I used to work for a company that put on trade shows. We put on a trade show in London every year, but I only ate a “real” British meal once. Most of the meals I had during that trip were catered specifically (and, I guess, secretly) for American tastes, by my hotel and/or by the trade show venue.
I did sneak out one morning, to get my hair cut, and ended up eating a genuine English fast-food breakfast, somewhere in the neighborhood around Earl’s Court Road.
And let me just say this.
It was an egg sandwich infested with sour beet pellets (or something) called “Branson Pickle.” And bacon. Now, you’d think that anything with bacon on it couldn’t be all bad, wouldn’t you? You’d be wrong. This bacon was undercooked, barely warm, really, sort of pink and stretchy, chewy as toffee, with little white flecks of cooked pig blood sliming up and down the length of it.
Turns out the British don’t even use the right part of the pig to make bacon, anyway. They use pork shoulder. In America, sirs, we put that shit in our SPAM, thank you very much. And then we don’t eat any SPAM. Yuck.