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.