Why on Earth people, in Italy, still eat junk food?

A cold night in an Italian piazza. The air carries the scent of roasted chestnuts, espresso, and wood smoke—but here, under the halo of fairy lights, the smell is unmistakably different. Oil. Sugar. Processed salt. A small crowd stands in front of a street cart, its bicycle frame weighed down with canisters, bags, and the faint hum of a generator.

The vendor moves with practised speed, ladling batter, folding paper, handing over parcels of deep-fried comfort. The queue is patient, hands buried in pockets, eyes following the ritual as if it were part of the winter tradition. Beyond the cart, a carousel spins in soft blur, its music faint against the chatter and footsteps on the wet stone.

Why on Earth people, in Italy, still eat junk food? In a land where tomatoes can still taste of the sun, where bread carries the weight of centuries, and where meals are a form of identity, here is a glowing island of imitation flavours. Perhaps it is convenience. Perhaps it is nostalgia for fairgrounds and childhood treats. Or perhaps it is simply that even in a country defined by culinary heritage, the lure of quick, hot, and salty remains universal.

The camera freezes it all: the transaction, the glow of lights, the faces leaning forward. A momentary betrayal of tradition—or just another thread in the ever-changing fabric of Italian streets.