It’s the moment of truth. I’m blocking traffic, balanced on the stepladder in the middle of Dudley Road, my fingers closing in on a walnut. For two years I’ve had this dream. What’s the most delicious dish in the world (apart from the peach crumble at a restaurant in a hilltop field run by an old Italian woman on the Greek island of Folegandros)? Fresh green pickled walnuts – plucked before the shell hardens inside – sliced thin on some cheddar and a digestive. Back home, sliding the knife through, I hit hard, knife-blunting shell. Unpicklable. This is the savage irony, I suddenly ...


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