To all the chefs in overpriced hip widespread cafes around the world: I’m sorry. I can’t match the mouth width expectations you have for mere mortals like me who happen to be your clients for a brief 2-hour interval every other sunday.
A bite into one of your sourdough-locallysourced-4ambakedwithlove monsters is a strain so big in my jaw and mouth that I can’t understand why the format of these well renowned ‘avocado toasts’ remains unchanged.
Oh, how easy to cut the crumb and how hard to cut through the crust. This imbalance unnerves me, setting me off into a state of frustration so big I can’t keep up with the conversation in hand, as the latter is busy moving my knife frantically back and forth through the gooey centre of the toast, limited by what feels like a two-meter tall flour-based fortress.
The results are catastrophic: a fall of avocado down the sides of my mouth, a colorful massacre in my plate, and worst of all, a fork-crushed ego:
Is there something wrong with me?
Do I really fit in London?
Do my nieces even remember my face?
And what am I doing with my life?
