#FoodStalls
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justblogo.bsky.social
Kabayan Night Market Brings Festive Vibes to BurJuman Exit 4! 🎶✨
Kabayan Night Market near BurJuman Exit 4 offers a lively atmosphere with live music
.
#KabayanNightMarket #BurJuman #DubaiLife #LiveMusic #FoodStalls ShoppingInDubai DubaiEvents NightMarket DubaiVibes
October 25, 2026 at 5:51 PM
bebeskymy.bsky.social
In #Malaysia some wet #markets open till 3 am. At Kg Baru #kualalumpur I went to buy at night abt 12.30am & also can eat at the #foodstalls. Prices same throughout even cheaper bargains too. This is my #malaysia
#bluesky #myphoto #photography #night #convenience
October 21, 2026 at 10:26 AM
aroacejapanman2025.bsky.social
🇯🇵An episode of Japanology Plus is upon us! And this episodic edition entails of yatai (food stalls)!🍜

youtu.be/O-02Z-5UUP0?...

#Japan #LandOfTheRisingSun #Japanese #Nippon #JapaneseYatai #JapanYatai #Yatai #JapaneseFoodStalls #JapanFoodStalls #FoodStalls #JapaneseFood #JapanFood #Food
Anime Nadeshiko Eating Ramen
ALT: Anime Nadeshiko Eating Ramen
static.klipy.com
October 22, 2026 at 12:10 PM
kalenidus.bsky.social
Friggin' adorable! That background is -gorgeous-, and I absolutely love the scenario! Love foodstalls and short kings!
September 26, 2026 at 10:28 PM
ionefood.bsky.social
Apom Tan
Penang favorite Apom Manis
Since 1960s

Part 2

📍New Lane Street Foodstalls
Lorong Baru, 10450 George Town, Pulau Pinang

Business Hours
3pm - 9.30pm
Closed Wednesday

#ionefood #penangone #supportlocal #localbusiness #localcommunity
September 23, 2026 at 4:25 AM
ionefood.bsky.social
Apom Tan

Penang favorite Apom Manis with Coconut Gula Melaka, Banana and Corn.

More info Part 2 ‼️

📍New Lane Street Foodstalls
Lorong Baru, 10450 George Town, Pulau Pinang

Business Hours
3pm - 9.30pm
Closed Wednesday

#ionefood #penangone #supportlocal #localbusiness #localcommunity
September 18, 2026 at 2:18 PM
listingal.bsky.social
Night Market, Tay Ninh, Vietnam: A compact walk through Tay Ninh Night Market, showing food stalls, market lanes, evening crowds and the surrounding after-dark street atmosphere. #NightMarket #TayNinh #Vietnam #FoodStalls #EveningCrowds
Night Market, Tay Ninh, Vietnam
A compact walk through Tay Ninh Night Market, showing food stalls, market lanes, evening crowds and the surrounding after-dark street atmosphere.
listingal.com
September 3, 2026 at 5:54 AM
seaguardxiv.bsky.social
do you think they had foodstalls with gyros in ancient Amaurot
September 2, 2025 at 3:26 PM
alasdairmsmith.bsky.social
At least she didn’t say that the FT only does ethnic foodstalls in the less fashionable parts of London
August 4, 2025 at 4:06 PM
vineturglobal.bsky.social
FYI: Amsterdam Wine Festival returns in 2025 with expanded offerings and early bird ticket deal ending soon #AmsterdamWineFestival #WineLovers #FrenchWines #WineTasting #FoodStalls
Amsterdam Wine Festival returns in 2025 with expanded offerings and early bird ticket deal ending soon
Event to feature over 100 French wines, live music, food stalls and traditional activities in Rembrandtpark over five days
www.vinetur.com
April 27, 2025 at 2:04 PM
vineturglobal.bsky.social
Amsterdam Wine Festival returns in 2025 with expanded offerings and early bird ticket deal ending soon #AmsterdamWineFestival #WineLovers #FrenchWine #LiveMusic #FoodStalls
Amsterdam Wine Festival returns in 2025 with expanded offerings and early bird ticket deal ending soon
Event to feature over 100 French wines, live music, food stalls and traditional activities in Rembrandtpark over five days
www.vinetur.com
April 22, 2025 at 2:02 PM
vravl.bsky.social
Ended up in the middle of Tori no Ichi celebrations in Shinjuku earlier in the week. So many foodstalls and people in the same place!
November 26, 2025 at 5:51 AM
beaniebuns.etheirys.social
if a business has an ugly genai poster i just won't spend my money there. same with the sudden influx of genai thumbnails on youtube. i just won't watch.
I went to berlin pride and there were so many foodstalls that had genai menus and posters. It made deciding where to eat from pretty easy
August 7, 2026 at 3:38 PM
wpaul-6854.bsky.social
I can only say: sell is more.
Over here in Italy most of us will usually eat one or two toppings.
Quality vs. quantity is key.

(yes, I know, “those” foodstalls. But they’re only reacting to what they’re seeing on social media…)
January 11, 2026 at 5:38 AM
asls.org.uk
It gets late early out here
in the lacklustre places,
wind in the trees and the foodstalls’
ricepaper lamplight, fading and blurred with rain…

—John Burnside, “Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012”
from BLACK MIDDENS: New Writing Scotland 31 (ASL, 2013)
#poem #poetry
John Burnside Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012 “Necessity is not the mother of invention; play is” —Ian D. Suttie It gets late early out here in the lacklustre places, wind in the trees & the foodstalls’ ricepaper lamplight, fading & blurred with rain, the wire fence studded with fleece & indelible traces of polythene wrapping; marrowfat clogging the drains on the road that runs out to the coast then disappears. A last bleed of gold in the west, like a Shan Shui painting, then darkness. The animals are gone that hunted here: wolves coming down from the hills, that immaculate hunger, rumours of bear & cat, quick martens & raptors. The rain is darker now, though not so black, oil-iridescent, streaked with the smell of lard – it gets late early out here; though late, out here, has a different meaning: stars in the road & the absence of something more than birchwoods or song, pallet fires, tyre-tracks, grubbed fields clouded with grease & palm oil, hints of molasses and lanolin, tarpaper, iron filings. A narrow band of weather on the road, then houses; though we scarcely think of them as that. I remember a meadow at dusk in another rain (and this is nostalgia now); I remember I stood in a wind like gossamer and watched three roe fawns and a doe come quietly, one by one, through the silvering grasses, wary, but curious, giving me just enough space to feel safe, their watchfulness reminding me of something lost, a creaturely awareness I could only glimpse in passing. That meadow is gone, and dusk isn’t dusk any more – or not out here – just miles of tract and lay-by on the way to junkyards and dead allotments, guard dogs on tether, biomass, factory outlets, the half-light of ersatz dairies petering out on rotting fields of rape and mustardseed. We’ve been going at this for years: a steady delete of anything that tells us what we are, a long distaste for the blood warmth and bloom of the creaturely: local fauna and words for colour, all the shapes of ritual and lust surrendered where they fell, beneath a fog of smut and grime and counting-house as church, the old gods buried undead beneath the rural sprawl that bears their names, or wandering the hills of Lammermuir and Whitelee, waiting out the rule of Mammon, till the land returns – with or without us – chainlink going down to bindweed, drunken thistles in a sway of wind and goldfinch on the dead estates, fat clusters of moss and gentian, broken tarmac with new shoots of coltsfoot breaking through like velvet, till the darkness of the leaf unfurls into a light we could have known but failed to see by choosing not to find the kingdom-at-hand: this order; this dialectic; this mother of invention, ceaseless play.
August 4, 2026 at 1:47 PM
asls.org.uk
It gets late early out here
in the lacklustre places,
wind in the trees and the foodstalls’
ricepaper lamplight, fading and blurred with rain…

—John Burnside, “Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012”
published in BLACK MIDDENS: New Writing Scotland 31 (ASL, 2013)
#poem #poetry
3/
John Burnside Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012 “Necessity is not the mother of invention; play is” —Ian D. Suttie It gets late early out here in the lacklustre places, wind in the trees & the foodstalls’ ricepaper lamplight, fading & blurred with rain, the wire fence studded with fleece & indelible traces of polythene wrapping; marrowfat clogging the drains on the road that runs out to the coast then disappears. A last bleed of gold in the west, like a Shan Shui painting, then darkness. The animals are gone that hunted here: wolves coming down from the hills, that immaculate hunger, rumours of bear & cat, quick martens & raptors. The rain is darker now, though not so black, oil-iridescent, streaked with the smell of lard – it gets late early out here; though late, out here, has a different meaning: stars in the road & the absence of something more than birchwoods or song, pallet fires, tyre-tracks, grubbed fields clouded with grease & palm oil, hints of molasses and lanolin, tarpaper, iron filings. A narrow band of weather on the road, then houses; though we scarcely think of them as that. I remember a meadow at dusk in another rain (and this is nostalgia now); I remember I stood in a wind like gossamer and watched three roe fawns and a doe come quietly, one by one, through the silvering grasses, wary, but curious, giving me just enough space to feel safe, their watchfulness reminding me of something lost, a creaturely awareness I could only glimpse in passing. That meadow is gone, and dusk isn’t dusk any more – or not out here – just miles of tract and lay-by on the way to junkyards and dead allotments, guard dogs on tether, biomass, factory outlets, the half-light of ersatz dairies petering out on rotting fields of rape and mustardseed. We’ve been going at this for years: a steady delete of anything that tells us what we are, a long distaste for the blood warmth and bloom of the creaturely: local fauna and words for colour, all the shapes of ritual and lust surrendered where they fell, beneath a fog of smut and grime and counting-house as church, the old gods buried undead beneath the rural sprawl that bears their names, or wandering the hills of Lammermuir and Whitelee, waiting out the rule of Mammon, till the land returns – with or without us – chainlink going down to bindweed, drunken thistles in a sway of wind and goldfinch on the dead estates, fat clusters of moss and gentian, broken tarmac with new shoots of coltsfoot breaking through like velvet, till the darkness of the leaf unfurls into a light we could have known but failed to see by choosing not to find the kingdom-at-hand: this order; this dialectic; this mother of invention, ceaseless play.
March 19, 2026 at 4:32 PM
asls.org.uk
“Necessity is not the mother of invention; play is”
—Ian D. Suttie

It gets late early out here
in the lacklustre places,
wind in the trees and the foodstalls’
ricepaper lamplight, fading and blurred with rain…

—John Burnside, “Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012”
#nationalpoetryday #play #poem
John Burnside Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012 “Necessity is not the mother of invention; play is” —Ian D. Suttie It gets late early out here in the lacklustre places, wind in the trees & the foodstalls’ ricepaper lamplight, fading & blurred with rain, the wire fence studded with fleece & indelible traces of polythene wrapping; marrowfat clogging the drains on the road that runs out to the coast then disappears. A last bleed of gold in the west, like a Shan Shui painting, then darkness. The animals are gone that hunted here: wolves coming down from the hills, that immaculate hunger, rumours of bear & cat, quick martens & raptors. The rain is darker now, though not so black, oil-iridescent, streaked with the smell of lard – it gets late early out here; though late, out here, has a different meaning: stars in the road & the absence of something more than birchwoods or song, pallet fires, tyre-tracks, grubbed fields clouded with grease & palm oil, hints of molasses and lanolin, tarpaper, iron filings. A narrow band of weather on the road, then houses; though we scarcely think of them as that. I remember a meadow at dusk in another rain (and this is nostalgia now); I remember I stood in a wind like gossamer and watched three roe fawns and a doe come quietly, one by one, through the silvering grasses, wary, but curious, giving me just enough space to feel safe, their watchfulness reminding me of something lost, a creaturely awareness I could only glimpse in passing. That meadow is gone, and dusk isn’t dusk any more – or not out here – just miles of tract and lay-by on the way to junkyards and dead allotments, guard dogs on tether, biomass, factory outlets, the half-light of ersatz dairies petering out on rotting fields of rape and mustardseed. We’ve been going at this for years: a steady delete of anything that tells us what we are, a long distaste for the blood warmth and bloom of the creaturely: local fauna and words for colour, all the shapes of ritual and lust surrendered where they fell, beneath a fog of smut and grime and counting-house as church, the old gods buried undead beneath the rural sprawl that bears their names, or wandering the hills of Lammermuir and Whitelee, waiting out the rule of Mammon, till the land returns – with or without us – chainlink going down to bindweed, drunken thistles in a sway of wind and goldfinch on the dead estates, fat clusters of moss and gentian, broken tarmac with new shoots of coltsfoot breaking through like velvet, till the darkness of the leaf unfurls into a light we could have known but failed to see by choosing not to find the kingdom-at-hand: this order; this dialectic; this mother of invention, ceaseless play.
October 2, 2025 at 10:38 AM
asls.org.uk
It gets late early out here
in the lacklustre places,
wind in the trees and the foodstalls’
ricepaper lamplight, fading and blurred with rain…

—John Burnside, “Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012”
published in BLACK MIDDENS: New Writing Scotland 31 (ASL, 2013)
#poem #poetry
John Burnside Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012 “Necessity is not the mother of invention; play is” —Ian D. Suttie It gets late early out here in the lacklustre places, wind in the trees & the foodstalls’ ricepaper lamplight, fading & blurred with rain, the wire fence studded with fleece & indelible traces of polythene wrapping; marrowfat clogging the drains on the road that runs out to the coast then disappears. A last bleed of gold in the west, like a Shan Shui painting, then darkness. The animals are gone that hunted here: wolves coming down from the hills, that immaculate hunger, rumours of bear & cat, quick martens & raptors. The rain is darker now, though not so black, oil-iridescent, streaked with the smell of lard – it gets late early out here; though late, out here, has a different meaning: stars in the road & the absence of something more than birchwoods or song, pallet fires, tyre-tracks, grubbed fields clouded with grease & palm oil, hints of molasses and lanolin, tarpaper, iron filings. A narrow band of weather on the road, then houses; though we scarcely think of them as that. I remember a meadow at dusk in another rain (and this is nostalgia now); I remember I stood in a wind like gossamer and watched three roe fawns and a doe come quietly, one by one, through the silvering grasses, wary, but curious, giving me just enough space to feel safe, their watchfulness reminding me of something lost, a creaturely awareness I could only glimpse in passing. That meadow is gone, and dusk isn’t dusk any more – or not out here – just miles of tract and lay-by on the way to junkyards and dead allotments, guard dogs on tether, biomass, factory outlets, the half-light of ersatz dairies petering out on rotting fields of rape and mustardseed. We’ve been going at this for years: a steady delete of anything that tells us what we are, a long distaste for the blood warmth and bloom of the creaturely: local fauna and words for colour, all the shapes of ritual and lust surrendered where they fell, beneath a fog of smut and grime and counting-house as church, the old gods buried undead beneath the rural sprawl that bears their names, or wandering the hills of Lammermuir and Whitelee, waiting out the rule of Mammon, till the land returns – with or without us – chainlink going down to bindweed, drunken thistles in a sway of wind and goldfinch on the dead estates, fat clusters of moss and gentian, broken tarmac with new shoots of coltsfoot breaking through like velvet, till the darkness of the leaf unfurls into a light we could have known but failed to see by choosing not to find the kingdom-at-hand: this order; this dialectic; this mother of invention, ceaseless play.
August 7, 2025 at 4:22 PM
asls.org.uk
It gets late early out here
in the lacklustre places,
wind in the trees and the foodstalls’
ricepaper lamplight, fading and blurred with rain…

—John Burnside, “Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012”
published in BLACK MIDDENS: New Writing Scotland 31 (ASL, 2013)
It gets late early out here in the lacklustre places, wind in the trees & the foodstalls’ ricepaper lamplight, fading & blurred with rain, the wire fence studded with fleece & indelible traces of polythene wrapping; marrowfat clogging the drains on the road that runs out to the coast then disappears. A last bleed of gold in the west, like a Shan Shui painting, then darkness. The animals are gone that hunted here: wolves coming down from the hills, that immaculate hunger, rumours of bear & cat, quick martens & raptors. The rain is darker now, though not so black, oil-iridescent, streaked with the smell of lard – it gets late early out here; though late, out here, has a different meaning: stars in the road & the absence of something more than birchwoods or song, pallet fires, tyre-tracks, grubbed fields clouded with grease & palm oil, hints of molasses and lanolin, tarpaper, iron filings. A narrow band of weather on the road, then houses; though we scarcely think of them as that. I remember a meadow at dusk in another rain (and this is nostalgia now); I remember I stood in a wind like gossamer and watched three roe fawns and a doe come quietly, one by one, through the silvering grasses, wary, but curious, giving me just enough space to feel safe, their watchfulness reminding me of something lost, a creaturely awareness I could only glimpse in passing. That meadow is gone, and dusk isn’t dusk any more – or not out here – just miles of tract and lay-by on the way to junkyards and dead allotments, guard dogs on tether, biomass, factory outlets, the half-light of ersatz dairies petering out on rotting fields of rape and mustardseed. We’ve been going at this for years: a steady delete of anything that tells us what we are, a long distaste for the blood warmth and bloom of the creaturely: local fauna and words for colour, all the shapes of ritual and lust surrendered where they fell, beneath a fog of smut and grime and counting-house as church, the old gods buried undead beneath the rural sprawl that bears their names, or wandering the hills of Lammermuir and Whitelee, waiting out the rule of Mammon, till the land returns – with or without us – chainlink going down to bindweed, drunken thistles in a sway of wind and goldfinch on the dead estates, fat clusters of moss and gentian, broken tarmac with new shoots of coltsfoot breaking through like velvet, till the darkness of the leaf unfurls into a light we could have known but failed to see by choosing not to find the kingdom-at-hand: this order; this dialectic; this mother of invention, ceaseless play.
March 19, 2025 at 2:12 PM
asls.org.uk
It gets late early out here
in the lacklustre places,
wind in the trees and the foodstalls’
ricepaper lamplight, fading and blurred with rain…

—John Burnside, “Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012”
in BLACK MIDDENS: New Writing Scotland 31
www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/travell...
August 6, 2024 at 9:39 AM
asls.org.uk
It gets late early out here
in the lacklustre places,
wind in the trees and the foodstalls’
ricepaper lamplight, fading and blurred with rain…

—John Burnside, “Travelling South, Scotland, August 2012”
text online via the Scottish Poetry Library:
www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/travell...
It gets late early out here in the lacklustre places, wind in the trees & the foodstalls’ ricepaper lamplight, fading & blurred with rain, the wire fence studded with fleece & indelible traces of polythene wrapping; marrowfat clogging the drains on the road that runs out to the coast then disappears. A last bleed of gold in the west, like a Shan Shui painting, then darkness. The animals are gone that hunted here: wolves coming down from the hills, that immaculate hunger, rumours of bear & cat, quick martens & raptors. The rain is darker now, though not so black, oil-iridescent, streaked with the smell of lard – it gets late early out here; though late, out here, has a different meaning: stars in the road & the absence of something more than birchwoods or song, pallet fires, tyre-tracks, grubbed fields clouded with grease & palm oil, hints of molasses and lanolin, tarpaper, iron filings. A narrow band of weather on the road, then houses; though we scarcely think of them as that. I remember a meadow at dusk in another rain (and this is nostalgia now); I remember I stood in a wind like gossamer and watched three roe fawns and a doe come quietly, one by one, through the silvering grasses, wary, but curious, giving me just enough space to feel safe, their watchfulness reminding me of something lost, a creaturely awareness I could only glimpse in passing. That meadow is gone, and dusk isn’t dusk any more – or not out here – just miles of tract and lay-by on the way to junkyards and dead allotments, guard dogs on tether, biomass, factory outlets, the half-light of ersatz dairies petering out on rotting fields of rape and mustardseed. We’ve been going at this for years: a steady delete of anything that tells us what we are, a long distaste for the blood warmth and bloom of the creaturely: local fauna and words for colour, all the shapes of ritual and lust surrendered where they fell, beneath a fog of smut and grime and counting-house as church, the old gods buried undead beneath the rural sprawl that bears their names, or wandering the hills of Lammermuir and Whitelee, waiting out the rule of Mammon, till the land returns – with or without us – chainlink going down to bindweed, drunken thistles in a sway of wind and goldfinch on the dead estates, fat clusters of moss and gentian, broken tarmac with new shoots of coltsfoot breaking through like velvet, till the darkness of the leaf unfurls into a light we could have known but failed to see by choosing not to find the kingdom-at-hand: this order; this dialectic; this mother of invention, ceaseless play.
August 29, 2023 at 5:15 PM
jun-orphancross.bsky.social
Foodstalls. A lot of people there, even a couple of ferries (well I've seen two, next to the puppy masks).
I made sure to take Flyers and free stuff of things that peaked my interest xD
@taz.de had the best sticker in my opinion.
One of the streets. A lot of people crowd it. Booths left and right. Some smile from the foodstalls in the far of down the street. Stickers from Taz. A white rectangle one with red text saying:"Wehret den Arschlöchern" (Resist the Assholes, a wordplay on Nip it in the bud (butt)) with an AfD blue smiling pile of shit beneath. [Taz .de/antifa] A rainbow coloured round sticker: Love is Love. A rainbow coloured round sticker: CSD dtatt AFD (CSD instead of AfD) [taz .de/pride] A holofoil silver sticker with two seahorses in harness entangling their tails with each other. A holofoil silver sticker with two smiling crabs having each one scissor as claw intertwining these two open scissors into each other. A black fan with Side Kicks Berlin written neatly in white, filling up the fan, beneath a rainbow fan from Messe Berlin. A progress flag coloured lanyard from Schwule BeratungBerlin. A fabric bracelet in progress flag colours with "Fight For Queer Rights" written in white on it. A lot of flyer about queer topics
July 20, 2025 at 11:39 PM
jun-orphancross.bsky.social
Foodstalls. A lot of people there, even a couple of ferries (well I've seen two, next to the puppy masks).
I made sure to take Flyers and free stuff of things that peaked my interest xD
@taz.de had the best sticker in my opinion.
One of the streets. A lot of people crowd it. Booths left and right. Some smile from the foodstalls in the far of down the street. Stickers from Taz. A white rectangle one with red text saying:"Wehret den Arschlöchern" (Resist the Assholes, a wordplay on Nip it in the bud (butt)) with an AfD blue smiling pile of shit beneath. [Taz .de/antifa] A rainbow coloured round sticker: Love is Love. A rainbow coloured round sticker: CSD dtatt AFD (CSD instead of AfD) [taz .de/pride] A holofoil silver sticker with two seahorses in harness entangling their tails with each other. A holofoil silver sticker with two smiling crabs having each one scissor as claw intertwining these two open scissors into each other. A black fan with Side Kicks Berlin written neatly in white, filling up the fan, beneath a rainbow fan from Messe Berlin. A progress flag coloured lanyard from Schwule BeratungBerlin. A fabric bracelet in progress flag colours with "Fight For Queer Rights" written in white on it. A lot of flyer about queer topics
July 20, 2025 at 11:19 PM