On Leavened Bread

From an essay by Salman Rushdie, called On Leavened Bread.

Then, aged thirteen-and-a-half, I flew to England [from India]. And suddenly there it was , in every shop window. The White Crusty, the Sliced and Unsliced. The Small Tin, the Large Tin, the Danish Bloomer. The abandoned, plentiful promiscuity of it. The soft pillowy mattressiness of it. The well-sprung bounciness of it between your teeth. Hard crust and soft centre: the sensuality of that perfect textural contrast. I was done for. In the whorehouses of the bakeries, I was serially, gluttonously, irredeemably unfaithful to all those chapatis-next-door waiting for me back home. East was East, but yeast was West.