I love food. I love food so much that I think about it almost every minute of the day. In the time that it has taken me to write this sentence, I have thought about the square, chocolate-glazed, fluffy doughnut I had for breakfast last weekend; I have pictured the roast chicken I cooked for a friend three months ago (yes, it really was that good) and I have also managed to fit in a few seconds of remembrance for the steak I had in Berlin last summer.
Food has, it has to be said, played both a pivotal and integral part in my life and is the subject of one of my earliest memories. When I was five, my mum and dad took us to Yugoslavia (now Serbia and Montenegro) for a family holiday. The only things I remember are my next-door neighbour, Andrew, whom I fell in love with the first time he threw a ball at my face, and the magnificent meal my dad and I had after creeping out of the hotel one cloudless night.
I'll never forget the feast my dad and I had. It all seemed so covert at the time; as if my father had sneaked me out of the hotel room under the cover of darkness.
In reality, my brother and sister were only toddlers at the time, and so, with my mum relegated to soaking up their drool, it is more than likely that our "sneaking" consisted of my dad walking nonchalantly out of the hotel with me by his side; our "cover of darkness" nothing more than the setting sun.
There are only a few snippets of the evening I can recall. Feeling tiny as I sat with my elbows on the giant table, my legs dangling over the plush chair, I remember eating mussel after moreish mussel with my father. I also remember being utterly mesmerised by one of the waiters as he walked towards us (to serve us or clear our plates, I'll never know) at one point in the evening. Watching him as he held a white cloth over his right arm, which was held firmly by his side in an almost regimented position, I wondered what I had done to deserve such a treat; to be served by such a refined-looking gent, in such a refined-looking restaurant.
Could it get any better, I thought? Well, as it turns out, no it couldn't.
The following evening, while out at dinner, my brat of a sister managed to clamber out of my mum's hands, scurry across our table like a child on a mission (which it turns out she was) and bite me square on the nose.
Still, nothing can spoil the memory of those mussels.
