For the last two years, I asked myself one key question: how can good food and drinks bring people together—and how can we leverage that power in our modern technological and industrial isolation?

Nowadays, when many of us go out to eat, we are not only accompanied by our dearest friends, but also by the inseparable cling of our cellphones and the technological parasitism they represent. We also feel the need to falsify our personalities to adhere to social or cultural conventions. If our minds are distracted by technology and we put up facades, we lose a critical aspect of being ourselves—and being human.

It is only when we go and humble ourselves that we realize the preciousness of what we are really given. In the locations I have run, the environment has always been subpar—mildly uncomfortable seating, shaky tables, cramped rooms, and barely any arm space between you and the person next to you. But this supposed inadequacy is what actually destroyed that facade we all are compelled to put up. And when coupled with an environmental comfort of warm ambient low-lit lights, candles, soothing jazz music—and most importantly the food and drinks—we begin to see the preciousness in all that we are given.

For each dish, each morsel of food, we now view with care, intent, and thought. We think to ourselves: where did this food come from? And what love was put into cooking it to its final version? We give the food our mindfulness, and in the end we transcend our subjective boundaries as we realize there is so much more to what food can be. Now when we look at the friends eating with us, we see them not just as friends, but as incredibly precious companions sharing an incredibly precious meal. Instead of being caught up in the facades—which we now realize are frivolous—we share and exchange love between the food and one another.

Unfortunately, as soon as one steps out of this environment, that powerful feeling of awe and humbleness quickly evaporates, and we must put back on our mask to protect the self as we scurry back into the illusory race of the modern world. Any attempt of mine to have created a feeling of honesty and realness quickly fades away. If all that I worked for ends up being a Sisyphean task, I question the point of what I am doing.

Regardless, the fleeting moments of realness are what have driven me for the last two years. Seeing people throw out facades and ideas of who they should be, and instead interact as if they had no care in the world for how they were viewed. I was able to see the difference in how that felt compared to most of the rest of the modern world. It’s a tremendously beautiful feeling that I will continue to cherish going forward.

For me, Jeffreys Lounge was never really about the food or the drinks. Instead, it was always about fostering an authentic, raw human connection in a mindful, unhurried environment. It was surreal to see how the toils of my labor could become a catalyst for the flow of intimacy and love. It was always amazing to feel so alive—giving my utmost concentration and care to the product I was making, while the room around me reverberated in conversation and laughter.

I’ll be glad if people will remember Jeffreys Lounge for how it made them slow down and appreciate life a little more. I’ll be glad if they realize the absurdity of the entire thing. And I’ll be glad if they can understand the intention behind it all.

Since I’ll be moving into a place without a kitchen, I won’t be able to continue the private dinners. But who knows—something else may happen.

Until then. Sincerely,

Jeffrey HaoZe Yuan

Founder, Chef, and Bartender of Jeffreys Lounge (2023 – 2025)