Somebody in my apartment block is baking potatoes. Right now, at 4 in the afternoon.
Not the sweet potatoes that street vendors tout from oildrum ovens on the backs of tricycles. No, actual potatoes. That's a real rarity in China. I wonder if perhaps another laowai has moved into the building without my realising it?
I love that smell, so evocative of faraway moments of happiness - cheap street snacks in my student days, Bonfire Night parties and camping trips in childhood.
I love it - and it's driving me crazy.
5 comments:
I assume you went to the potato shop on the plain, just at the start of Cowley Road? Two squid for a huge baked tater with cheese and beans, if I remember right. And open late.
It was on Headington Road, wasn't it? Yes, I went in there a lot. And there used to be a good van on the High by Turl St as well. I think it got displaced by the Great Kebab Explosion in the second half of the 80s.
I am not cogniscent of the food options from the early '80s.
The Cowley Road potato shop didn't always wash their potatoes or cut out the rotten bits. A mouth full of yeuck was the risk you ran.
You were obviously way too sober when eating there.
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