There’s nothing like arriving at work on a Monday morning in freezing London rain with no coat (lost), no phone (stolen), 3 hours sleep, a face like the end of the world and clutching two cans of pâté.
Some men buy girls flowers, some write them songs. I meet two Bretons and get given two cans of dubious-looking pâté from Finistère, the allegedly “magical” Hénaff, glory of the Breton culinary lexicon.
My favourite part of the Hénaff website is the phrase “made with a fraction of sodium nitrite to keep its lovely pink color“. Appetising in the extreme! There’s even a fan club, Le Club des Amoureux du Pâté Hénaff. Possibly the coolest member’s club in the universe.