One of the first little food differences you notice in Colombia happens the moment you sit down at a restaurant and do something incredibly normal.

You ask for water.

And you don’t get water.

You get questions.

“With gas or without?”
“With ice or without?”

And I’m sitting there thinking: I didn’t realize this was a personality test. I just wanted… water. In the U.S., you say “water” and they hand you a glass full of ice whether you asked for it or not. The decision has already been made for you by the American water system.

And then there’s the one that breaks your brain on day one:

In Colombia, limón is a lime… and limón amarillo is a lemon. The words exist—your brain is just wrong immediately.

And that pretty much sets the tone for food in Colombia:
Everything is familiar, but also not quite. Like the universe is running the same software, just in Spanish, with different default settings.

So today we’re doing 10 everyday food differences between the U.S. and Colombia. Not “better” or “worse.” Just the little things you notice once you stop being a tourist and start living a normal life—buying groceries, ordering lunch, and trying to figure out why your hot chocolate has cheese in it.

Let’s get into it.

In the U.S., “water” is a single item. It arrives cold and heavily iced, like it just came back from a ski trip.

In Colombia, “water” is a choose-your-own-adventure.

It’s small, but it says a lot. In Colombia, food and drink are treated like a real experience—even the basics. In the U.S., we optimize. In Colombia, they customize.

And after a while you realize: this is the country where people are perfectly comfortable taking five extra seconds to do it the way they actually want it.

That theme comes back again and again.

This one is subtle until you go grocery shopping and you start reading labels.

In Colombia, ingredient lists are… short. Like suspiciously short if you grew up in the U.S. You flip something over and it’s just a few items. No paragraph. No chemical poetry. No warnings that sound like legal defense.

In the U.S., ingredient lists can feel like they were written by someone who’s mad at you.

You start strong:
“Okay—flour, sugar…”

Then it keeps going.
And going.
And now you’re reading things that sound like they belong in a lab, not a snack.

In Colombia, if the label looks too complicated, people don’t get angry—they get cautious. Like:
“Why are you working so hard to be food?”

That’s the vibe shift:
In the U.S., food is often engineered.
In Colombia, it’s more often just… food.

If you’re American, this sounds fake.

In Colombia, people put cheese in hot chocolate.

Not melted fancy cheese. Not a garnish. Not “artisan.” Just cheese. In the cup.

The first time someone tells you, you assume it’s a prank. Then they hand it to you like, “Yeah, obviously.”

And the weird part is… it works.

It shouldn’t. You know it shouldn’t. Your entire upbringing is telling you this is wrong. Then you take a sip, pause, and reconsider your personality.

The salty cheese with the sweet hot chocolate makes sense in a way you can’t fully explain. It’s not immediate. It’s more like your taste buds do an emergency meeting and vote 6–4 in favor of trying it again.

And that’s Colombia in general:
Things that shouldn’t work… but do… and nobody feels the need to explain it to you.

In the U.S., eggs come in a dozen. Breakfast item. Very organized. Very scheduled.

In Colombia, eggs come in cartons of 30.

Thirty.

Like you’re preparing for something. Like the country is quietly expecting you to make a lot of arepas.

Also: people eat eggs whenever. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—there’s no “egg rulebook.” They’re just food.

And then the part that makes Americans nervous:

The eggs aren’t refrigerated.

As a U.S. person, this feels illegal. Like the government should be notified.

But here’s why: in the U.S., eggs are washed in a way that removes the natural protective coating. Once that coating is gone, refrigeration becomes necessary. In Colombia (and most of Latin America—and much of Europe), eggs are handled differently, so refrigeration isn’t always required in the same way.

And you’ll notice something else: the yolks are often deeper orange. Eggs in the U.S. can feel like a product. Eggs in Colombia feel like someone handed you an egg and didn’t need a marketing department to do it.

This one is wild when you notice it.

In Colombia, people generally don’t eat in their cars.

No fries between the seats. No half-drunk coffee living in the cup holder. No “mystery crumbs” from three months ago. The steering wheel is not a dining table.

Food is something you sit down for. Even if it’s five minutes. You eat, then you drive. Two separate activities. And somehow everyone survives.

In the U.S., eating in the car is normal. Sometimes it’s necessary. Sometimes it’s just Tuesday. In Colombia, it feels chaotic—like you’re fighting traffic and fighting a sandwich at the same time.

This is one of those differences that sounds small… until you realize it reveals something bigger about pace and stress.

In the U.S., “kids food” is a category.

It’s beige. It’s soft. It usually comes with ketchup. And there’s always a negotiation happening.

In Colombia, kids just eat… food.

Rice. Soup. Meat. Vegetables. Whatever is on the table.

No separate menu. No “I only eat nuggets.” No bargaining like you’re in a hostage situation over broccoli.

And what’s funny is: it works. Kids adapt because the culture expects them to. The table is the table. You don’t get a separate reality just because you’re short.

This might be one of the biggest quiet differences of all.

American bread can taste like cake that went to public school.

In Colombia, bread tastes like… bread.

Sauces aren’t sweet by default. Snacks aren’t sweet by default. Drinks often aren’t sweet by default. And sodas commonly use real sugar instead of corn syrup-style sweetness that hits you like a truck.

The surprising part is you adjust fast.

After a while, some American food starts tasting less like food and more like an experiment that got out of hand.

In Colombia, you don’t feel like sugar is hiding behind every corner of your diet. And once your taste buds recalibrate, it’s hard to un-notice it.

In the U.S., food often comes with an emotional spreadsheet attached.

In Colombia, you don’t see the same obsession with labeling food as “good” or “bad.” People aren’t constantly negotiating with an app. They’re not logging every bite like they’re under supervision.

They just eat normal amounts, walk more, and go on with life.

It’s not that nobody cares about health. It’s that the culture doesn’t turn every meal into a moral decision.

Food feels more like a normal part of life—and less like a debate.

Portions in Colombia aren’t tiny. They’re just… reasonable.

You get a plate of food and it looks like someone expected you to keep living afterward.

In the U.S., portions can feel like a challenge. Like the food is saying, “Let’s see what you’ve got.” In Colombia, the meal ends before your body has to file a complaint.

And somehow you don’t feel like you’re missing anything.

You just stop because you’re done.

That feeling is weird when you’re not used to it.

In the U.S., the check arrives the moment your last bite hits your mouth. Sometimes before. It’s like the restaurant is gently saying, “We love you, but also please leave.”

In Colombia, nothing happens until you ask.

No hovering. No rushed turnover. No subtle pressure.

You’re allowed to sit there. Talk. Think. Exist. Stare into the distance like you just made a major life decision.

It’s one of those small differences that changes how dining feels. Food becomes less transactional and more social.

And once you get used to that… it’s hard to go back.

In Colombia, fruit and vegetable shops are everywhere—on your block, around the corner, sometimes two on the same street.

You don’t need a car. You don’t need a massive supermarket run. You just walk in, buy what you need, and leave.

In the U.S., buying produce can feel like an event: drive, park, navigate aisles of things you didn’t come for, forget one item, and emotionally prepare to go back.

In Colombia, food fits into your day. It doesn’t take over your day.

And that might be the most underrated luxury of all.

None of this is about saying one country is perfect.

It’s about noticing how food feels different when it’s simpler, less engineered, and a little more human.

In the U.S., food often feels optimized.
In Colombia, it feels lived in.

People eat. They sit. They talk. Then they go on with their day.

And once you experience that, it quietly changes how you think about food back home.