The Tree That Made Bread
On the first properly cold evening of the year, somewhere in a European city, a man appears on a street corner with a drum of fire and a bag of chestnuts, and something ancient briefly switches back on. You smell him before you see him — that unmistakable smell of chestnuts roasting, sweet and smoky and slightly singed, which cuts through cold air in a way that few smells manage. You were not hungry. You are now. You find yourself crossing the road, almost against your will, drawn to the small pool of warmth and light, to hand over some coins for a paper cone of hot chestnuts you did not know you wanted ten seconds ago. And then, as always, you burn your fingers. This is the chestnut’s opening move, and it never varies. The things come out of the roaster at approximately the temperature of the sun, and the paper cone does nothing to insulate them, so you spend the first few minutes juggling each one from hand to hand, blowing on it, swearing gently, peeling back the charred split shell...
