It’s odd how, often, wine consumed at key moments is unintentionally appropriate.
On the scale of outrages this ranks fairly low but I am driven to complain by a desire for simplicity and purity.
Alcohol in powdered sachet form: what could possibly go wrong?
An enoteca in Spitalfields, east London, will be selling a different Tuscan red by the glass each day, with dishes to match.
Can only native Italians bake real pizza and must they hail from Naples for it to be authentic?
Cardamom and fenugreek, garlic and chilli, black pepper and sea salt: just some of the grotesque additives with which these Shropshire smallholders coat their death discs.
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