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Published 2023
I was four when I absorbed the scent of paprika in a Hungarian village, where it was hung drying in strands on every white-painted house. That same scent I recognised in the gulash in the Czech Republic when I was five. That very year I had freshly fried thick-cut potato chips, heavily salted, in a pointy paper bag from a food cart by the Donau river in Budapest. My first encounter with chips.
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