Just What Every Home Needs: An American Candy Drawer

The first thing I did when arriving back to the "new" flat from Heathrow two weeks ago was dump the perishable contents of my suitcase into a semi-empty kitchen drawer. Then I stood back to admire it: my own American candy drawer.

I have to confess that I stole this idea from Jodi - well, more like, happened upon her candy drawer while snooping for an extra spoon the last time I was over at her house for dinner. "Wow, Jodi!" I exclaimed, when I found her secret stash of Reese's and other American candy bars. I was fascinated. The drawer was filled to the brim. It was kind of like having a Halloween supply, but 24/7. I wanted one of my own.

Let me itemize mine for you:

Red Vines licorice (not to be confused with Twizzlers) - Purchased from the dollar store (plus tax, of course). When I was a budding prima ballerina at the Dance Annex or whatever it was called in downtown Sumner, the teacher would reward us with one Red Vine at the end of each class, distributed from those giant tubs you can get at Safeway. We could choose from black or red licorice but even biting into them now takes me back to those days, when I was about 4 or 5.

Pretzel Flipz - These are my ultimate American treat. A bit of salty and a lot of sweet, this is my favorite junk food, which I relish in consuming - much to John's disgust. "It's your teeth," he says. "I don't know how they can stand it." Well, they can't. I have like, one root canal and counting, plus like, 8 fillings. There's a reason why.

Pretzel M&M's - I saw these advertised on repeat while I was going through my Real Housewives (that's of Orange County, New Jersey, and New York) binge at home a few weeks ago. By the end, my eyes had turned into pretzel M&M's. The downer is that they're not as good as they sound.

Goldfish S'mores - My mom got these for me. Try this on a Brit: "Do you want a Goldfish? They're s'mores flavored!" Say it in the most enthusiastic voice possible. When they decline, proceed to shove marshmallow, graham cracker and chocolate flavored goldfish crackers down your mouth, while dropping crumbs down the front of your dress. That totally didn't happen.

Reese's Miniatures - Judging from the pastel packaging, my mom bought these when Walgreen's had their post-Easter sale and saved it for my visit in ... June. They're still good.

Hershey's Kisses - Not really a fan, but again, my mom got the Easter edition for me. Keep 'em around for chocolate emergencies. And I mean, emergencies.

Pepperidge Farm Milano Double Chocolate cookies - These are timeless favorites of mine. I've loved them since I was a kid. They're just so perfect and the only crunchy cookie/biscuit I will eat.

Unidentifiable Pepperidge Farm Cookies In Green Tupperware Container - My mom got these for me the morning of my departure because she said my suitcase "still had room for more stuff" (exact quote). They have a raspberry jelly center and John got the package wet like, 2 seconds after I put them on the counter, so I had to put them in a tupperware container. Haven't really touched them since. Sorry, mom.

If you want to create your own American candy drawer (at ten times the price of mine), you can visit Cyber Candy in Covent Garden or Islington for some all-American goodness. Just remember to floss, brush, and rinse afterwards, kids.

Hollister in the UK: It Offends Me

Just when I thought I had escaped the bane of all evil that is Abercrombie & Fitch in the States, I smelled a familiar whiff of strong cologne while walking down Regent Street earlier. 'The man in front of me must have spritzed one too many times this morning', I thought. But as he crossed the street, the stench only got stronger. So I did one of those slow turn-in-place things you see in movies and realized that the cologne was emanating from none other than the dark, music-thumping retail hell of Hollister ACROSS THE STREET. Yes, ladies and gentlemen - you know how wide Regent Street is. The trail of I'm-a-MANLY-man-smell slithered across two lanes of traffic AND a divider to strike my delicate nose. And to top it off, a quick Google images search brought me to the gag-inducing scenes of the store opening above (along with Gilly Hicks, its equally obnoxious sister company). Please. Put the washboard stomachs and pecs away and keep this shiz to yourself, USA. Just let Britain do its own preppy thang (ahem, Jack Wills).

Photo source

"Can we get extra pickles with that?"

My fellow American-in-London friends agree (I refuse to be known as that dreaded word, "ex-pat") that Byron does the best burgers in town - that is, the closest to American burgers in town. The buns aren't on artisan bread nor do they crumble and disintegrate in your hands within the first few bites: they're just good. Plus, they serve skinny fries and gigantic onion rings - just the way we like them.

But the real zinger? The pickles. Nearly like Claussen's (but not). Any new American to London will bemoan the lack of crunchy, salty, tart, pickles here in the UK - instead, little sweet "gherkins" the size of my pinky finger are pitifully served aside a Ploughman's lunch. Not satisfactory. But Byron knows the secret to a pickle-lover's heart: in fact, I emailed the MD of Byron, Tom Byng, about his pickles. 'Where DO you get them pickles?', I inquired. He wrote me a jolly email back responding that, unfortunately, the pickles are only available on a wholesale basis. Well, not a problem, really. I'd be happy to eat them by the truckload.

Anyway, on Friday, accompanied by two of my favorite ladies, we waltzed into Byron and demanded (or rather, one of us did the work) extra pickles. I was expecting an extra one per plate. The result? That beauty up there. We split the last one into three parts. We're just fair like that.

What? It's Like You've Never Seen A Peep Before ...

These landed on my desk the Tuesday after Easter, courtesy of Anna:

Aren't they absolutely adorable? They were also accompanied by a sheet of 30 marshmallow scratch & sniff stickers and a very lovely card. I am considering attaching them to all work correspondence.

And because one cannot be expected to get through FIVE boxes of Peeps without another root canal, I decided to treat my co-workers to some.

Their reaction?

Quite frankly, they would have been more unfazed if I had brought in a box of escargots.

"What ... ARE they?" most asked with mild fascination, then disgust. "Marshmallow chicks!" I responded brightly, before adding hastily, "Well, some of them are bunnies."

"You want one?" I asked a colleague. He shook his head slowly before walking away. "It's ... so ... bright," he said.

Others gingerly accepted my offer. "Well, don't waste it," I joked (but half serious). "I'm not twisting your arm to try it."

I offered a few to Alice earlier in the week and she seemed to be the only person in the building who appreciated them as much as I do. An email from her popped up on the corner of my screen after she took them back to her desk downstairs: "The chicks have caused disbelief, hilarity and possibly mild PTSD down here :)", she wrote.

So, next time you really want to shock an English person? Shove a box of Peeps in their face. They'll be terrified and intrigued, all at once.

(Thank you, Anna!!!)

So, This Shop Closed And I Cried

Since moving to my new job at the beginning of last year, I began frequenting a little shop on the corner of Drury Lane that most of my co-workers also visited. Known for their icy-cold, fresh fruit smoothies and individually packed dried fruits and nuts, this little place was run by a very adorable older Cantonese-speaking Chinese couple and their son.

The first time I went in, I heard the lady speaking Cantonese, which made my ears perk up, since I'm fluent in the Chinese dialect. When I paid, I conversed with her in Chinese (to her surprise) and learned that she had emigrated from Hong Kong nearly 40 years ago. After that first meeting, I'd drop by to buy rice crackers and other snacks, but mostly as an excuse to visit the lady, or Mrs. Wong, as I learned was her name.

Why? Because she reminded me of my grandma. And also, it was nice to have someone to speak Cantonese with, even if just for a short, friendly exchange. But mostly because she reminded me of my grandmother, and then my family, and of Hong Kong, and how I sometimes feel the Chinese part of my culture slipping away, which makes me very, very sad.

Later, when she got to know me a bit better, she'd quietly put fresh plums or apples in a bag with my purchase despite my protests, and send me on my way. If I popped out to buy a snack in the afternoon, she'd ask me why I was taking my lunch so late. It warmed my heart.

Anyway, I walked past this shop today and noticed, with shock, that they were closing down. In fact, Mr. and Mrs. Wong and their son were only there to clean the shop and pack up the rest of their belongings. I knocked on the window and asked Mrs. Wong their reason for leaving. She cited the fact that their lease was up and her son mentioned that his parents were getting older, and thinking of retirement.

She stuffed three apples and two oranges in my hand, then asked her son to take a picture of us together. Then she hugged me and patted my hand, like my grandmother used to.

And that's when I lost it. I cried. Like, really cried.

I told her she reminded me of my grandmother, of my family, and of Hong Kong - and how I missed her, them, it, and in turn, would miss her shop.

Then she cried. And wiped her tears on her apron.

We traded phone numbers (both UK and Hong Kong) and email addresses and I made her promise to send me the picture of us.

It's always sad when family-owned businesses shut down. I also know how popular that shop was, so it wasn't as if they were short of customers. But I guess that for them, life goes on, and they're starting a new chapter. I hope it's a good chapter - because they're the kind of people who deserve it.

For me, I feel like I've lost a little connection to "home" - whatever that means.

Photo source

I Went To Meat Liquor And Didn't Have To Queue

I was in a bad mood on Friday. Real bad. I had had a crappy day, which was about to be made crappier by the fact that I'd have to probably stand in line for over an hour to an hour and a half to get into the restaurant that John and I had agreed to meet at that night. See what I mean? Bad.

The said restaurant was Meat Liquor in Fitzrovia: the highly hyped, trendy burger joint so cool and exclusive, you actually have to queue to get in. Now, I don't wait in line for much - at the grocery store? Yes. Waiting for my prescription? Sure. But in general, I don't stand in lines at clubs (because I'm a loser and don't go out) and if I have to wait 90 minutes in line to get into a restaurant, then they'd better be serving me fresh lobster on a gold plate.

This was not the case at Meat Liquor, where they serve you burgers on a tray lined with wax paper (no plates) and your drink in a jam jar. Luckily, I read all about the queues (rules are: 1) everyone queues, no matter who you are and 2) if your entire party isn't there, then you ain't gonna be seated. No ifs, ands, or buts - apparently, a LOT of people object to this), snotty service (though it was pretty darn friendly when I was there), and jam jar outrage (apparently even more people object to this - go read the TimeOut reviews).

Luckily, I had read all the bad reviews, so prepared myself. We arrived around 6:15 pm and promptly joined the end of the pseudo-queue - I say pseudo-queue because it was like 4 teens smoking and making out and John solemnly saying, "This is the end of the queue" to me but when they finished sucking each other's faces, they nonchalantly walked in and so did we. The good thing was that we weren't the only idiots lining up behind the kids - some dude in a business suit rocked up behind me and stood there patiently.

Inside, it was loud. And dark. I was a little confused. I felt like I was at a bar in East London, but I could have sworn I just walked in from Oxford Street. It's weird to eat in an environment like that when you feel like you should just be drinking, solidly.

We both ordered Dead Hippie burgers (I originally wanted a basic cheeseburger, but decided I couldn't go to the famed Meat Liquor without trying their famed Dead Hippie burger), which consisted of "minced onions" (controversial! Yes, that was sarcasm ...), Dead Hippie sauce (still don't know what that really is or what it tastes like), and lettuce (I think. It was dark). We also ordered a side of fries (which I loved as an American because the menu specifically stated, "FRIES. NOT CHIPS" - and rightly so) and coleslaw. The burgers were pretty good. Two patties stacked high, served on the medium rare side, sandwiched between two buns that don't collapse in your hands - good enough for me. Better than Byron, but not the best I've ever had. Some over-enthusiasts claim it's the best burger they've ever tasted - but, I mean, if I was standing in line for 2 hours, most food would be the best I'd ever tasted.

The coleslaw, however, was PHENOMENAL. Seriously. Go and skip the burger. Just have the slaw. It's freaking amazing. None of that over-mayo-ed, fattening business they serve at other burger joints; this was a freshly made slaw with freshly grated carrots and red cabbage, seasoned with a kick of lemon juice and other subtle delights. If John hadn't been complaining of a sore throat that night, I would have gobbled his down as well.

So, my verdict? Go early. I mean, if you want to stand in line for an hour or two just to psych yourself up, then go for it. If standing in lines is your thing, then do it. If you really want to be a masochist, tell your friend to come later, just so you can see people who arrived after you, walk in before you. Shortly after we were seated, a line did begin to form outside (or, from what I could see through the conveniently tinted windows) and when we left, it was snaking down the block. We left with only very slight smug grins on our faces.

And try the slaw. It's super good.

Photo source

My New Food Crush: Ottolenghi's Banana Jam

John and I treated ourselves to breakfast at Ottolenghi's Islington restaurant the other day and I totally fell head over heels in love with his banana jam (pictured here). Expecting it to be apple compote, I put a big dollop of it on my brioche French toast and was pleasantly surprised to find myself with a mouthful of delicious cinnamon-y (but not too cinnamon-y), banana-y (but not too banana-y) spread. I should also add that I was also being greedy, because the selection of spreads, including a homemade hazelnut and chocolate spread, was actually meant for John's bread board - not for my French toast, which had been generously sprinkled with cinnamon sugar served with creme fraiche and berries. But come on: everyone knows that bananas and French toast are a magic combination.

Unfortunately, as banana jam apparently (and understandably) has a very short shelf life, it's unavailable to purchase from the Ottolenghi shop. Instead, I've found the recipe from blogger Belleau Kitchen and will definitely be trying to make a batch soon.