Dirty Laundry (by "Judy")
Between March 1-6, I spent quality time with "companions",
sampling "authentic" British fare in the London pub
scene.
March 1 - Porterhouse Pub - Covenant Gardens, North
London
Full bodied, rich, and
properly poured. Indistinguishable, however, from
Boston brew, save it was the only black in the bar.
Reversed presentation of
bland-tasting English fave...lotsa chips and a couple
of frozen fish-stick tasting filets. Too busy fending
off the tuna-flavor of a New Jersey girl to sample the
fish.
March 2 - The Skittles Pub - West Hempstead, near the
Heath, North London
Attractive 'cause of name,
but quickly dissuaded by prospect of mad cow. Washed
down with a cheap Australian Shiraz suggested by our
No. Californian waiter who had given up on his life of
continental couth culture. After noticing that a
couple of companions had spent an inordinate amount of
time at "the bar", search party revealed a hidden
passageway in which we uncovered the last authentic
London Rules skittle alley in the world. After
"tossing a couple cheese" (which I am doing quicker in
my old age), finished the meal, and was instructed to
ask for an authentic dessert. Obliged by asking Lance
for a "spot of dick", which he appeared eager to
satisfy. Was ridiculed for remainder of trip for
mishearing "a spotted dick". And the difference would
be?
Bartender happily clarified the need to go to the
Guinness plant in Ireland for the good stuff, where
they take the water from the particular sludge ridden
river which gives it its flavor. Thought of the
Jersey girl.
March 3 - Home Cooking - St. Alban's, Hertfordshire
Jacket Potatoes
w/ beans on toast | | +8 |
The
beefeaters can do wonders with unseasoned potatoes
(pronounced potatoes), as they suit them up with all
the fixin's: canned baked beans, a little monterey
jack, and a few strands of the allergic feline dander
which my friend graciously offered up. When his hot
wife began dancing to Kylie Minogue, it all became
worthwile. Also learned not to swig the dram of
Glenfyditch, as it's "a sophisticated, sipping drink."
Regardless, I soon found myself in the street
screaming the "Redcoats are coming, the Redcoats are
coming."
March 4 - Porter's Pub - Covenant Garden, North London
Can you fucking believe it? Braised Faggots.
Two succulent balls of seasoned meat, coated with
a translucent sauce. Accompanied nicely by an Italian
Chianti, really brought out the bloody flavor.
The grail had been found.
There it was, staring up at me on the menu. Could not
have been more tantalizing. I quickly waved to the
tall, skinny, impeccably groomed service man, and
proclaimed my desire for "a Spotted Dick to go with my
Braised Faggots please". Nothing could have tasted
sweeter then the repeated smooth texture of the
creamed custard dick, first carressing my tongue,
seeping over its protruding buds, slipping to the back
of my throat, and sliding down my alimentary canal,
over and over again, thrusting the spoon into my
mouth, accompanied by a few pickled sultanas. Evening
was capped off with a cigarette, given by the spritely
lass who stole a menu for me, as a permanent reminder
of the time we shared together.
March 5 - Cornish Pastie Shoppe - St. Albans
| Traditional Cornish Pastie | | +4 |
As best I can tell, contrary to the American
version, a cornish pastie is neither sweet tasting,
nor ample. Indeed, it is reminiscent of a bland
canoli, wrapping beef and onions in a pie crust and
baking. It tasted like the smell in one's flatulent
grandmother's kitchen. Mmm...Mmmm.
Travel Note: Despite its name, there was no corn in
the pastie, nor anything otherwise reminiscent of
corn.
March 6 - American Airlines - SkyChef Air Gourmet,
somewhere over Iceland
Salmon Bricks
w/ baby bell cheese | | -2 |
Salmon tasted like cardboard. Sincerely, it
tasted exactly like the cardboard I tasted in my
youth. Saving grace was the "bleu cheese" baby bell
wedge which could make anything taste funky. Five
hours after taking my companion's unwanted wedge and
storing it next to the SkyMall catalogue, my entire
row soon discovered the pungency of Eaud cuisine. A
perfect complement to the lack of taste of the british
people...except for the artifacts which they stole
from the countries which they raped over the past 300
years and ceremoniously demonstrate in their museums
as memorial to a glorious time since past, in which
their self-righteousness was only surpassed by their
high culture.
But still better than Canada.
P.S. Did not include the feminine flavours in this
culinary report. Similarly tasteless, misguidedly
pretentious, but that is another report.
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