I’m rather susceptible to the power of suggestion, especially when it comes to the mention of food in books. When I started reading Bill Bryson’s account of traveling around Britain, it seemed every stop warranted a visit to a cafe and/or a pub, and oftentimes those visits included a cup of tea and a slice of dry cake. Bryson is at peak grumpy curmudgeon in his observations, mainly whinging about how good things used to be and how everything has turned to shit or is threatened to do so.