In a Sri Lankan restaurant in Auckland, New Zealand, I almost proposed to Alan. We had the room to ourselves, our private salon in a far-away land. The flickering candles sent shadows dancing across the batik-draped walls, and as we glanced down the menu, we found it full of intriguingly incomprehensible dishes. If we ever wanted an exceptionally unconventional place to get engaged, this was it.

Even with all the travelling we’d done in our nine years together, of all the places we’d travelled to eat, this one ranked pretty high on the offbeat spots list. I looked over the top of my menu at Alan. The candles reflected off of his face, which was beginning to bronze from the South Pacific sun. I took a deep breath. Suddenly, like a rogue wave that crashes abruptly against the rocks, a group of boisterous businessmen burst through the door —ties loosened, jackets scattered over their shoulders. As if they’d just finished hoisting a few at the pub, they launched into spontaneous unaccompanied karaoke.

I sighed. And just then, the gracious waiter hovering over our table cleared his throat and murmured ever so politely that we had just ordered four kinds of bread but no main dish. Clearly, this was not the perfect moment. Besides, a little voice at the back of my head was whispering, “What if he says no?”

Well, no, I knew he wouldn’t just say no. After nine years together, we’d often talked about marriage. We owned our apartment together; we had a joint checking account. We’d sat on sofa after sofa till we found just the one that fit us both perfectly.

Frankly, after nine years of being everything-but-married, I was just a wee bit tired of waiting. But Alan kept saying that we’d know the right moment when it came, the perfect time to settle down.

Somehow, to me, here on the other side of the world in March’s balmy early autumn, it seemed as if that moment had arrived. Of course, we hadn’t set out on a get-engaged trip. I was travelling this Melbourne/ Wellington/Auckland/Sydney circuit on business, and Alan flew over to join me after my first week alone in Melbourne. When he had staggered jet-lag exhausted into our Melbourne hotel, right away I took him to dinner. Early in our relationship, after a heated argument on the Cours Mirabeau in Aix-en-Provence, we had established our golden rule of travel: Alan would let me drag him all over the world as long as he knew where his next meal was coming from. That argument, which had seemed so trivial that long-ago day in France, began when Alan wanted to stop for coffee and a pain raisin. I was frantic. How could he just sit in a café and eat? I yearned to keep moving, go places, see the sights. “Relax,” he had said finally. “The Grand Canal will still be there, whenever we get to Venice. Now, it’s time for lunch.”

Although I continued to protest at first, from then on I indulged Alan’s frequent stops —for croissants in Paris, for fiery curries in Bangkok, for crispy cod fritters in Martinique. And I began to enjoy the quest for food, for the melt-in-your-mouth grilled squid in Madrid, for tangy pollo pibil in the Yucatan, for the best dim sum in Hong Kong.

I began to haunt markets with him (Look at those mangoes! Let’s get a slice of that pâté!), to picnic on park benches, to savour that glass of wine. I slowed down to match the rhythm of his hunger, and he quickened his well-nourished steps to keep pace with me. That weekend after Alan arrived in Melbourne, we rode the screeching trolleys from one meal to the next. To Chapel Street in funky South Yarra for succulent tandoori chicken. To a cozy Vietnamese eatery where the waiter brought a live-and-kicking crab to our table, then returned minutes later with the quickly stir-fried crustacean, now dressed in a savory chili sauce. To the “Fresh Hot Pies” shop, which to Alan’s delight, we discovered right at snack time.

When we flew to Sydney, we set off exploring again, continuing our food tour with lunch at the Hot Gossip Café and grilled octopus at a trendy brasserie in seamy King’s Cross. We made the food tourist’s pilgrimage to Doyle’s, a classic waterfront seafood joint, where we sat in the sun, slurped cool Sydney rock oysters washed down with crisp Chardonnay, and wondered if somehow we could stay there forever.

One evening, near the end of our time in Sydney, we came across a restored Victorian gingerbread house-turned-restaurant, a genteel Hansel-and-Gretel cottage transplanted into an urban artists’ quarter. Inside, the snug dining room was all pale blues and incandescent candles. As soon as we sat down, the waiter appeared, as if on cue, with a plate of appetizers and two flutes of sparkling wine. Alan held up his glass to make a toast. He began, “I’d like to propose...”

He stopped, his face suddenly a proud grin. I stared at him. I waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, I began to cry. “Well?” he demanded, his voice beginning to crack, “are you just going to cry? Or are you going to marry me?” Laughing and sobbing at the same time, I nodded. Yes, yes, of course, yes. He leaned across the table to kiss away my tears. Then, arms intertwined, we clinked our glasses and sipped our Champagne. And together, we began to eat.