So many childhood memories are triggered by food. I saw a handful of lychee this morning, and within seconds I was sitting at Mr Kai in Mayfair, age seven, noshing on dozens of lychee. It’s where my Dad used to take my brother and I and his then girlfriend after work late on Friday nights. I’d start off with a pile of prawn crackers, and then make my way through sticky ribs, egg fried rice and Peking duck pancakes with all the trimmings. Vanilla ice cream was a staple for dessert, and so was a bowl of lychee. I don’t remember much else about the evenings, other than the food and how exciting it felt to be out at a fancy, grownup restaurant. At home, my Mum stocked the fridge with lychee, too. I scoffed them by the dozen in front of the tele, and they were a staple in my packed lunch. There was a brief Lycheetini phase in my early twenties, (although, I don’t recall ever calling them that, thank heavens) but that’s probably the last time I came into contact with one. To be honest, the thought of eating a lychee, makes me recoil a little. Maybe I just had one too many?
