This Week in Food Porn: Pizza and Pancakes

Oh, Instagram. The sroop to my waffle, the custard to my slice, the chocolat in my pain and hot in my pot. Always there to make my mouth water and fingers twitch, even when it’s 5.30 AM, I’m in a darkened room in Rotterdam and can’t get to sleep because of the couple singing along to an acoustic guitar and hits of Devendra Banhart between bouts of furious, a-rhythmic shagging.

Here are the best morsels of food photography served up to the internet this week. Proost.

The thing about Cyclops, the thing we so easily overlook when banging on about his rock-eating aggression and one-eyed misanthropy, is that the guy just really, really needed a cup of coffee and a dosa. Yar?

Remember in Belle de Jour when Catherine Deneuve’s vagina is described as like “threading a pearl”? Well, I’m not gynaecologist (hell—you’re looking at the women who last time she tried to draw female genitalia from memory, ended up doing a Goya-esque portrait of Bart Simpson), but wouldn’t that be—I don’t know, a little gritty? Is that what people want from a vagina? A lot of salt water and sand?

Maybe it is. What do I know?

If I were in charge of the Olympics—and frankly, it’s only a matter of time until I am—this will be our new insignia. And the games will be mostly based on eating your height in sausages, rolling pumpkins, and punching holes through watermelons.

Cobnuts are one of those things that are almost as fun to say as they are to eat. For some reason, in my head, they are associated with shire horses, soft white rolls, and hammering nails into the soles of your boots. Twin that with dappled beetroot and cheese from the always-far-away Tipperary and you’ve put what we describe in the trade as “autumn on a plate.”

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve just cycled to the Hook of Holland to watch the breaking waves of the grey North Sea beat against the rocks and rusting chains of a ferry port, but for some reason, the idea of eating foam has never struck me as particularly enchanting. It just seems a bit like seasoning your dish with scum or floaters.

I see your dad’s taking the divorce well. Not upset that your mum kept the house. Not bothered that he now lives in the spare room of a guy called “Hog.” More than happy to buy all this kitchenware from the stall next to Peterborough’s only bong shop. Getting quite into his “pan-Asian” cooking, isn’t he? Well, good for him, that’s what I say. Nice to see him making a shrug of it.

I’m not absolutely sure if these are doughnuts, apple fritters, or informational toys used as a over-75s prostate clinic for men who are too old to clench. But they’re deep-fried and scattered in sugar, and that’s what matters.

From the “MEALS OF THE DAY” plates, to the sneaking toe of kettle, to the token fruit and “chunky mug,” this is, quite possibly, the clearest illustration of the phrase “student breakfast” you are ever likely to see. From every atom, every detail.

Before I opened this picture fully, I just assumed it was an aerial photo of the M25 but, it turns out, it’s actually a bowl of solidified milk covered in dried-out caterpillars, gravel, sand, and bits of bark. What a start to the day.

Oh, do grow up.