FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD

George Orwell once wrote a lovely little piece called, if memory serves, “In Defence of English Cooking.” It was all about the joys of dishes like steak and kidney pudding and the immortal “spotted dick” (a sweet desert made out of animal fat and raisins). Honestly, no joking, all irony aside, seriously, I kid you not, I love both those dishes. One of the things I’ve never left behind after eighteen years in America is a hankering for British food. Yesterday, my mother made me roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. For lunch today in Soho, I had a big helping of baked beans on fried bread with two bangers (English sausages), followed by hot apple crumble and custard (the kind you can pour). Delicious. The enormous weight in one’s stomach one feels after such a meal can now be ameliorated by a Starbucks latte. The only thing I can’t quite get used to again is hot tea (with milk) served with the main course. That and warm, ice-free coca cola. But give me a week and my tastes will likely be as reconstituted as my accent.