some grappa tales

"In Hungary we used to say there were three grades of grappa—mediocre, awful and downright poisonous." —me

i was introduced to grappa in Hungary, at the farmers' market in Vác, Hungary. We went down one morning, arrived around 0630 and got in line for breakfast, which turned out to be lángos dripping with sour cream, olive oil, cheeses and garlic. On the back end was a shot of espresso and one of grappa. It's the single most memorable and energy-giving breakfast i can remember; I didn't need to eat again until 1400.

Later in the day (around 1400, in fact!) we found ourselves sitting outside a lovely cafe/bakery opposite the American embassy in Budapest, eating tasty little pastries and drinking espresso and grappa. I've told the story before, but it bears repeating; every twenty minutes the waitress brought a tray with more pastries and cakes, a shot of espresso and grappa

I stood waiting outside a bodega on some random street in Brooklyn in February smoking a cigarette and shivering in the wind. A small old man walked up smiling. I smiled back and told him I liked his hat.

He spoke to me in another language touching my arm and gestering with his other hand to my cigarette.

"I don't speak Russian."

"You shouldn't smoke" he stated with a heavy

This tasy delight is one of the things I miss about Nottingham. In the Central Market was a stall specialising in Jamaican foods; they made these by the boatload; they were very popular with the West Indian diaspora and we white folk alike.Buying a nice bright orange-yellow warm patty and eating it on the way home was among the best street food of my memory. My second wife's mother made them too, on occasion, which was a treat. Ido