It's suddenly a sea salt caramel and sriracha covered world. Everywhere I go vendors are obsessively turning food esoterica into consumer erotica. Pimping paradise on a plate. Making me regret I ever partook of such prosaic pleasures. I hate feeling plebeian, but I shouldn't be so grouchy. "Let 'em eat sea salt caramel", is what Marie Antoinette would say. Look how well that attitude served her. She had Kirsten Dunst play her in a movie.
I myself am now one less breakfast burrito away from eternity. A fire lights my tongue as the combination of chilies and chorizo work their alchemy.
Everyone around me is actively engaged in it. This. This supreme act of living. Cutlery clatter, coffee slurping, happy chatter (mostly about the nothing we all try to make into something) sing through the air. In the corner, a baby is asserting its right to be heard. A bottle filled with formula magically appeases him.
"Hiya, Ian!"
"How's it going, lassie?"
"What's it gonna be?"
The guy seated next to me orders a Mexican taco salad, leaning heavy on the Irish lilt. I could taste his green. I wonder if he left County Cork to climb this culinary Jacob's Ladder - dreaming of smearing slices of heaven with chipotle salsa and guacamole.
