Writer and popular culture historian

The hunger hit me in Amsterdam. Blinking at Van Gogh¹s great flowerpots of canvas, I found myself reaching for the fresh broodje-or bread roll-in my pocket. My impulse was to plunge it into the heart of The Starry Night, and dab up a deep scoopful of sweet colour. The iced waves of light, the heavenly brushstrokes looked so scrumptious.

It got worse in Wellington. Fomison gave off a sickly smell, a whiff of something delicious, forbidden. It was hard not to steal a taste; I found the security guards watching my slavering mouth. Hotere was harder to swallow. All those dark reaches-an olive dip as wide as a wetland, a gateau alive in a black forest. But I was up to it.

So I went and bought lunch. Now I sit staring at Ewan McDougall¹s painting Ever Read Nietzche? with its salmon pinks and tangerine skies. McDougall understands the ravenous. Scents of fresh cream and pesto rise from his canvas. The face of the upside-down-man is a flurry of marzipan, the tastiest possible spoonful. Pass the salt.