Street Food

The redolence of rose and new road.

The attar of grass, recently cut.

The fish-whiff of anchovy.

The spinning NYC glizzys in a tank of murky water.

The famous Coney Island corn dog on a pale wooden stick.

The black mud of Slovakia, drinking  Tatratea, Borovička, Slivovica, Zlatý Bažant.

The misted pastry shop windows of  Vienna.

The rød pølse in Copenhagen’s main square, Rådhuspladsen.

The grilled weisswurst of East Berlin.

The straw baskets of washed-rind cheese of the Piedmont.

The spill of Barolo, tar and roses.

The shelled seafood from the Venetian lagoon.

The delicate, damp fish of  Lima in lime and cilantro.

The numbing citrus of mock peppercorns from Chengdu.

The tang of fermented pickle.

The ginger off  boiling wok oil.

The blue smoke of  lamb at night on the braziers of  Tangier.

The steam of  Ramadan harira at midnight in Tangier’s Socco Grande.

The sfenj rolling in boiling oil, morning in Fez, powdered sugar.

The finale of everything that coheres.