The food of love

A recent thread about the kindness of strangers led me, tangentially, to think of meals I have eaten that I remember because of the kindness of those preparing them I have eaten in Michelin- starred restaurants, but I don’t remember the food I ate half as well as I remember the omelette made for me by the young night manager of a hotel in France after a long and stressful car journey, nor the tea and toast brought by a friendly porter after I woke from an operation, nor the cold remains of Sunday’s Yorkshire pudding, meat juices on the bottom, jam on top, served by my grandmother on Monday morning after my baby brother was born.