When I talk to people about love (which – believe it or not – even this cynical, sarcastic old foodie does from time to time) I always use a particular metaphor: when the service is shocking, the trams seem intent on trying to run me over, and I’m getting pelted by gale-force winds and driving rain on my bike, I still know – absolutely know – that Amsterdam is home. Love is certainty. Love has no doubts. Love is when – no matter how shit things get – you still know it feels right. Amsterdam has always been ‘the one’.
So it’s with a certain amount of guilt, then, that I admit to having an affair with New York. My fling lasted four days and it meant nothing (I’m sorry, Amsterdam), but it was so very, very exciting. New York was cool and sophisticated, but also brashly passionate. She was expansive and loquacious, with a surprising sense of calm. The key to my heart is my stomach, and boy did she fill me up.
And, like any unfaithful, penitent, returning lover, I feel the need to share. To confess. To bare to you what I saw, what I did, what I ate…
