Three Great Truths
At the ripe age of 25 there are three things I know to be true: 1) There is no greater breakfast than the English Breakfast, 2) I’d much rather be called a donut than an idiot and 3) the social life of your mid to late-twenties is marked by a sudden affinity for pubs over clubs. It is for these simple reasons that I adore the British, and even more than that, their beloved capital: London.
I spent my Fall of 2018 studying abroad in the city, which was marked by four glorious months of crisp walks through Hyde Park, field trips to obscure museums and golden hour strolls along the bank to watch the street buskers. As part of my school’s program, in addition to taking classes we had to work part-time at a London-based company. My specific placement was at a media company involved in the sports technology space—a surprisingly lucrative sector powered by the latest VR headsets, performance wearables and eSports tournaments. And so, three times a week I rode the tube to work before the sun was up and hit the pub with coworkers twice my age for happy hour.
The circumstances of my most recent trip across the pond, however, were quite different. While last time I experienced the city within an admittedly contained bubble of other American students squeezed into the same tiny apartment complex, this time my plan was to spend a few nights at a hostel in Notting Hill, and later join my Dad at the trendy Ham Yard Hotel. He was, in fact, the whole reason I was going to London in the first place, as he had a work event to attend at the Victoria & Albert Museum and, as a partial Christmas gift, invited me to tag along. I didn’t need to be asked twice!
In Defense of British Food
English food gets a lot of flack from visitors and local residents alike. Typically, it’s a collection of dense dishes that are heavy on the meat and poultry, often having undergone some kind of roast, generous on the carbs and light on the seasoning. There’s also seemingly a whole lot of deep frying going on. The mediocrity of the cuisine isn’t necessarily from a lack of trying; its roots branch back to desperate WWII rationing tactics and Celtic methods of cooking, after all. Besides, what the food lacks in flavor it makes up for with zesty names like bangers and mash, scampi-in-the-basket or toad in the hole. Regardless of the why, there are special qualities to even the blandest of British dishes that one can only appreciate.
Undoubtedly, my favorite of all the dishes is The English Breakfast. Between the baked beans, the charred sausage, the runny eggs on toast, and the black pudding, the possible combinations in a single bite feel endless. Going into this trip, then, my sights were set on ensuring I sampled some of the best versions of the dish that London had to offer. Research informed me that Regency Cafe, a corner cafe in Westminster London that first opened in 1946, was best. And so off my Dad and I went.
If its highly rated reviews didn’t convince us that it was the real deal, its classic picnic diner decor and ongoing flow of construction workers, tourists and corporate customers was a pretty good indication. Once our order number was called, we picked up our two plates overflowing with baked bean drippings and scraps of bacon, sat down at a tiny table for two and chowed down in silence, washing everything down with piping hot cups of Lipton tea. Upon exiting after what couldn’t be more than 30 minutes from when we had entered, we were in agreement that it had to be one of the best breakfast dining experiences we’d ever had.
To bring things back to my defense of British cuisine at-large, let this be an official defense of the old school institutions who have chosen to stick to their roots; who are clinging to their deep fryers, loyal to their dutch ovens and refusing to touch the spice rack. I see you, and I’m coming back for you.
Flâneur-Friendly
One major complaint that seems to arise about the city is its gloomy weather. While I’d have to agree, I grew up dealing with tropical rainstorms only to trade that in for a seasonal cycle that’s only really pleasant for three months out of the year, so I’m used to it.
All that is to say, the gloomy weather and winter chill didn’t dissuade me from getting my steps in. Like New York and Berlin, I found London’s walkability and transportation to be pretty reliable and visitor-friendly, and having seen most of the iconic institutions and one too many cathedrals during my previous stay, this time around I felt compelled to do nothing other than strolling around my favorite areas. To fully assume my favorite form, the flâneur, or urban wanderer. I had a loosely constructed itinerary for my week there which I intended to complete. In it were no mention of galleries and museums and instead items like ‘walk through Marylebone’, ‘window shop at Harrods; look, don’t buy‘, ‘sample fudge at Borough market’ or ‘purchase oversized leather jacket from Brick Lane’.
While there, I squeezed in some night life, one night going to Anabel with my father, and the other going to a pub to watch the France vs. England game, which began at a euphoric high only to end in a deafening silence of defeat and disappointment.
It Won’t Be Long
Outside of the city and the food, I simply love the British. Specifically, I find British humor to be a spectacle of its own; direct, crude, witty, often self-depricating in nature, but ultimately pointing to a higher truth. It’s unsettling in its acute observation and uncomfortable in its curt delivery. The proof is in Ricky Gervaises’ Oscars opening or the entire script of Fleabag. Even now, I recall having certain conversations with my old coworkers so many years ago and being thrown by the level of dark humor. Though unlike the U.S., it was never about fishing for compliments, it was almost a surrendering of how things were.
I realize as I write this that maybe it’s not that deep, but as someone who can very much be over-sensitive, it’s a quality I’ve always admired. I think we might all be a little better off embracing this attitude. To use humor as a medium to speculate and often critique the absurdity of things that are considered normal. Call out the hypocrites and the doughnuts, even if those people are ourselves! I suppose that is what good satire is after all.
All that is to say, there’s much I’ve grown to enjoy about the city during my extremely short time living in it. And while New York is home for now, it won’t be long until I’m back across the pond for another, hopefully longer visit.
