside hotel in Portonovo, on the Adriatic. My husband had given a reading earlier that day at a 13th century church on a cliff overlooking the ocean. In the sand churchyard grew olive trees that provided shade— but little protection against the sudden rainstorm that popped up. He read his poems in English, and his translator read them in Italian. They took turns reading, so it was easy to know who understood English when my husband read first, judging by their reactions. The audience was gracious and attentive, the kind any poet would love to have, and the reading was a high point of the trip.

That night on a high terrace at the Fortino Napoleonico that looked out over the water, my husband, his translator, his translator’s girlfriend, and I had a lively celebratory dinner, enjoying the salt air and dying pink light. I’m not sure if what happened had something to do with all of them having eaten until they couldn’t eat any more (because they liked seafood, and it was fresh and expertly prepared) and me not having eaten much (because I don’t like seafood, no matter what), but when the after dinner moscato was served, the night improved immeasurably for me.

From the first sip, I was enraptured. The moscato smelled and tasted like roses. I could hardly believe it. I was in heaven. But they just kept talking; they weren’t drinking their moscato. When I said they should try it because it smelled and tasted like roses, they looked at me like I was crazy. They said it didn’t matter. They were satisfied and they didn’t like moscato anyway.

Neither did I. But this moscato was different.

I drank mine and my husband’s. Looking across the sea to a mountain in the distance, I slowly sipped. Their voices faded to a murmur as I floated on a cloud of delight. (Yes. It was that good.)

Back home in Florida, I bought many bottles of moscato, one by one, despite not liking moscato. I was trying to find that one moscato that I loved. I finally got the idea to ask the hotel what they served. I had to remember where we were (because I no longer journaled while traveling), which took a bit of sleuthing on Google Maps. (I initially remembered that we were in Ancona, not Portonovo.) The hotel responded to my email with the information I needed. I contacted the winemaker. They could not ship alcohol to the U.S., but if my friends wanted to buy some and ship it to me that was okay. They weren’t my friends, and they lived a long way from Portonovo.

I went back to Italy again a few years later (I just realized that my life might seem eternal to you, but I have yet to hit sixty), and I was going to find this moscato. But before this trip, I had done a massive clean out of my email. And, yes, you guessed it, all of that information had been lost.

I gave up on trying to replicate this moscato experience, accepting that it was singular and magical.

The third of my top three summer delights is something I thought of today before my husband left to run errands. He asked if he could pick up something for dinner. It’s summer. It’s hot. I wanted a light meal. I said, “How about that gaspacho?” He knew exactly what I meant, and he said “Yes!”

My husband and I went to Portugal in July a few years ago. We had a long drive from Lisbon to Evora, a medieval city that felt like it was in the dead center of a huge country, even though it’s not. We drove through many towns where the road narrowed down between businesses and houses so much that only one car could pass at a time. And we drove through many, many miles of sunflowers, bright and golden, under clear blue skies.

Imagine that— driving down a country road and you’re suddenly in the middle of sunflowers that go on and on and on. We were a little put out about our GPS taking us through towns where we even had to stop for pedestrians because we couldn’t both pass; I mean, those roads were narrow. But we didn’t mind the time we spent sailing through sunflower fields.

We arrived at our hotel just inside the city walls hot, weary, and hungry. I turned into the hotel property and found that we were in a humble little courtyard that did triple duty— as a motorcourt, an entrance to the parking garage tucked impossibly under the hotel, and on the other side of a row of potted trees, an outdoor dining area. I stopped right there. I didn’t dare try to negotiate the tight 90-degree turn to the parking ramp that disappeared under the courtyard. I couldn’t see how a car could fit.

One of hotel staff drove the car down into the parking garage for us. I felt a huge relief as we watched it disappear into that dark place. I had no desire to go down there.

Another member of the staff, understanding our dire condition, ushered us to a living-room type space, and said we could wait a bit to check in. Nothing to worry about. She would return soon.

She surprised us with bowls of the most delicious gaspacho in the world, along with glasses of cold white wine.

Unlike other gazpachos, Portuguese gaspacho Alentejo style was not a cold slurry of vegetables. Gaspacho Alentejo style: diced green pepper, cucumber, onion, and garlic in cold water with spices (lots of oregano), a bit of apple cider vinegar (don’t be stingy), and a healthy dose of olive oil, topped with day-old chunks of bread (or chunks of French bread that you cubed in the morning and let sit out all day) and ice cubes thrown in.

Yes, ice cubes.

The experience was immensely satisfying. And (do I need to say it?) unforgettable. We could not have dreamed up a better cure for our condition.

I’ve tried to make this Alentejo style gaspacho before, but I was only guessing based on recipes I found online. Today, I found the recipe from that hotel, and I’m going to try to make it again tonight. I know my version won’t measure up. The experience cannot be duplicated. But my mouth is watering already.