Biting into fish and chips in California felt like my taste buds had smuggled themselves onto a London double-decker. Crispy cod flaked like tiny golden confetti, fries piled like a greasy skyline, and malt vinegar fogging up the edges of my reality.
I half expected Big Ben to chime between bites or a pigeon to nod in approval from the corner.
Every forkful was a cheeky wink from across the pond. Like the Atlantic had been replaced with a tangy lemon squeeze and a whisper of sea salt…