Gourmet guide
Purely English Food
The author of the publication on Lenta.ru<\/a> tells about what the English actually eat. <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n
“No five-o-clocks,” my friend, who was considered an expert on local life because he worked on the London Stock Exchange, disappointed me. “They drink tea at any time, just like you. Young people generally prefer coffee. Besides, the English don’t eat—they feed. I’ve never tasted anything worse than English food. Thank God, the capital is full of Italian and Japanese restaurants. And God forbid you from porridge and fish and chips!”<\/p>\n
Thus blessed, I set off on a journey to Foggy Albion with some trepidation. <\/p>
There was no oatmeal for breakfast. I can’t say that upset me; I’ve hated it since childhood. But there was a magnificent omelet with bacon and tomatoes, toasted bread that was to be spread with jam. I preferred to spread something like processed cheese and put smoked fish on top. As it turned out, that’s exactly what a traditional English breakfast looks like, and oatmeal is not at all a mandatory participant.<\/p>\n
Good food cheered me up so much that I decided to finally dispel my doubts and turned to the red-haired waitress in my meager English, seasoning it with a smile: “Where is the porridge, miss?” The miss immediately vanished somewhere, and I went about my London business in an excellent mood. <\/p>
In our terms, this is dinner time, and here I fell for a stereotype. After all, we have it like this: for dinner there must be soup! Everyone around me was cheerfully eating sandwiches cut into triangles, quite thick and beautiful to look at, while I demanded “first course”—especially since I remembered the word soup like a native. The auntie-server in the small restaurant where I was having lunch with friends asked three times whether I really wanted soup or meant something else. We all assured her that it was exactly soup that I needed for a good lunch, and both my companions ordered a cucumber sandwich.<\/p>\n
I was a bit tense: what does “with cucumber” mean? Bread with cucumber—and that’s it? The whole lunch? But when a massive plate with a powerful triangle of sandwich was placed in front of each of us, I calmed down. Judging by the multi-colored layers, it wasn’t limited to just cucumber. And my soup was still not there.<\/p>\n
It was brought at the end of the meal, when I had already finished the sandwich I had ordered in frustration. The soup looked terrible: in a not-too-deep bowl there was something murky, gray-beige, sprinkled with fresh herbs for camouflage. The soup was also terrible in smell: an aroma similar to khmeli-suneli fought with the smell of soaked cardboard and... could it be? “Porridge?” I asked, hiding my horror. “Yes, yes!” the server smiled, sharing my joy of recognition. Oatmeal had caught up with me!<\/p>\n
If I hold my breath, I decided, I might manage one spoonful. Under the gaze of kind eyes, hating this entire restaurant with its white tablecloths and pervert chef, I brought a full spoon of the gray sludge to my petrified smile...<\/p>\n
The soup turned out not just tasty, it was sheer delight. My taste buds sang with happiness and demanded two more—no, three!—bowls of the same soup. My already satiated appetite from the sandwich joined in, demanding that the bowls be twice—no, three times!—larger and deeper. It’s good that I won this battle with myself, otherwise the business for which I came to Britain would have been jeopardized.<\/p>\n
Oatmeal puree soup<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n
Oat flakes are poured with hot milk and broth and cooked for 15-20 minutes, stirring, then pureed. Seasoned with cream, egg yolks, and butter. Croutons are served separately. <\/p>
I declare with full responsibility: tea drinking in England still exists. Maybe in business London it’s observed half-heartedly, but in the quiet suburb where I went to visit distant relatives, everything was in full accordance with tradition: the clock struck five, and I, along with ancient cousin Helen and her slightly younger husband, sat decorously around the tea table.<\/p>\n
In some generation, they were both Russian and somehow knew that not all of us drink tea with milk. I, for example, never understood why spoil the taste of good tea with lemon or, excuse me, milk. Therefore, two teapots were kindly brewed: one English-style—with hot milk, the other Russian-style—just with boiling water.<\/p>\n
The tea was very good, Ceylon. But it was not the only hero of the tea party. How do we drink tea? With jam and candies, with dryers and bagels, with gingerbread, cookies, cake, and pastries. Cousin Helen’s table was laden with all sorts of meat appetizers; next to the cold butter dish, hot buns were steaming; in the middle of the table lay a luxurious fruitcake, and on a rectangular platter stood dozens of sandwiches, among which I recognized the very ones that had excited me at lunch—supposedly with cucumber. What a blessing that I refrained from a second helping of soup! <\/p>
To avoid confusion, one should understand that our dinner corresponds to the second English breakfast (lunch), and our supper corresponds to English dinner. It turns out that ordinary English people don’t have supper at all. Supper is the lot of idle aristocrats and socialites who, according to their daily routine, sit down at the table after 10 p.m. But they skip breakfast (the first one) because they only wake up by noon.<\/p>\n
For various reasons, in England I had to lead a half-business, half-social life, and my meals became four times a day. It wasn’t easy, but let’s return to dinner.<\/p>\n
My English cousin arranged a luxurious Russian-style dinner for me—apparently to emphasize once again how strong our common roots are in their family. A black chef invited from a French restaurant did his best: he richly decorated warm butter buns with a pattern of black caviar, and filled rolled-up pancakes with red caviar. In small broth bowls, a beetroot puree called “borscht” splashed with an island of sour cream in the center.<\/p>
From the English there were the usual meat appetizers, hot potato salad, a thick leg of lamb (also with potatoes), and sweet apple pudding in vanilla ice cream. I barely managed to get up from the table at the end of the meal and fell into a heavy sleep in the taxi on the way to the hotel. And I still had dinner ahead of me!
Cucumber Sandwich
Slice a peeled cucumber into very thin rounds, salt them, and leave for half an hour. Finely chop watercress leaves and mix with mayonnaise or another mild sauce. Cut the crust off white bread and butter one side of each slice.
Place slices of ham or smoked chicken breast on the butter. Squeeze the salted cucumbers and place them on the sandwich. Spread with the watercress and mayonnaise mixture. Add another layer of cucumbers. Before serving, garnish with lettuce leaves and slices of young radish.
Trying to stimulate my jaded appetite with an aperitif, I gloomily pondered who had spread rumors around the world that the English eat little and poorly, and how, with such obvious gluttony, they manage to be, on the whole, a slim nation. In any case, there are significantly more thin people among them than in our homeland.
The huge table for the formal dinner, set according to all the rules – what is called “with seven crystal pieces” – was so beautiful in its starched-silver splendor that a scene of a royal funeral arose in my imagination. “Why not a wedding?” I asked my imagination with annoyance. “Too quiet,” it replied in embarrassment. “Our people would be shouting, slapping each other on the back, and exchanging bearded jokes, but here there are only limp handshakes and whispering...”
Finally, everyone was invited to the table, and a waiter in a tailcoat took up position behind my chair in the first dance position. Before I could think that he was dressed much better than me, a tiny bowl of oatmeal appeared on the table in front of me. I turned around in astonishment: “Oatmeal, sir?”
Later I realized that those two spoonfuls of thin porridge that I managed to force down helped me to endure the nine courses of the “funeral” dinner with dignity. The next morning I did not suffer at all from the night's overeating and drinking; on the contrary, I woke up cheerful and ready for breakfast.
Oatmeal (Porridge)
Oat flakes are boiled in salted water until the grain becomes soft. The porridge is poured onto a warmed plate and cream or milk is added to the finished dish. Sprinkle with sugar on top if desired.
And again scrambled eggs with bacon and strong tea! I unfolded the fresh newspaper and bit into the crispy side of a warm roll. But then a large plate of steaming gray mass appeared before me, no longer so unconditionally associated with paste. The red-haired waitress, whom I had asked about oatmeal yesterday, had not forgotten me – thank you, miss. The international laws of politeness forced me to eat it all, squinting with pleasure, because the redhead was watching me from behind the buffet door with a conspiratorial smile. Good thing I'm leaving. To the countryside, to my aunt, to the wilderness, to Yorkshire!
The real English aunt, my next destination, was, of course, not mine. We were brought together by Yorkshire pudding. Mrs. Gilby is a recognized expert in this dish, the absolute champion of some all-British competition in its preparation. I dreamed of meeting this lady – and she kindly invited me to dinner.
Yorkshire pudding is a famous and even iconic thing. It could be said to be one of the symbols of the unity of Great Britain. Margaret Thatcher, when she was Prime Minister, once said that she wished her compatriots the same unanimity in matters of the country's domestic policy as they show regarding Yorkshire pudding. The best sons and daughters of Britain were not ashamed to confess their love for Yorkshire pudding: Admiral Nelson and the pirate Morgan, the great actor Laurence Olivier and his slender wife Vivien Leigh, the legendary Queen Victoria and the current Queen Elizabeth. The fat man Winston Churchill demanded it for dinner at least twice a week. The football god David Beckham goes to eat it in a small restaurant near London. And I, for a personal acquaintance with this Yorkshire celebrity, set off for a distant village in the north of Britain.
“Leonid, this is pudding. Pudding, this is Leonid,” Mrs. Gilby joked in a Carrollian manner, placing on my plate a huge slice of potato casserole, and next to it an equally huge piece of roast beef. On top were placed boiled peas and carrots. The hostess poured thick, fragrant gravy over this entire mountain of food, and the dish nearly overflowed.
It can be considered a real miracle that I coped not only with this gigantic portion of meat and potatoes, but also with the other food prepared by Mrs. Gilby for our dinner: pea soup, meat pâté, and a kidney pie of impossible beauty and deliciousness. And that's not counting the small appetizers and dessert.
I think I owe my endurance to the elderberry liqueur, which I diligently tasted under the guidance of Mr. Gilby. He, by the way, enlightened me as to why the English eat so much meat – it turns out, because of the harsh English climate. “Nothing warms you up in bad weather like a good piece of meat and a drink!” said Mr. Gilby and lamented that modern British youth are recklessly turning to vegetarianism, after which they never stop catching colds.
During my trip around Great Britain, I ate a total of about a hundredweight of English food. For the most part, tasty. About five percent of what I ate was oatmeal in the form of porridge, soups, jelly, and puddings.
My attitude towards oatmeal has changed greatly: now I recognize its unconditional health benefits and that it can be prepared truly deliciously. It's a pity that it is so unlucky with its appearance and smell – even the most exquisite dishes involving oatmeal resemble stages of cardboard production.
I tried about twenty kinds of sweet and savory puddings. I think that's only a hundredth of England's pudding wealth. I also got to try fish and chips – fried fish with fried potatoes, which a friend had warned me about. Once considered the food of the English poor, it now tops the menu of every English pub. Nothing extraordinary – simple, cheap, and tasty.
I understood why English national cuisine is so little known outside the country. English cuisine is home cooking. A steak or pudding prepared in a restaurant is only related to its homemade counterpart by name. Have you ever seen any high-end English cuisine restaurants? English food is simple, like all things ingenious. Every product on the plate is familiar and has its own, culinarily unmodified taste.
