One thing life has taught me is that things mostly taste better after a little mild discomfort: at the top of Scafell Pike, for instance, even Sandwich Spread on sliced white is purest nectar. The Barcelona restaurant it took you an hour and half to find on foot in bad sandals and 90 degree heat is unless they dished up tinned Russian salad and a few gently perspiring cubes of manchego almost bound to linger in your memory as the home of the best tapas of your life in spite of the row its unfathomable location provoked en route, just as fish and chips only truly hits the spot when devoured on a damp bench in a howling gale with a fake broken heart, numb fingers and a blurry view of the North Sea.
I ate the best ice-cream I ever tasted in Naqsh-e Jahan Square in Isfahan, Iran. It was flavoured with saffron and served with pale rice vermicelli in a sweet and semi-frozen rosewater syrup. I don't suppose it was particularly remarkable in itself, but it came my way like a blessing at the end of 10 days in the country, during which I'd spent every waking moment with strangers and put up with a fair amount of harassment on the streets (that very morning, I'd been ticked off by a religious man for the inch-wide gap that had somehow appeared between my hijab and the shoulder of my tunic).
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