There are things I’ve tasted since – the burrata from that café by the Tiber in Rome, the croissant from that café in St Mark’s Square, the hot chocolate from Angelina’s on the Rue de Rivoli – that I’d describe as little pieces of heaven on earth. But his mouth, laced as it was with grape and watermelon, altered my brain chemistry in a way that I’ve never been able to undo.
