The waiter flew out of the door and put a plate on our pavement table and that characteristic aroma of something freshly deep-fried rose from the plate. The crumb coating on four ovoid shapes was ragged pale gold, like tempura, and flecked with herbs. There was a dipping sauce. Is eating something deep-fried and dipped in a tangy sauce the pinnacle of eating? William and Thomas thought so. Children like fried things. You can’t blame them. Their hands reached out. They bit and tasted, and tried to place the taste, and bit some more, and thought about it. Was it chicken? Was it fish? Music from a band in another cafĂ© fifty metres up the street floated down to us. It was playing Crimson and Clover , without the distortion. No, William and Thomas, I replied. It is not chicken. It is not fish. Don’t talk like a Dr Seuss book, they replied. Just tell us what the hell it is. I’m paraphrasing loosely. The never say ‘the hell’. In reply, I picked up the menu and read aloud from ...
Recipes and ruminations from a small house in a big city.