Nyargh I am tormented by visions of junk food. Apple pies (deep fried), French fries slathered with garlic mayonnaise and then smothered with Tabasco sauce, crackly pork knuckles, springy Japanese cup noodles in all their monosodium glutamate umami goodness, hot cinnamon churros and gently warmed salted caramel, the peanuts in a snickers bar, peanut butter milkshakes with a dark chocolate drizzle, fatty pork belly slices melting into the cream-coloured broth in a bowl of ramen, soup dumplings in 49 different colours, truffles encrusted in the skin of fried buttermilk chicken, shots of Irish cream lined up next to a just-assembled pavlova with raspberries falling off the sides, macarons in a magnificent tower, the knobs of sun coloured butter bubbling on a heated cast iron pan, cream cheese in poppy seed bagels that you eat only in launderette-smelling hostels in Manhattan beside a pool table, crisp pancetta and a golden yolk atop a plate of carbonara, the smear of nutella across a crepe inviting the sprinkling of toasted slivered almonds, neat gelato counters with flavours like risotto and peach melba, Peking Duck sandwiches, deep fried mushrooms, crumpets and cold butter. I am so hungry.
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