Food in London

Fucking ploughmen.

When I told people I was going to London, they often cautioned me, “Get ready for some terrible food!” And I would scold them for being culturally insensitive, acknowledging that while England does have a well-earned reputation for bland, unpalatable food, this came mainly as an outgrowth of wartime rationing and London is now a vibrant culinary center thanks to the growing international popularity of fine dining.

Or, y’know, a shorter version of that.

I got all of that information from Wikipedia and guidebooks – and I knew, of course, that no guidebook would say, “English food is terrible - do not eat for the duration of your trip!,” nor would an encyclopedia article read, “CUISINE OF ENGLAND: Don’t.” I recognized that they were probably blowing a fair amount of smoke – clearly, to have earned this reputation for bad food, England had to have at least some really nasty food.

I did not, however, think I would come into contact with it so soon.

On Saturday, my housemate Tom and I went out to the British Museum to take a look at the Rosetta Stone and the various other ancient priceless trinkets they had on display. On the way from the Underground to the museum, we were hit by hunger, and decided to stop in at a restaurant a block away from the British Museum called Munchkin’s.

I would wager that our first warning was that the restaurant was a block away from a major tourist attraction on a street lined with currency exchanges and gift shops. The second warning came when we opened our menus and were informed that ‘MUNCHKIN’S ACCEPTS EUROS AND AMERICAN DOLLARS.”

It appeared that we had been caught in a tourist trap, and even as we sat there I could feel its acidic saliva slowly beginning to digest us. Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” blared from a PA system, ensuring that as I spent the rest of my day inspecting various landmarks in Greek statuary, the only thing I could think of would be the disco anthem of gay rights and women’s empowerment.

My first instinct was to jump up and leave in favor of somewhere completely authentic, run by a charming old English couple, but then I stopped, considering my ‘DO EVERYTHING’ credo. I had already eaten at several authentic restaurants. I had not, however, patronized a classic English tourist trap. If I fled, I would be leaving a thing undone, which would compromise my goal of doing everything. Besides, even if it was a completely terrible meal, it would only make my subsequent good meals all the better by providing a horrible experience to bounce back from.

So Tom and I each picked an exotic item on the menu, and not long after a waitress with a strong Eastern European accent and a seemingly scanty knowledge of English came to our table and informed us that she would now like take order please.

“I was wondering,” Tom said. “What’s the Ploughman’s Lunch?”

The waitress nodded. “Ploughman Lunch – O.K.!” She noted this on her pad and turned to me. “You?”

I pointed to my menu and asked, slowly, so as to avoid the miscommunication she’d had with Tom, “What is the bacon split potato?”

She nodded again. “O.K. – split potato. Beans?”

I figured she was asking if I wanted beans in addition to my bacon, and seeing as I’d already accidentally ordered an item I knew nothing about, I decided to take the plunge and said, “Yeah, sure.”

She left us to wonder just what the hell we’d gotten our gastrointestinal tracts into. I resolved then and there that while I would do my best to keep an open mind, if ‘split potato’ turned out to be a bladder of any sort, I would not eat it – multiculturalism be damned. You could fill a sheep’s bladder with meat loaf, hummus, and first edition singles of Pink Floyd’s ‘The Great Gig In The Sky’ and I still wouldn’t go near it. Animals’ bladders should only be used as storage for animal urine, or as soccer balls in instances of severe need. Never food.

When she returned with our food, we were relieved to find that neither item was bladder based, though both were unexpected and not necessarily what we were looking for. Tom discovered that a Ploughman’s Lunch is intended more as a platter to be shared by several people over beer, comprised of multiple cheeses, pickles, and onions. It is no more a meal than a microwaved chocolate pop tart and a glass of whiskey are a dessert at a Black Angus.

I found that a split potato is a baked potato, split open. I also found that when our waitress had said, “Beans?” she didn’t mean, “Do you want beans in addition to bacon?”, she meant, “Do you want me to slather your potato in beans and nothing else?” Hearing my positive answer, she had done just that, dumping a can of baked beans onto a baked potato.

I was about to go to a museum that showcased some of the finest artistic and cultural products the world had to offer, followed by a long ride on a crowded subway. It was not a day for flatulence.

“Excuse me,” I said, pointing to my plate. “I ordered this with bacon.”

Her Eastern European eyes flicked to my bean laden potato, then back up to me – icy and unblinking. She said nothing.

“See, uh…” I muttered, trying to fill the silence and provide her with whatever information she appeared to be seeking. “I wanted, uh, bacon, and not beans, so…”

She continued to stare, as though it was my fault that she had fucked up my request to have a potato covered in bacon.

“I just, uh… I want bacon, not the beans, so…”

“I understand you say, ‘beans.’” She said, finally.

“Well,” I said. “I ordered bacon.”

She picked up my plate with a glare. “I bring bacon.”

Not long after, she brought me a similar baked potato covered in bacon, which was about as good as a shitty baked potato covered in shitty bacon could be. However, I’m reasonably certain that she or one of the cooks spat in it, so I suppose that was a pretty authentic experience.

The moral of the story? Don’t go on a culinary, “What the hell did I order?” adventure when you’re in a country with a reputation for disgusting food.

Truman Capps finds it easier to do everything when bacon is involved.