Food is such an incredible vessel for nostalgia (just ask Proust). My first day in New York, where I am still technically having a bank holiday, I am unshackled from work, and can spend the day as I see fit. I go for a walk on the High Line, because I’m very basic sometimes, and detour via Buvette, a brunch place I once happened upon the last time I was in New York. I have thought much, in the intervening near 4 years, about the waffle sandwich I had there. A creature of habit and tradition, I don’t even consider ordering anything else. It soon arrives and remains a thing of beauty - buttermilk waffles sandwiching bacon, a fried egg, gruyere cheese, and maple syrup. It is perfect. I mean, yes, it’s going to take approximately 7 months off my life expectancy, but how often am I in New York? I pair it with a glass of orange juice, the ideal step between pulpy and smooth. However much New York has changed in the last four years, however much I have changed in the last four years, I am incredibly happy to know that this is still here, and I’m still delighted to eat it.