When I was a young, single man, I spent a week in London. I rode those double-decker buses, jumped in one of the black taxis and was mesmerized by the driver’s knowledge of such a large city, shopped at Herrod’s, saw Shakespeare performed at the Picadilly Theatre, and toasted London with a few room-temperature beers.
I don’t recall having a bite of food that knocked my socks off, but I was a young, jaded culinary student from New Orleans and was constantly reminded that ours was the finest food town on the planet. I do remember some wonderful street food, and my favorite was fish and chips. Fresh cod, dipped in a beer batter and fried until its crust shattered like a Leidenheimer’s baguette.
Served in a newspaper cone along with a massive handful of fried potatoes, was there anything more British? I propped myself on an outdoor table with a glass of bitters and marveled at the V-12 E-Type Jaguar that drove past. I believed I was the luckiest guy in the world…