Meat City

Well I been Meat City to see for myself
Been Meat City been Meat City
Just got to give me some rock 'n roll

People were dancing like there's no tomorrow
Fingerlickin chickinpickin Meat City
Shookdown U.S.A. Pig Meat City

-John Lennon

~~~~~~~~~~

When I come home, as a rule, I lose weight. Then again, for the past three years home has also been India, so that may have had something to do it. Whatever the reason, without fail, I leave home a few pounds lighter than when I arrived. Given that I am a pretty tiny person, this is not always a good thing. Therefore, in preparation for my return home, I packed on a few extra pounds before leaving Atlanta - you know, safety weight. Here's the rub: England, apparently does not follow the rule. 

I now find myself in a slight predicament: my jeans are noticeably tighter. The only real problem here is that I can no longer fit a pair of sweater tights under my jeans (essential due to the cold weather). I must either invest in some larger jeans or stop indulging.

Allen's of Mayfair

It's not my fault, really, these unexpected pounds. I blame Allen's of Mayfair - the oldest butcher in London. It all began about a year ago, when my mother was traveling from London back to New Delhi and decided to get two legs of lamb and some cranberries to bring back to India (where lamb is mutton and mutton is goat and you can't chew any of it). Anyway, she bought the lamb and promised she would return in the evening to collect it before her flight. Slight issue: everything in London closes at five, and my mother returned at six - we're genetically insensitive to time.

Well, it took one year, one permanent move to London, and several trips to the butcher to claim the lamb - but when we finally did, it started a chain of events that I have not been able to escape.

My mother took me to the butcher to claim the lamb on a Tuesday. I walked in and opened my mouth in shock - what I saw was the most beautiful display of carnivorous splendor I have ever seen. There were turkeys hanging from the ceilings, slices of bacon on every wall, and a box over flowing with freshly hunted pheasants and partridges. I think the butchers half thought that I was about to run out of the store yelling something about animal rights, but no, instead I exclaimed: "Yum!" They were quite impressed.

While I was examining the meat, my mother became intrigued by the idea of purchasing something other than lamb for Christmas dinner. She talked me out of the idea of roasting a suckling pig and into the idea of a standing rib roast. We ordered "five bones" and were told to come back the next day.

When we came back on Wednesday, while waiting in line to pick up the Christmas roast, we purchased Cumberland sausages, streaky bacon, and goose fat - just to pass the time. As we lugged home the lamb (now designated for Sunday), beef, pork, and other goodies we became acutely aware that we were setting ourselves up for a weekend of incredibly rich cuisine. As a result, my mother decided to make my great-grandmother's traditional Seafood Chowder on Christmas Eve.

However, that involved a trip to The Chelsea Fishmonger - where we found everything on our list, and threw in some oysters, just for good measure. The oysters were brought home and promptly stowed away for Christmas Eve - one specifically destined to be my first ever oyster.

The Botanist 

Now, it so seemed, we had balanced out our menus evenly enough to leave room for decadence without over doing it. And then we decided to go to afternoon tea on Christmas Eve (Friday) and any question of over doing it was clearly answered: it was happening, whether I liked it or not.

When I walked in the doors of The Botanist, I told myself that I would eat light in order to save room for the wonders that lay ahead over the weekend - but then the scones, sandwiches, and cupcakes appeared. And then I discovered clotted cream.

Clotted cream and I get along fabulously. It's like butter, but milkier in a much more dangerously decadent way. If condiments are seducers, then clotted cream is Mata Hari: sweet, a little over-the-top, and completely capable of turning on your body if you over do it. Let's just say I apologized to my arteries all the way home.

Speaking of home: I returned home to find the oysters in the freezer. This is why eleven year old boys should not be allowed to put away the groceries. You cannot eat frozen oysters. It's okay, we made shrimp and chile-lime aioli, followed by the chowder, followed my homemade Christmas cookies. This was supposed to be the light dinner, remember?

Morning came and it was beautiful - it was a wonderfully simple and peaceful Christmas - including stockings, a sausage and crumpet laden table at breakfast, and a full out soccer game in Hyde Park. We needed that soccer game - badly. When we returned, the preparations for dinner began. We all gathered around the oven to see the Yorkshire Pudding try, and succeed, to rise. Dinner was incredible, but what I was really looking forward to was dessert.

One day a year, I am willing to renounce Red Velvet for this: Chocolate Bourbon Cake. It is like the best cocktail you have ever imbibed mixed with the best chocolate pound cake you can imagine. It is covered in all things wonderful (read: sugar and bourbon drizzle) and never gets dry. I had two slices the first night, two the next night, one the next, and one the morning after that. Toward the end, I put clotted cream on the top.

On Sunday we roasted that leg of lamb. On Monday we finished the beef, and roasted some pork - just to say we had covered our bases. In between all of that, throw in some extra pub lunches and trips to sneak a Christmas cookie or two, and I think it's pretty clear why my jeans have started constricting the rest of my body. So no, John Lennon, I'm pretty sure Meat City is London.

Yorkshire Pudding at Christmas

Like I said, I blame the butcher. Or my mother. If the butcher was open later, or if my mother had gone to the butcher on time, then I never would have had to go pick up the lamb a year later. I would have never been in that shop to get distracted by the Christmas roast, and never been forced to stand in line and purchase large amounts of bacon and sausage while waiting. I would have never discovered goose fat. I would have gone to tea a different day, and maybe spared my heart a few weeks without clotted cream.

But really, would I have wanted to not experience any of those moments? No, I suppose not. I enjoyed the laughter of the butcher at my fascination with his shop. I could not think of a better Christmas moment than a family crowded around the oven, waiting for the pudding to finish. And I cannot, for the life of me, imagine a crumpet without clotted cream.

And so, I would like to thank Allen's of Mayfair (and my mother) for the unfortunate series of events that led to a fortunate conclusion. As for the jeans - the heck with them, London just entered the biggest sale of the year - and now I have an excuse to shop. So, cheers - dig in.

Listen, the snow is falling

Listen, the snow is falling o'er town,
Listen the snow is falling ev'rywhere.
Between empire state building
And between trafalgar square.
Listen, the snow is falling o'er town.

-Yoko Ono

London is freezing. I do not simply mean that London is cold - I mean that it is actively freezing. The forecast for the last few days has fluctuated between "white cloud" and "freezing fog." I'm pretty sure that when J.K. Rowling wrote about the descent of dementors onto the muggle population - she was writing about the freezing fog of London.

First came the snow: it covered the streets quickly, causing Londoners to slide into the zebra crossings without very much grace at all. Then came the hail, which pelted against the snow and created a carpet of ice across every single street. You see, London does not employ the use of salt when it snows- and this may have been their fatal error. The airports closed and the trains shut down. Apparently having snow in central London is a pretty rare phenomenon.

Granted, the ice on the street was definitely treacherous - I slipped several times during various snow ball fights. That said, had we been in the United States - the ice would have been gone in a matter of hours. I am officially convinced that Williamsburg, Virginia is better equipped to cope with snow than London, England. Given the significant difference in latitude, this seems highly inappropriate. (Colonies: 1, Motherland: 0)

And so, what did I do on the day that London froze? I did what every good big sister does: I chaperoned my brother's date to the movies. My brother is eleven. Of course, I had a boyfriend at that age so I completely understood. I promised to be cool, and scored major points by allowing the purchase of popcorn and candy. We sat through The Chronicles of Narnia: Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and when the White Witch appeared, I started to wonder if her spell had been cast over London, too.

The weather had not improved upon exiting the theater: London was still frozen. Rather, it was paralyzed by the cold. People did not seem to know what to do with the ice and ran helter skelter everywhere. The people who stupidly took to the roads encountered fender benders, the ducks at Hyde Park stood atop the frozen Serpentine looking slightly bewildered, and - disgusting as it may be to say - the rats of London came above ground in the confusion, and did not survive.

Tube - as the storm began

And still, London has managed to enchant me. I look out of my window across all of the chimneys, and not only do I start to hum a line from Mary Poppins, but I am completely taken aback by how beautiful it all looks in the quiet white. However, I am ready for the spell to break, at least until Christmas, just so that my family can actually get here.

My sister and brother were supposed to be here by now, but they, along with the rest of the holiday travelers, have been caught up by the freeze. As a result, I have been tasked with keeping my younger brother occupied until their arrival. Today, I decided to initiate him into the Red Velvet Challenge. I wanted to make sure that his first ever Red Velvet cake would be as close to perfect as possible. We started walking toward The Hummingbird Bakery, because it was the only one I trusted to produce something that at least tasted right. I explained the rules, the cake itself, and how incredibly important it was for him to be honest. He took it all very seriously.

We walked into the bakery and his he spotted the cake and cupcakes right away, exclaiming, "Liz - everyone is eating the Red Velvet." And you know what? They were. I kid you not - Red Velvet has gotten big here. Youssef opted for the cupcake, as he seemed slightly intimidated by the size of a slice of cake (and it was close to dinner time). I set it down in front of him, and he looked like this:

Needless to say, Youssef was a little apprehensive. But then he poked it with a finger and got a piece of icing in his mouth and his eyes went wide: "that's good," he said - with a significant amount of surprise. He dug into that cupcake like it was nobody's business. I think I got maybe two bites out of it.

Youssef: "That cupcake is really, really red. Like your hair. Is that why you like it?:
Me: "Maybe. Is my tongue red now?"
Youssef: "Um, your tongue is always red."

His verdict? "Perfect." I then mentioned that I agreed - the taste was perfect, but that I thought, perhaps, the top and bottom were slightly chewy. He said, "oh, yeah, I was about to say that."

The score remains the same for The Hummingbird Bakery, as not much had changed. That said, I thoroughly enjoyed my cupcake there tonight with Youssef. I was proud to convert one more child to the cake, and I knew my mission was accomplished when he asked if we could buy a big slice for later, and maybe come back - soon. But even if he hadn't liked it, his smile in knowing I had included him in this event was worth the visit.

And so Youssef and I walked home, hand in hand, singing Christmas carols and kicking the melting ice off the sidewalk. The freezing fog couldn't touch us - if it really is made of dementors, I'm pretty sure in that moment, I could have created the most dazzling patronus.

Here, There and Everywhere

Big Ben - Parliament - London, England

Welcome to London, England.

The British are famous for many things. The list includes roses and an affinity for tea, Harry Potter and The Beatles, kings and queens, and of course - generally bad culinary fare. Therefore, when my family moved to London Towne earlier this year, my mind was alight with excitement - my stomach was not.

Don't get me wrong - I love the English. Some of my dearest friends throughout life have hailed from this island, and for the majority of my childhood I was madly in love with a cabbie I met while transiting through the city. That said, Londoners have not been able to escape the reputation their cuisine, or lack thereof, has acquired.

And so, when I boarded my flight out of Washington Dulles last week, wearing my new red velvet coat, I knew the cupcake I had consumed earlier that day may be my last for weeks. I started to chew my nails as the anxiety set in - would I be forced to take up a new dessert whilst I was away? The extent of my knowledge on British sweets comes from Harry Potter - and, bless him, but I do not think I would fancy treacle tart, banoffee pie or spotted dick - whatever that may be. The dessert that Virgin Atlanta provided did not encourage me.

Millennium Bridge

And then I arrived and all was forgotten. London is like a chapter out of my old history books, dropped into my lap to read: everything has a story. The streets bustle with the same eclectic group of people and shops that you would see in New York. I swear to you my first two days the only English I heard was at home - everyone else seemed to be speaking French or Italian. I walked into the Tube (subway/metro) and was overwhelmed with memories of Paris - as for some reason, the air smelled the same - or maybe it was just the music that was carried by it.

I arrived home and went right back out the door. My roommate from Atlanta, Caroline, was awaiting my arrival and insisted that exploration of the city commence immediately. Of course, the first thing that I wanted to do was eat. We sat down at The Audley on Mount Street and I prepared myself to be overwhelmed. I started sipping on my pint, hoping the beer would provide a decent chaser for whatever catastrophe was about to be placed in front of me. And then the food came: crispy, golden battered cod, smothered in lemon and vinegar, freshly fried chips (french fries), mushy peas (an actual thing), and homemade tartar sauce. Everything melted in mouth and made me seriously question where the rest of the tourists had eaten to develop such a hatred of British food. Fools.

I spent the rest of the day exploring the National Portrait Gallery and Trafalgar Square, Leicester Square and Big Ben - but I could not shake the rumble in my stomach requesting something sweet. And so, when I was walking down Portobello Road the next day admiring the antiques - my heart lurched as a girl walked past me carrying something very clearly red, with icing on top. No - it couldn't be!

But it was - London has Red Velvet cake. It doesn't just have it - Red Velvet is apparently one of the best selling and most popular flavors, and you have to arrive at the shop at a certain time just to get one. Like I said - the British are famous for many things - but I never thought I would put Red Velvet on that list. It is after all, you know...American.

I didn't even have to go inside The Hummingbird Bakery. Red Velvet is so popular that they have a woman out front just to sell that one flavor. She didn't appreciate my request to lift the lid protecting the cupcakes in order to take snaps (photos). Apparently there is a rule in the U.K. that suggests that "taking photographs of the product" is not permissible. I told her that I was a food artist, and that lid lifted rather quickly.

Here's the score:

Aesthetics: 3: I've seen that before...

-Ok, really? The whole 'using crumbs as decoration' thing is getting a little old

Size: 2: No, I did not order a mini/light version
-Now, this might just be a British thing. You see, everything is smaller here. My soda can looks as if it was ordered for a doll and the oven could never fit a proper turkey. Honestly, the only thing that isn't small is the gap between the platform and train on the Tube.

The Red Factor: 3: Sinopia Red
-Or was it Sangria red? It was fine - whatever it was

-Note: If you are new to this blog, please register that the color doesn't really matter to anyone else but me. But, I'm a redhead (ginger to the Brits) - so I'm very particular about what constitutes 'red'

The Cake: 2,4 = 3: I think it was probably good when it came out of the oven + good, definitely edible, moist
-Once again, this may be a British thing. That cupcake had a weird texture - but it still tasted great. I actually had to actively chew the darn thing. It wasn't altogether unappealing, it was just really odd. Is this some strange texture that the Brits enjoy? Does it remind them of sticky toffee pudding? I will have to research this possibility. 

The Icing: 3: Good texture, neutral flavor, nothing unique

-Definitely cream cheese, definitely not enough, definitely not that special

Overall Score: 3: I would return but only to try a different flavor and have another Red Velvet

-I am curious about how Red Velvet would taste on a different day, from a separate batch, and maybe at The Hummingbird Bakery I just located down the street.

Total: 17/26

As I left the bakery, I did notice a sign that said - American Cupcakes and Cakes in London. My stomach dropped for a second, as I thought that this was the explanation for the rare appearance of Red Velvet in a foreign city. But as I walked back up Portobello road, I overheard a conversation between two girls my age:

Girl 1: "Have you ever had Red Velvet?"
Girl 2: "No."
Girl 1: "Oh, you must. They are all over town, and divine."

London,  I have to say - this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.