Sniff Sniff hooray!

I like my food. . From unemployed size 8 living on Koka noodles to well fed Public Servant, my waistline is the widening proof of it

Foraging for food is something I do from time to time, mostly when I leave my lunch in the fridge at home or I just can’t fit the three minutes’ sandwich preparation time into my tight morning schedule My latest discovery is a little spot in North King Street, selling bowls of soup and stews for a more than acceptable price. They have a little train suspended from the ceiling an’ all!! Nothing pretentious about it, Just good food to eat. Alas, still no rightful heir to the Market Café (closed down by the impending poshness of Smithfield). Even featuring as a location in Irish productions such as Intermission and Adam And Paul couldn’t save it. I will mourn the loss of Martin’s egg and chips for a long long time to come. Instead of the deep fryer smell titillating your cholesterol, a synthetic smell wafts from a Subway. Good fortune has it that the Chinese community are colonising the old tile shop at the corner, and I’ll have to have a closer sniff around the promising food hall upstairs.
On the other side of town Café Sofia is resisting the American invasion, waving the Bulgarian flag and dishing up traditional Irish fare.
It is good to see places like these, weathering the storm of culinary colonisation in the forest of pseudo-aristocratic eateries and American junk.
A Polish bakery in D7, my favourite north African patisserie at Harold’s Cross Bridge, far eastern un-Irishised food on Parnell street. All good, all diverse, all enriching, fighting off the pretence of tastes dictated by overly fussy self appointed food connoisseurs and the standardised mush of Ronald’s French fries.

Pinzimonio