Adventures in British Cuisine
When I was a kid, we had a globe on a tall wooden stand in our living room. I’d spin it gleefully, as fast as it could spin, and try to stop it in one of two places: Mexico (where Speedy Gonzales lived), or England (where Danger Mouse lived). Yes, I was a weird kid, choosing my dream vacations based on where my favorite cartoon mice resided.
I’ve not yet made it to Mexico, but when the chance came in college to study abroad for a semester in an English manor house, I jumped on it. By my early twenties, my dreams of meeting Danger Mouse had morphed into dreams of meeting hot British guys. Oh, and dreams of studying the rich cultural history of the British Isles. Yes. But mostly the hot guys.
There’s many a tale I could regale you with, such as exploring secret passages in the manor house. Or visiting an open-air meat market in Liverpool that my friend described as smelling like “a fart coming from a stinky foot.” Or using a Japanese lady as a tripod to get a good picture of Robert Pattinson. But I’ll choose a more prosaic story—one that speaks to my true nature.
The school I attended in England was Harlaxton College, in the small village of the same name. The nearest town of note was Grantham, and it was there that my fellow students and I ventured when we wished to dine upon something other than the questionable fare served in the refectory. Of course, the fare served in Grantham could be questionable at times, too. The British are not known for their cuisine for good reason.
One day, we visited a pub, the name of which escapes me now. It had the aura of all British pubs— the dimly lit, dark wood interior, the menu that was likely older than the United States, and the sense that if you tried to order a Sex on the Beach at the bar, the bar keep would look at you like you were propositioning him. But it was at this unassuming pub that I discovered an unexpected delicacy.
One thing to note about me: I’m a picky eater. I’m especially picky about condiments. I order most my sandwiches plain. This had already caused confusion in a British Burger King when I ordered a plain chicken sandwich and the cashier responded incredulously, “Wot, just chicken? In a bun?” Apparently, they didn’t hold with that American nonsense of “Have It Your Way.”
But I yearned to expand my horizons, live the life of a cultured traveler. So when I ordered a chicken sandwich at this pub and it arrived smeared with some mysterious white sauce, I threw caution to the wind and took a tentative bite. To my surprise, it tasted delicious. The sauce added a rich, almost buttery texture without overpowering the chicken. I devoured the whole sandwich, and when the server returned, I rapturously asked him, “Excuse me, sir, but could you please tell me what sauce is on this sandwich?”
The server stared at me for a brief moment, managing to convey in that time not only his general disdain for Americans, but also his particular disdain for me.
“It’s mayonnaise,” he replied drolly, and walked away.
In my defense, I’d never had mayonnaise before, having refused to consume it based on my blanket ban of condiments. I’d been missing out on a flavorful addition this whole time. But the server missed out on an even greater opportunity. He could have gone in the kitchen, slapped a different label on a jar of mayonnaise and sold it to me for an exorbitant price as a house special sauce. I would’ve come home with five jars in my carry-on luggage, excitedly telling everyone, “no, you can only get this in one specific pub in Grantham,” until someone made me taste the contents of a Hellman’s jar.
I’m not sure what life lesson I’m trying to impart with this story. Perhaps it’s that my long-held assumptions are often baseless, and that I should be more adventurous. Or perhaps it’s something more profound.
T.S. Eliot wrote in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”:
“No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do,
To swell a progress, start a scene or two (…)
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.”
I’ve come to the realization I may not reach the level of the Fool, who, despite his japes and gambols, had the freedom to speak the truth, but that I will always at all times, be the doofus.