Inspired by a dish I ate at a Boston brewhouse, this has a lovely butteriness that sets off the sweetness of the kale brilliantly.
My reason befuddled by alcohol, I ate my first rabbit-head, cleft in half and tossed in a wok with chilli and spring onion.
Taken to France on a tour by Mumm, I ate in a cafe near Paris, where the dessert included a hard-boiled egg covered in chocolate.
Anywhere I've ever been, at any time in my life, the way I remember a place is by what I ate there.
At first, I ate by myself, hidden behind a book or a newspaper.
That summer, I juggled three jobs at over 60 hours per week, a period punctuated by the potatoes I ate straight out of the microwave and little else.
By eating carefully I ate well, and there were also serendipitous delights, most notably a fish-and-chips that I'll return to in a bit.
BAD English food is an old joke, and quite out of date, judging by how well I ate the last time I was in London.
By the way, I ate Oreos while I wrote this.
At a table warmed by the wood stove I ate a top-notch hamsi tava, which arrived garnished with singed slices of onion and long green peppers.
