Food is very important; food is not important: make your mind up, for goodness’ sake, Richard. OK.
What I am looking for is something fresh and foreign, delivered to me at the time promised when I place my order. I want as little human interaction as possible, and I am willing to pay.
A few years ago my partner and I realised that we were done with simple carbohydrates: Pasta had failed us too often; I could never cook white rice to save my life; and spuds had just become background noise.
I do not know what everyone else does with their time if they’re not planning meals, shopping for food, cooking meals, or eating them. I wish I understood what banalities these people filled their lives with.
Paris is a question I simply do not know how to pose. Grime and gold; reality and perception; vaping shops and tourist tat.
If I were in a Michelin starred restaurant, surrounded by all of the opulence and decadence which modern fine dining affords, and the option of a Full English Breakfast were to be offered, I would not hesitate to order it.
Each night I would pore over guide books, plotting routes all over the city, hoping to pluck up the courage to make my way in to any one of the eateries that I aspired to get in to. There was no barrier but my own insecurity.