Fried chicken, the signature dish of Korean neoliberalism
February 2016: I have gone to a chop bar and bought fufu with what soup I cannot remember.
She said she was okay, like always, but I think she lies sometimes so I can focus in my job.
I figured that if I ate one after every half hour, they would last me the film's entire two-hour duration. Quick maths.
Though they would probably never admit to agreeing on anything if they were to meet, the Hindu fascist in New Delhi and the diasporic Muslim in Baltimore had made the same assumption.
“Only fleece,” she said. “It’s not scratchy.”
Nathan made me cut three. I said I would but didn’t.
Having grown up with hyper-religious black aunties, I knew that when the woman’s teary eyes met mine I was supposed to join her in prayer.
The best chance for a restaurateur in Taiwan is to be good-looking, win some kind of international competition, and also have switched careers to pursue a driving passion involving food.