So there you are, in town busily doing what you're doing. You're shopping, running errands, perhaps you're meeting friends. Perhaps you're stumbling out of the pub in the wee hours and heading to the bus or taxi. You might be on some tourist trail or changing trains. In any event, you either smell some luscious fragrant aroma or your belly snarls and grumbles like a dragon. Is there food nearby? Why yes! The gods have smiled on you and there, just over there is a street vendor or food stand and the air is redolent of savory or sweet things, and your salvation is at hand.

We've all been there, no matter where we are in the world and no matter what the time of day. I've been saved many times by a food truck and whether it's fish'n'chips or pulled pork sandwich, that emergency food can make the difference between feeling energetically good and hangrily ready to murder someone. Whether it's a lamb handbag on the way to the bus after a night on the tiles or a dish of poutine after a long morning of shopping, street food is a necessity and a delight.


Of course I have some fond memories of some foods in particular. That morning when I had to drop off a fare at the Sneinton veggie market at sparrow fart, at the end of a long, long night. As I drove out I spotted a BACON SANDWICH sign and there's a food truck. No culinary masterpiece, it was nevertheless a good crispy bacon sandwich with a crusty-fried egg. With a dash of HP Sauce it was a heavenly delight, eaten sitting on my car's bonnet, parked engine-running in a bus stop under an unromantic sodium street lamp in the dawn drizzle.

Then, the Vác farmers' market just as the sun was rising after a "breakfast" of coffee and a cigarette. The market had just opened and there was already a line at the lángos stall, with the sturdy farmers, beautifully plump housewives and harried mothers with their fussy children all waiting for their savoury delight. Think fried pizza dough topped with cream cheese, sour cream, garlic and olive oil. Then wash it down with a caffe corretto. I'm telling you now there's nothing more satisfying. I'm not sure if it was the food, the espresso or the grappa, but I didn't feel hungry until around two in the afternoon.Then it was a street café near the American Embassy in Budapest, more espresso, more grappa and lots of little spicy sweet cakes while we flipped off the guards across the street and chatted with the students, feeding their own dragons en route to class.

Ah, and the suckling pig near the Slovenia-Croatia border! After the stress of the border crossing, the sight of this family with their oil-drum barbecue was amazing. Choirs of angels sang in the heavens as they scooped ladles-full of steaming succulence into doorstep sandwiches. Father tended the meat on the grill, son braised it in a wok, daughter made us coffee and we sat on the roadside verge salivating until they delivered this ambrosia. Heavenly food? Yes, and that was before the littlest child came out with a jug of fruit cordial the size of her, and poured it into tall iced glasses for us all. But the best was chatting with them as we wolfed down our sandwiches as they served other customers, a glorious cultural exchange we badly needed.


Of course, not all street food stories are as romantic or memorable, although the falafels in Bristol during the Bristol International Nodermeet was are right up there. Watch the Falafel King frying up freshly-made balls of fragrant goodness as his son rolled them up in readiness for the next customer. Crunchy salad, hot pita and a half score of noders clamouring to tell stories or find a place to pee. Memories are made of this.

The farmers' markets where I work have their tales to tell too. The couple from Nawlins who served only gumbo and jambalya with a side of flirt. Bánh mi, dolmas and Israeli sabich. The Cochinita pibil, shredded pork and pickles and black beans with a homemade salsa. The tender and juicy dim sum on a Sunday, if you could stomach the queue (myself, I have a hole-in-the-wall place in Chinatown that I visit whenever I'm in The City).

In England, everything from the ridiculousness of festival food at Goose Fair (pie and mushy peas, cock on a stick or a toffee apple) to the pragmatic and herby sausage roll. A Cornish pasty from almost anywhere (petrol station or corner store), Scotch eggs, cockles and mussels in vinegar brine outside East Anglian pubs, roast chestnuts in the winter at Norwich market, samosa, and if you're lucky enough, batata vada, a Mumbai speciality found in any city with a decent Indian population.

Berlin was bratwurst and pretzels, Holland had its poffertjes (yeast buckwheat pancakes), Tangier with its gorgeous Moroccan sardines, tajine and a sweet doughnut I just found out is called sfenji (known as Sfinge in Italy–thanks, Maevwyn). Then there was West Africa, with its fried plantains, something with breadfruit and plates of spicy meats all along the west coast down to Ghana. Add in the New York pizza slice, a Sloppy Joe or a good hot dog (don't skimp on the sauerkraut!) and I'm all ready for whatever life has to throw at me.


 


Too hungry to proofread again, let me know of tyops

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