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 accent. "It will kill you."

"Good." I smiled again.

"You are beautiful. This is not a place for beauty. Come with me and I will take care of you."

I sighed and told him I was waiting for my friend who was inside.

"Please come. We go drink." He gestured again.

He stopped smiling looking past me, then walked away. I looked behind me and smiled at my friend. We continued on our way.

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

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