Saturday Morning Surprise!

Look what I got this morning!  An early Easter present!  Woo hoooo!!! Maybe I can use it to make this disgusting-yet-intriguing sweet take on eggs benedict that Udita pointed me to. 

All You Can Eat

A "buzz" update from SMA yesterday regarding buffet meals triggered memories of a childhood spent at Old Country Buffet, whose motto is "Whadja get?" as in, "what items did you select from the gluttonous trays of food soaked in saturated fat, food colorings, and other delightfuls?"  Classy establishment, I know.  In fact, when I went home last Christmas, I found a diary entry from 1989, when I was 6 years old (you do the math).  It read:  "Dear Diary, today was a horble [sic] day.  We went to Old Country Buffet and had to stand in line.  I got really hot and wanted to take my sweater off but my mom said no and then I cried when we got to the table and my dad told me to be quiet. [drawing of an un-smiley face]"  Poor me.  I remember that sweater too.  It was very itchy.

Now, buffets in the UK are limited to cheap lunch time specials and usually avoided at all costs by anyone with any inkling of social standards.  They're also tagged with the phrase, "Eat as much as you'd like" versus the American, "All you can eat."  Again, you can make your own deductions from those two very different phrases (there's a great scene in Peep Show where Jeremy takes Toni on a date and she watches him in disgust as he wolfs down chicken wings and says, "It's eat as much as you'd like, Jeremy, not eat as much as you can."  Ha ha ha.).  But dining at buffet-style restaurants in America doesn't say much about your social class and buffets are available at most hotels, university dining halls, weddings, funerals and other fine establishments. 

I really hate them.  My opinion of buffets hasn't really changed from my unimpressed 6-year-old self's observations of a "horble" place where you have to stand in line and wait for ages to be seated, then pig out on piles of disgusting, synthetically flavored sustenance that tries to pass itself off as "food."  My parents are big fans of the buffet, however.  Every time I go home, my mom tries to suggest Asian Gardens buffet as a dinner location.  Her love of the buffet actually extends to using it as an analogy for child-rearing:  "I think of your upbringing as a buffet," she told me this morning on Skype as I was getting ready for work.  "I gave you and your brother alllllll the opportunities I possibly could and let you choose and try whatever you liked:  ballet, symphony, art classes, piano, etc. You tried as many dishes as you wanted, but your brother ate one plate and said he was full!"  This was then followed by a heavy sigh (as imagined, since she was typing, not speaking). 

I hate, hate, Asian Gardens.  It's not even Chinese food.  I don't know why my parents insist that it is.  "Jaime, the chow mein is actually not bad," my dad countered, when I argued with him about the nature of this "restuarant".  "Dad, just because the owner speaks Cantonese doesn't mean it's good.  It's GROSS."  My parents eat methodically, both piling their plates high with peelable prawns and dungeoness crab legs.  Crack, crack (and the occasional squirt of crab juice in my direction - disgusting, right?), dip into the soy sauce, eat.  I watch, mesmerized and completely disgusted until a plump piece of crab flesh bounces on my plate, coated in soy sauce. "Eat it," my mother commands, jabbing her finger at my plate.  "No," I whine.  "I don't want it," I say, while simultaneously putting it in my mouth as I know she'll force feed it to me if necessary.  At the end of evening, I've finished two plates.  "Two?" my mother asks in a disapproving tone.  "I spent $13.95 on you for TWO plates?"  I get up and reluctantly make an ice-cream cone from the soft-serve machine.  "I want a swirl," my mom says when I return.  "A what?" I ask.  "You know, a swirl cone," she says impatiently. "You mean chocolate and vanilla?" I ask.  "What-EVER!  SWIRL!  Two flavors together!" she responds.  I dutifully rise from my seat and dodge children on my way to the soft-serve machine again.

I've never seen anything like Asian Gardens or Old Country Buffet in England and I'm not even sure they exist.  But I think the country is better off because of this.

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Car Booty

Growing up in suburban, middle-class America, it was inevitable: we'd be driving through a housing development or a main street on our way home and my mom's foot would tap the brake.  I'd look up from whatever book was I reading behind my coke bottle glasses and see the hand written sign on the telephone pole in front of us - always in caps:  GARAGE SALE, 132nd AND MERIDIAN, CLOTHES, TOYS, YOU NAME IT and a shaky arrow pointing to nowhere.  "Let's take a look!" my mom would say, probably more out of boredom than curiosity.  And driving a few minutes down a gravel road, we'd see the house in question, with the garage door up and a man or a woman sitting at a table with a makeshift cash box open, always - and this is key - with the radio on.  Tables and tables of junk would line their driveway, everything from broken Barbie heads to rusted saws.  "Ooh, I could use this!" my mom would say, picking up a glass vase, her keys jangling in her hands.  All I wanted to do was go home.  "How much is this vase?" she'd ask.  "Two dollars," the man would answer back sourly.  "How about 50 cents?" she'd reply.  "Whatever," he'd say, waving his hand.  My mom wasn't (isn't) cheap or stingy - not in the slightest, but the whole point in going to such sales was paying as little as possible for junk. 

So I had a bit of a trip down memory lane a few months ago when I visited John's mum, Alison, in Leicester.  "Ooh, those are nice trousers!" I said, looking at her pants (yeah, I still say "trousers" to Alison, even though she'd probably know what I meant by "pants").  "Car boot sale!" she exclaimed proudly.  "I think they might even be Marks & Spencer!"  For those of you who have never experienced a car boot ("boot" = "trunk" for  my fellow Americans) sale, it's like a garage sale fan's heaven:  huge fields in the wonderful green countryside wrecked by some 50-odd cars with their trunks open, spilling their guts full of used clothes, garden tools, bric-a-brac and ... strangely, just-in-date chocolate.  You know you've been to a car boot sale when you've come back with sheep poo on your boots (never came out in the end) and a wall-to-wall calendar complete with dry-erase pen.  It's good fun though, bantering with the locals (Alison did that, not me), looking for frames and vases to complement your country home (again, her, not me) and driving away with a good deal. 

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My Feelings For Pret Have Always Been Real

Because publishing is the lowest paid industry, like, ever, it's become necessary for me to have ... a budget.  I shudder at that word.  And because I made the conscious decision to move from East London to Maida Vale, budgeting has become not only a necessity, but a way of life.  Until I find (hopefully) a better paid job. 

So that's why I bring - brace yourself - a packed lunch to work.  I know, I know, it hurts me to admit it too.  It used to be pretty depressing: some dried up pieces of iceberg lettuce, holey (certainly not holy) swiss cheese, whatever ham was on the 2 for 1 offer at Tesco and Branston pickle or mayo.  But since I've started accompanying John on his weekend Waitrose shopping excursions, I've managed to make my sandwiches a bit more exciting with their exotic meats and cheeses. 

Despite my new and improved lunch, at the end of the day, it doesn't make me any less green with envy when I ask John what he had for lunch and he mumbles something incoherent until I say, "What?  Speak up, I can't hear you."  "Sushi," he says softly, not looking me in the eye.  "You had SUSHI for lunch??  Where??  Wasabi?  Itsu?"  Please, please, please, say some kind of chain and not a fancy new restaurant that has just opened.  "Oh you know, that little place by work," he says, trying to play it off.  I drop the subject to stop myself from crying with jealousy.  But I can't help it.  "Was it good?" I demand to know.  "No, no, I mean, it was ... ok," he says.  He steals a glance at me and I think I must resemble some kind of heavy-set, enraged, drooling Rottweiler, waiting to pounce.

So to avoid this kind of food envy, I save Fridays as my "treat day."  Pathetic, I know.  Once upon a time, I wanted a Mulberry handbag.  Then I started working here.  Nowadays, I vow to someday be able to eat out for lunch every day.  Forget Mulberry handbags, you can't eat them.  Ooh but they're beautiful ...

Ok, ok, I'm getting sidetracked.  So Fridays are my treat days, when I allow myself to buy lunch wherever I want.  Most Fridays, you'll find me at Pret a Manger, the chain of soup, salad and sandwich stores across the UK.  When Udita was at UCL, she'd call me up and meet me at the iron gates of my office, then we'd walk down the Strand to Pret and she'd order the breadless sandwich (which is different than their salad, people) and I'd get the soup.  Then she'd have a Tiffin bar and I'd have an apple cake.  And this tradition carried on for a very long time, until she left. 

"Why?" asked John.  "Why what?" I replied.  "Why, of all the amazing restaurants, cafes and delis available to you in the West End, do you keep going back to Pret for lunch?" asked John.  "Because I like it!" was my annoyed response.  I really do like Pret.  The food is always fresh, delicious, fairly priced and the staff are always polite.  I love that.  It's not too much to ask for a smile, a "thank you" and "you're welcome."  And the soups are my favorite because they have delicious mouth-watering flavors like Moroccan Chicken, Thai Green Curry Chicken, Mushroom Risotto and Italian Meatballs.

Another reason why I like Pret is because they take their customers really seriously.  One day, I noticed that my soup wasn't filled to the line in the soup container.  'That's ok,' I thought, 'It must be an off-day.  Pret would never do this regularly.'  But the next day, the soup was even lower and the next, the same thing happened.  Unsatisfied with a level of soup that did not match its £2.99 price tag (I know I said, budget, not beggar, but just bear with me here ...) I wrote to its customer services department via the email address provided on its website. 

"Dear Pret," I began.  "I used to love you.  But I've switched my allegiance to Leon [yes, I really wrote this].  Lately, the level of your soup hasn't been reaching the line in the soup container.  At first, I thought it was an off-day for you, but when it happened repeatedly, I became very disappointed.  If it's due to the credit crunch and you find yourself needing to save soup, then I can understand.  But if it's something else, then please explain.  Yours sincerely, Jaime."  Within the hour, I received an email from a real person apologizing for the low soup levels and assuring me that this had been taken up with the manager at my Pret on the Strand (and yes, I just referred to it as my Pret).  Best of all, she wrote, "To compensate for this, we would like you to have lunch on us, so I am enclosing a £5 voucher for you to use anytime you'd like."  Bingo.  Totally unexpected and yet totally amazing. 

And last night, on my way to orchestra rehearsal, one of the managers remembered me from last week (when they had run out of soup bread and he gave me a piece from the kitchen - wow, I really do sound like a beggar) when I ordered my soup and said, "The bread is on the house."  It's not about the cost, but the friendliness and the overall enjoyable eating experience I have every time I visit a Pret. 

In case you were wondering, I didn't really switch over to Leon.  I still go to my Pret on the Strand, mostly every Friday.  And the soup is always at the appropriate level.

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Monday Morning Cringeworthy Tube Story

If you don't have any reading material during your morning commute, the tube journey can be somewhat awkward.  As you're sitting directly across from someone, it's nearly impossible to look straight ahead but then again, there aren't too many places for you to avert your gaze so you end up staring at the floor. 

So that's why I almost didn't notice it.  If the tube wasn't as busy and he wasn't standing with his back toward me, I would have easily missed it.  But there, on this man's navy blue Gap khakis (I only know they're Gap because John has the same ones), was a long strip of sizing sticker he had forgotten to take off.  W32 x L32, it said.  He took out his Blackberry, completely unaware.  I wondered if the woman sitting next to me, who seemed to be looking in the same direction, noticed.  'Someone needs to tell him,' I thought.  I cringed at the thought of him arriving at his office, saying his hellos, making his cup(s) of tea, chatting about his weekend, going to his morning meetings, all with this glaringly obvious sticker attached to the back of his leg.  What would I say though?  It would only be awkward and even more cringey for me to tap him on the arm and say, "Um, excuse me, um, there's a sticker, on your leg ..." on the completely silent tube, with everyone watching.  Maybe that would be even more humiliating.  What if he got angry?  What if he didn't appreciate the gesture and see it as instead, an attempt to make him look and feel stupid?  What if he told me to mind my own business?  Maybe someone else would tell him.  Maybe he would actually discover it in the next 30 seconds and discreetly take it off. 

But he didn't.  Instead, he sat down next to me.  'This is my chance,' I thought.  I planned it carefully in my head.  I'd turn and say, in a friendly but confidential tone, "Excuse me, can I tell you something?  You've actually got a size sticker still attached to your trousers."  I'd point to the offending adhesive patch.  He'd smile, say thanks, and peel it off.  We'd laugh about it and he'd thank me for saving him from further embarrassment.  I'd chuckle and say I've been there myself.  But the train lurched to a halt and a familiar pleasant but robotic voice announced, "This is Oxford Circus.  Change here for the Central and Victoria line."  I lost my chance.  He gathered up his backpack and walked off into the Monday morning workday, with that sticker still attached to his leg.  Sigh. 

The Daffodil Parade

 

Daffodils are coming into season in England and as I stare at the mini bouquets of the trumpet-shaped flower John has created on the coffee table, I'm reminded of the significance this particular flower has to the tiny town I grew up in.

Sumner, Washington doesn't have much to boast of:  one main street which consists of a pharmacy (where the pharmacists have known me since I was a newborn), a bar (above where I briefly had ballet lessons), a dry cleaner's (where my dad has his pants tailored and dry cleaned), and stores with names like "A Picket Fence" selling knick knacks and things that appeal to women who like to think they live in a country home somewhere in the middle of Montana rather than Washington.  Yee-haw.  

Every year, however, a flurry of excitement takes over the town as the residents prepare for The Daffodil Parade.  This parade travels not only through Sumner, but also through the three neighboring cities: Orting, Puyallup and Tacoma.  High school marching bands, dance teams, cheerleaders and - the main attraction - heavily decorated floats (like the one above) slowly make their way down the main streets to the cheering and applause of crowds lining the sidewalks, like some kind of parasitic ooze slowly taking over the pavement.  People even bring their own chairs, you know, the foldable kind with the cup holders.  They sit with their visors to block the sun and/or umbrellas (which also somehow plug into the same chair), depending on the weather.  For many, this is the highlight of their year.

For me, all I ever wanted was to be a Daffodil Princess (the girls pictured above) - Sumner, Puyallup, Tacoma and Orting's answer to Miss America.  Miss Universe, for all that mattered.  Daffodil Princesses were carefully selected to represent their high schools in this parade and usually consisted of variations on the same beaming, brunette/blonde who looked wholesome, cute, and smiled winningly into the camera for their newspaper shot.  I was never any of those things.  But I wanted to wear the damn tiara, the white gloves, the yellow dress.  I wanted to be perched on that daffodil laden float and wave reverently to the crowds.  One day I expressed my dejection to my mother.  "Jaime," my mom frowned.  "Who cares about this stupid kind of thing?  You could represent your school in many better things ... like, for example, if you were to have the highest SAT score in the district!" she suggested brightly.  I gave her a withering look. 

But see, when you grow up in a small town, you can't help but have these sorts of aspirations and dreams.  You never think that anything bigger or better could be out there for you, shining, smiling and waiting for you to arrive.  When I think of my journey from Sumner/Puyallup to London, I think of this parade and how I used to envy those girls perched lovingly atop the coveted float.  And I laugh at myself for ever wanting - more than anything in the world - that damn tiara, the white gloves, the yellow dress.  I think of how much bigger my world has become and how eager I am to discover it.

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"Can I See Some I.D., Please?" Part II

It was 9:30 p.m.  And after the emotionally draining events of this week, I decided that JK and I needed some treats.  So I threw on a hoodie and my Asics and embarked on Operation Buy-What-You-Want-Because-It'll-Make-You-Feel-Better at my local Tesco.  I was on a mission.  I walked directly to the beer fridge and pulled a four-pack of Corona, swung open the door to the Krispy Kreme display and helped myself to two glazed donuts.  Then I marched over to the magazine aisle and threw a New Look in my basket.  Upon checking out these items at the till, I busied myself rummaging in my bag for my wallet.  The man scanned my beers.  "Do you have a Tesco clubcard?" he asked.  "Nope," I said, still rummaging.  "Any petrol?" he asked, as this particular Tesco is also a gas station.  "No, no petrol," I said, smiling and looking up.  He looked at me for a second and continued to scan my items.  Finally, he asked, "How old are you?" I knew it was coming.  I said, "I'm 26, but if you'd like to check my I.D., that's absolutely fine."  That's when the customer next to me perked up his ears and turned to assess me.  Oh boy, here we go again.  'Please let it not be as cringe-worthy as my M&S experience,' I thought. "You know," the man boomed, as he squinted at me.  "You look about ... seventeen."  Ok, that's slightly better than 13 or 12.  "No," I said, smiling.  "I look about twelve."  He laughed.  "That's good on you, love," he said, still laughing.  "What -" I said.  "That I'll look about 20 when I'm 40?"  "No," he said.  "It's good on you to say 'I look about twelve' when someone says you look seventeen.  Ha ha ha!" And then he was gone.  I lugged the Coronas home and looked at myself in the mirror.  My bangs had blown to one side and my cheeks were rosy.  The lack of the cat-eye liquid liner I usually pile on for work made me look significantly younger.  In fact, I looked about twelve.