Of Mincemeat, Chanukah Lights and Eggwhat?

You know, we’re trying to fit in here in the U.K. We say “pram” instead of “stroller,” “zed” instead of “zee,” and “whilst” instead of “while.” We look right instead of left when crossing the street, and always use the plural for collective nouns.  No big deal. We’re not ugly Americans.

But the Brits are not making it easy on us.  Even at Christmas.

First thing, wherever you go during the Christmas season, someone is shoving a little mince pie at you.  Shopping malls, grocery stores, even business meetings—they are irritatingly ubiquitous. I don’t know even how you’re supposed to eat these things.  They’re actual little pies, in miniature tin pie plates.  How are you supposed to eat that? I can’t even get one out of pie plate without destroying it.  And if I did get it out of the pie plate, then what? Shove the whole thing in my mouth? I’d choke. Take a single bite? I’d end up with crust crumbs all over me and mincemeat on my nose. The little bastards should come with an instruction manual. Or at least a spork.

Oh, and, in case you were wondering, there’s no actual meat in them. Which, I must say, comes as a bit of a surprise when you eat one.  After all, Brits eat meat pies like Americans eat hot dogs, and what we call ground beef, they call minced.  So you figure a mincemeat pie is going to have some friggin’ minced meat. Instead, you bite into one and you get a mouthful sugary, spicey, fruity, squishy goop.  It’s enough to make you retch.

Second thing, all the Christmas lights over here are blue. Yes, blue. When people started putting blue lights on their houses last week, we assumed we had moved into a Jewish neighborhood  that was really excited about Chanukah. But no, they were Christmas lights. Whoever heard of blue Christmas lights? What is that supposed to symbolize?  Christianity is about blood.  Christmas lights are supposed to be red.

The worst thing, though, is the eggnog—or, lack thereof.

Immediately after we finished our belated Thanksgiving dinner, Heidi happily trotted down to Waitrose to pick up the Christmas season’s first carton of eggnog. We love eggnog. We only buy the expensive stuff, like Broguiere’s in the old-fashioned glass milk bottles from Bristol Farms. Heidi likes it in a red wine glass with a bit of Armagnac and a hint of nutmeg; I like it in an old fashioned glass with so much dark spiced rum that it begins to curdle.  Stefan drinks it straight from the bottle, a quart at a time.

So there’s Heidi at Waitrose and she can’t find eggnog anywhere. No Broguiere’s. No Alta Dena. Not even that crappy Borden’s stuff that comes in a can, like it’s meant to be stored in a fallout shelter and enjoyed during a nuclear winter. Nothing.

So she asks one of the helpful Waitrose employees, Where is the eggnog?

The guy replies, Egg what?

Egg what? Egg WHAT? Are you daft, Mr. Waitrose person? Rumour has it (notice the conformist “u”) you people invented this stuff. And now you don’t even know what it is? What kind of deprived backward culture has this become? I realize you had rationing in this country for nine years after World War II while America was living a post-war economic boom, but honestly, do you all of you outside of the inbred upper classes have to live like Okie grandmothers from the Dust Bowl era?

So  Heidi kindly describes for the (presumably mentally challenged) man exactly what eggnog is— Eggs. Sugar. Cream. You know, eggnog.

Oh, he says distastefully. That sounds rather indulgent.

Just like that. With the dul in audible italics.

Of course it’s indulgent, you moron! It’s eggnog!!

So, yeah. Christmas in the U.K. Mince pie. Blue lights. No friggin' eggnog. It’s just not the same.

Three Pub Update

We've had the chance to revisit some of our local pubs to reconsider our initial impressions.  Here are some updates:

The Old Bull & Bush: Heidi, Jack and I returned to The Old Bull & Bush for dinner tonight (Nov. 26).  The results were mixed. We liked the ambiance of the dining room: the black wooden tables were well spaced and provided a nice colour contrast to the light floor and walls, and the indirect lighting provided a soft, comforting glow.  We sat in a cushioned banquette built into a bay window that was particularly nice.  They had three cask ales on draft: London Pride (of course), Adnam's Broadside and Sharp's Doom Bar.  I had a pint each of the latter. Both were in very good condition.  I had a side dish of wild mushrooms sauteed in garlic, and they were fresh and meaty and delicious.  And, somewhat surprisingly, the espresso drinks we had to finish the meal were excellent.

On the other hand, the service was spotty -- the waitress seemed only sporadically to remember that we were there, and getting her attention (particularly when she was on the telephone) was a challenge.  The scallops in our appetizer, set on a delicious bed of cold mango and mixed vegetables, were sweet and flavourful, but needed a better sear.  The biggest disappointment, though, were the mains.  Heidi's mussels were overcooked and had the texture of a kitchen sponge.  My pan-seared duck breast was chewy and flavourless.

The verdict:  Overall, disappointing at this price point.  Given its convenient location, though, we might give The Old Bull & Bush another shot for a pizza and beer in the "bar" area.

The Spaniard’s Inn: The upside of London's inability to cope with even a moderate amount of snow is that I'm working from home this week (the week before Christmas).  Yesterday, Heidi and I took Jack for a snow trek across the Heath to the Spaniards, trusting it wouldn't be too crowded on a Monday lunchtime. We were right, although a fair number of tourists and even a few locals also had braved the snow.  We really liked the ramshackle, rambling charm of the place, with an open fire in the main room, dark cushioned pews and worn wooden tables. The hot mulled wine was fruity and refreshing, and the pint of Timothy Taylor Landlord was perfect. It's easy to see why this place attracts the crowds.

One caveat: We did not eat, so I can't comment on the food, but the weekday lunch menu looked overly elaborate to me, and suspiciously so -- I cannot imagine them prepping and cooking so many different and diverse dishes well or with fresh ingredients, particularly on a slow service day.

The Holly Bush: We returned to The Holly Bush for dinner again last Saturday night (Dec. 18) and we were pleased. We tend to eat early by London standards (the better to accommodate Jack), and yet the place already was buzzing with a Saturday-before-Christmas vibe. Sure enough, our dinner was pleasantly interrupted by a round of communal caroling as the village choir came to call.

Score a big one for The Holly Bush -- although they never received our reservation and despite the crowd, they found us a table promptly. (We made our reservation through Toptable; this is the second time we've had trouble with reservations made through them.) We started with a very nice terrine of foie gras and chutney dish. For her main, Heidi again had the steak-and-ale pie, which looked so appetizing that it tempted the drinkers nearby to cancel their dinner plans elsewhere to get their own. My roasted lamb breast was equally attractive, and although the cut was fatty and the texture a bit chewy, the flavor was very good.