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French-American Center Newsletter

Roast Boeuf - London Style

By Brad Jeffrey

I recently sorted myself for a London fix that I had been gagging for. When I first came to Montpellier it was to escape London in all of it's over-priced madness. Now I go back for weekends to remind myself I am alive. London represents the best of two things, Australians and Indian food. Although there is arguably better Indian food in Scotland and a finer breed of Aussies in Turkey, London has a concentration of both. More about the Aussies another time, let's get to the meat of the matter which is near and dear to every Frenchman's heart - food.

I say "Indian" food because as Indians, or more likely self professed India experts that once spent a weekend in Bali on their mum's credit card, will tell you that what is sold in the U.K is not authentic Indian food of course that's true. Although « a dodgy curry » is still a common excuse for skiving off work the reality is your far less likely to get a case of Delhi belly, Bombay bum, Calcutta gutta or Madras ass in the U.K. Slaughtering animals in the street where people pee is yet to be adopted as common practice in Britain but there are other differences too. The most popular U.K dish is Chicken Tikka Massala which was allegedly invented in Scotland. Whatever its origin, British Indian food is generally good. For what it's worth I also favor « English » kebabs over the « French » ones simply because I prefer the veggies in place of fries. I am told the French kebabs are based on a North African tradition whereas those you will find on most English street corners are Turkish influenced.

There must be over a thousand great restaurants and pubs serving respectable food. If you are a tourist there you might ask yourself why do the English have this reputation for bad food? Try eating there on a budget and you may soon find out. Sure, there is plenty of McMerde and Starfuck 's type establishments but, apart from France and perhaps a handful of other stalwarts, where isn't there? The one fast food variant that has flourished particularly well in London is deep fried chicken. There is the big one from Kentucky but there is a seeming galaxy of imitators dotted all over the city. Some are little chains like Dallas, Texas or Louisville chicken but there is no shortage of imitators wanting to get in on the business of Southern U.S fatty bliss and they must have copyrighted the name of every hill and dale in that region because I once had a good laugh in Leyetonstone when I saw a « Toronto Fried Chicken ». They must have been desperate because the last time I checked Toronto was slightly north of the Mason Dixie line. I could just picture the citizens of Toronto trying to put a fried chicken breast on their whole wheat bagel.

So, the "bad English food" reputation cannot be put on the relatively recent proliferation of fast food outlets which is more of a global phenomenon. Should you go to some of the working class haunts or better still go outside London to visit some of the true culinary hell holes. Try any of the seaside holiday towns with names that end in « on Sea », just to clarify things for the truly geographically impaired, and you will find a bewildering array of items in greasy batter. There is even greasy batter liberally battered in greasy batter. Sometimes it's better to leave the mystery of what you might find at the depths of nauseous layers of creosote because it's a near certainty that if the cholesterol was not enough to stop your heart, the shock might be. It could be anything from a hairy finger to a rusty nail, although it's a near certainty that it's going to resemble the cancerous innards of assorted beasts scraped off the butcher shop floor. I swear I once saw a shop in Western Super Mare that said « Entrails deep fried to perfection » in its window.

I am no wilting violet when it comes to appetite. I was once saved from eating a leg of chicken off the ground at the Notting Hill Carnival. I was so hungry and it looked so good that I could not resist. Fortunately one giant Australian friend (you knew they had to get in this story somehow) was there to restrain me whilst another wrested it from my hand before I could get that tantalizing drumstick to my mouth. That's why it came as a surprise that I could manage no more than a couple bites of sausage in batter. The sort of man that can finish one of those is the kind to barge into a shop wearing a gravy stained wife beater, lay his lager lout belly on the counter and shout « make me some pork pie you baked bean bitch, chop, chop! » .

When we refer to this business of batter it is at the extreme end of British culinary evils. There are more pedestrian gastronomical impediments. Everyone has heard of fish and chips coming in newspaper. I have never personally seen them presented this way except in English theme pubs in other countries. Occasionally I have seen skin still on the fish under the batter and found it slightly revolting but what is truly mysterious to me is that you can sometimes find a subsequent layer of newspaper in the fish. On this theme there is a kind of dreary bun called a bap for which the English seem to have an inexplicable appetite. I have never seen any newsprint inside but it often has taste you would expect more from recycled paper than baked goods. Said bap can be stuffed with anything, often as not it's with canned corned beef or chopped egg and raw onion. Oooh yes, give us a kiss then lovely.

Before I tell you about the positive side I would like to make curious side note about a peculiarity of middle class food purchasing. Specifically I am referring to the Mark's and Spencer's or Waitrose shoppers. Any foreigner who has been around this breed post shopping will understand at once the disconcerting phenomenon I wish to relate. There is an uncomfortable lack of comprehension when an otherwise sane English person presents you with their day's shopping in the form of a cryogenically sealed strawberry, obtained for a mere weeks wages, flushed with pride at their wholesome purchase. All you can do is smile faintly hoping that is the effect of some medication and answer questions evasively whilst avoiding eye contact. In the end you can only stare with them at the haloed berry in the middle of the table, them patting themselves on the back at their holistic purchase and you bemused by the zealous over packaging of an insignificant item and it's grossly inflated price. How is it that the same person that will rage over their cider being two millimeters below the pint line will gladly fork over five times the price for an apple in an transparent apple shaped container and feel as chuffed as if they just saved the rainforest and made themselves healthier in the process. In any event it's going to be a toasted slice and a tin of safe way savers economy baked beans in the evening so they can try to fill themselves on what little is left of their paycheck.

On the bright side of English cuisine the logical place to start is with breakfast and the indispensable fry up. Now I love a croissant now and again but in the face of a hangover you have no recourse to save yourself in France and pastry is as useful to a person with a hangover as throwing a spoon to a drowning man. Pastries are also sorely lacking if you need to gird yourself up for hard day of physical labor but an English fry up will make you want to say « wey hay » and « mate » and slap everyone on the back. Buttons go flying off shirts and chest hair instantly thickens, don't even try to eat this while wearing a tie. Baked beans, Sausage, Bacon, eggs and chips with toast and tea on the side. This is how real men start their day! If you want to find a good place for a fry up in London just look for a place with some white vans parked near by and a lot work booted, shaved headed men shoveling it down on the inside. There is one pastry that holds its weight with the workmen and that's the Cornish Pastry. Basically it is minced beef stuffed in a pastry and though I have never personally had a great one my friend Radje from Cornwall assures me that there is nothing as satisfying as a real one from Cornwall.

« Indian food » may be the hallmark of England's International influenced pallet but of course in London you can find just about anything done well in one restaurant or another from Chinese to Greek and everything in between Anyone who says that you can't find good food in the U.K hasn't been back since the time of War rations. And I can't finish without a final word of tribute to the Sunday classic, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. It is after all from this mouth watering masterpiece that the English earned their nick name from the French of « Roast Boeuf ». If you have not tried it, you quite simply have not lived. Go to London and find a nice pub or a good restaurant that does a good Sunday roast and report back to me.

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