Daffodils pop up in the spring, and chestnut stands appear as suddenly around Geneva in the autumn. Their tantalizing smell combines with that of the smokey coals in the iron pots over which they roast. It could make Mel Tormé weep with pleasure.
The pleasure grows on cold days when the seller hands over the paper cone filled with the chestnuts fresh from the brazerie. When I glasp it, it warms my hands as well as my tummy.
On an early winter evening, when dinner is still an hour away, waiting for a bus, it might be possible to walk past, but like in the cartoons, the whiff comes out in unseen smoke and tickles my nostrils, and I dance over to buy 100 grams seems the only logical choice, one I have never regretted.
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