Smokin' Infidel

I was raised as a Muslim. As a child this meant no polony sandwiches at parties, no jelly with gelatine, and no hot dogs at fairs.

Nowadays, I let diplomacy and availability dictate what I eat, rather than religion. It started in Russia when a family of complete strangers from Moldova cooked up all their food to make me a novgorod feast. Pork balls was the substance of it. Later in Paris, I enjoyed fillet of pork with honey and mustard sauces.

Since I've started this trip, I have had a bit of a fetish for hot dogs. It started on the ferry to Estonia and has continued ever since. In Japan, all my hot dog dreams have come true because they have a lot of pastries with hot dogs in the middle of them, like hot dog croissants. They are yummy and I am addicted.

My miso soup the other night had bacon bits in it. And I have eaten the real stuff, only more poached in water rather than fried. Far healthier but not with those brown crispy bits nor that smell that you other people like. It was shoved in my okonomuri and seemed rather pasty and leathery. But I ate it. There. My bacon virginity gone at aged 30.

Don't tell my mum.