“Winter is coming.” “No s@#t, Stark. Why do you think I’m stocking up?” Bang, bang, slush, slush goes a casket of 80-proof icy insulation. “By the way, you’re a lousy weatherman. 6 years? Sooner or later you’re bound to be right, Ned. Now, let’s retire to one of Little Finger’s entertainment pavilions, lest you lose your head.” Food has always been a leyline on which George R.R. Martin’s epic novels have dug their roots deep. In comparison, with its scantily clad HBO adaptation, the original script — which is the less than pompous way of saying “novels” — are the equivalent of a gourmand’s saucy skin magazine. Each author or producer letting their inner fetishes take hold of their rigid and stiff […]