Food, glorious food?

It’s always the same, inn’t?

(See, I’ve already started to use the local terms.)

Mention a country where you are going to visit, and the stereotypes immediately come out:

“Holiday in Paris? Oh, the people there smell awful and are so snobby.”

“Mexico in the winter is the best place to vacation – the resorts are beautiful, just don’t drink the water.”

You can probably come up with a ton more. Then the reality of it comes to light – people who have visited France and found the people warm and friendly. Travellers finding Mexico a beautiful place and not having any difficulties with their digestive track. What do you think was the biggest stereotype that I heard before my trip to the UK?

The food is awful.

As an American traveller, I always take the advice of strangers. (Ha!) On my first trip, I was prepared for everything to be boiled to the point where all taste is removed. Impossible to find a fresh salad. Grey and depressing like the weather. That is, if I had bothered to listen to those strangers. But fortunately, I found out rather quickly that there is something unique about British food. Let me share my experience:

I came to the UK the second time to go on a retreat in a small village near Huddersfield. Which is near Leeds. Which is – oh, don’t worry, just imagine a beautiful area with lots of green fields. The retreat house was a converted old church, and I was the only guest at the time. The weather was sunny and bright, just cool enough to wear a hoodie or a jacket. Lovely. I arrived early afternoon and was told that there was a small farmer’s market about a quarter of a mile away that sold all kinds of fresh food for my time there. My room had a little kitchen area, so I went over to buy some basics. Some sausages, some cider, an onion. And of course, I would need milk and cereal for the morning. I looked at the cereal first and there were no name brands, but I got what seemed like corn flakes with dried fruit. Then I found a small container of milk – but it wasn’t pure white, like the milk at home. It was all that was there, so I made my purchases and went back.

Deciding I was hungry but not ready for dinner, I landed on the cereal. Poured some into a bowl…added milk…first spoonful…and it tasted SO good! Like fresh milk and very flavourful. Okay, so at least they don’t drain the flavour out of that. Then I had the sausage and onions later. Delicious. Maybe I had just lucked out on that.

As it turned out, it wasn’t just luck. The reputation for British food being bland is just totally inaccurate. The food tastes, well, like the food that it is. It’s what I have always preferred, so it seems my taste buds are in sync with my new home. Admittedly, this is something I’ve known about myself since I was about 11. Growing up, I had a (okay, yes, rather strange) obsession with food that touched other food on the plate. Potatoes here, chicken here, peas here. Nice space in between – NO! No gravy for me thank you, that’s worse than mushing it all together. It’s amazing how creative I could get with a knife to prop up one side, or to be able to eat effectively right up to the part that was contaminated but not let the crosspollination to cross my lips.

At the same time I had very effective parenting that taught me this was okay at home, but if someone put a plate in front of me that had food touching, or something I didn’t care for, I should still thank them for it and eat as much as I could without any complaints. This approach did help me get over my separate but equal concept of food and opened me up to the different ways people enjoyed what they ate.

Back to 11-year-old me, getting invited to a friend’s house after church and allowed to stay through dinner. What were we having…? Roast beef, and mashed potatoes and broccoli. This, for 11-year-old me – and admittedly for me today – this was the perfect Sunday dinner. When the time came, we gathered at the table, and I looked over the dishes. Smelled wonderful, and all looked good. Well, the potatoes already had the gravy, but I could just suck it up. (No, not literally, silly.) Then my eyes fell on what looked like a bowl of orange soup with funny lumps. I didn’t say anything, didn’t express my puzzlement until my friend offered the bowl with the most peculiar question: “Want some broccoli?” Yes, I would, but why are you handing me this awful looking stuff with – oh. There’s a slight hint of green in those lumps. Of course, I immediately asked what they had done to destroy the beauty of this delicious vegetable and refused to even try it!

(Any of you that may have known my mother knows that last statement is utterly false. I took some, and tried it, and it tasted like Velveeta cheese with crunch.)

This is my pivotal moment as far as tastes of food are concerned. Why are you even eating broccoli if you want it to taste like cheese? Why eat curry chicken when the food is so spicy you could be eating curry cardboard? And don’t get me started on a well-done burger with mushrooms and onions and cheese and ketchup and pickle – where did the flavour go? The idea of “smothering” food items seems to be the desire to choke the taste out of it.

Perhaps for you, British food isn’t good because it doesn’t have sauces and spices and layers of melted cheese. But for me, I’ll take shepherd’s pie any day – even if all of the ingredients have to touch each other.