Candy Wrap-up

As my time in London Comes to a close, I give you a rapid-fire list-and-review in no particular order of some candy bars I’ve eaten here. Nothing tells you about an area like the candy bars you can find there.

Double Decker
As the first candy bar I ate here, it will always hold a special place in my heart. As the name implies it is two tiered, with a layer of chocolate nougat and one of crispy rice, all covered in the obligatory layer of milk chocolate. It’s fluffy and crunchy at the same time, a rare combinations toward which more bars should strive.
4 Sporks

Mars
Your basic Milky Way with a new wrapper. Being a fan of Milky Ways, I’m a big fan, but the only real advantage this bar has over its American counterpart is its black wrapper with red writing and fun television commercials with lights turning on as a man eating a Mars Bar passes them.
3 Sporks

Fruit Pastilles
These little round gummy pieces of fruit are a real paradox. At first bite, they are revolting and sickeningly sweet. By the fifth pastille, you are somehow dreading the end of the roll. They definitely don’t taste like real fruit, but somehow that doesn’t seem to be too much of a problem.
3 Sporks

Crunchie
This is a very solid candy bar. Puffed hard toffee draped in a coat of milk chocolate. The toffee is “crunchie,” just like the name implies. Truth in naming and advertising is always worth some brownie points.
4 Sporks

Alpen
This is a granola bar masquerading as candy. The wrapper seems to imply the fun of a candy bar, but the inside is the mundane dryness of granola.
1 Spork

Wispa
From their ad campaign, I’ve deduced these were around in the 80’s, left store shelves, and are just now returning. They should have stayed gone. There is are sort of “blown chocolate” innards that are more air than filling. As a result, it is decidedly unsatisfying.
1 Spork

Bounty
Coconut covered in milk chocolate, or, if you prefer dark chocolate. It doesn’t resonate with me because I’m not a big coconut fan, but the little palm trees and “bounty” stenciled into the bottom of the bar gets brownie, er, Bounty points.
2 Sporks

Timeout/Twirl
These are both “double” bars, following the two side-by-side bars in a single package of Twix. One is quite similar to a Twix, the other is “blown chocolate” covered in chocolate. “Blown chocolate” is not good; Twix is. Unfortunately for them, both bars have a purple wrapper and yellow writing, making it hard to differentiate between the two. Bad labeling + bad brand identity = inferior product.
1 Spork


Lion
Just like its namesake is king of the jungle, the Lion is king of the candy bars. A wafer sits in the middle draped in caramel and a thick outer chocolate shell. That thick shell also has puffed rice sprinkledin, making for a sensational mixture of tastes and textures unheard of in other bars.
5 Sporks

Boost
Boost wrappers claim the product is “Charged with Glucose!” It’s true. A creamy chocolate center has pieces of crushed biscuit in it and is surrounded by caramel. It’s all encased in milk chocolate. This is a flavor on level with the Lion, but is hurt by the fact that its shiny foil wrapper and high charge of glucose might give little children or older eaters a bit more than they can handle.
4 Sporks

Fruitella
It’s just Starburst in less colorful wrappers. This version of everyone’s favorite childhood candy are even more mundane because the flavors are grouped together in the wrapper, not interspersed like a proper candy.
2 Sporks

Wine Gums
Colorful little gummies that give your jaw a workout and have fun labels like “port” or “Chardonnay” on them. They don’t taste anything like wine, and really don’t taste like anything but Wine Gums for that matter. Still, they’re quirky and appealing.
3 Sporks.

Recognizable brands like Kit Kat, Snickers and Milky Way are also on the shelves. But if you get the chance, try something different. Candy is a lot less adventurous then Toad in the Hole, but it provides fresh new flavors and combinations just the same.

Lebanese Food is no Bologna

For over three months, I've lived in a Lebanese area of London; Edgware Road. I've walked by newsstands with Newspapers from the Persian Gulf. I've passed The Islamic Bank of Britain almost daily. I've looked up to read the names of restaurants that are written in both English and Arabic.

Somehow, I never went in to those restaurants to eat.

With my time in London drawing ever more quickly to a close, I had to atone for that sin as quickly as possible. The easiest way to do so was to eat lunch in an establishment called "Maroush" two doors down from my flat.

Maroush actually has 11 locations in London, according to the information on their menu. The chain was started in 1975, and now has diagram/phrase "We [heart] Maroush" stenciled on the windows. Inside, its pretty classy, not the usual change-in-your-pocket cuisine you're used to reading about in this blog.

For London, though, Maroush isn't expensive, even though its Web site says "a taste of Lebanese luxury in London." After my meal, no doubts twitter in my mind about the high quality of the cousine. It just doesn't come at the same price as luxuries in the Celebrity stomping grounds of Marlybone or Mayfair.

For just under £10 I got a plate of Falafel and a bowl of rice with lamb. Falafel is one of those funny things that some people hate and others simply adore. The quality of Falafel also plays a part, though. I hated the falafel in Syracuse University's dining halls. I loved it at Maroush.

Trying to describe falafel isn't easy. Calling it ground chickpeas and beans that are deep fried just doesn't do it justice. For that matter, it might not even be accurate. Just try it sometime, chances are you'll find it quite good.

The rice and lamb had much less uncertainty. It was, well, rice with chunks of lamb meat. Because of the way it was cooked, the rice became infused with lamb flavor. It might not sound good, but any doubters will be feeling sheepish after they try it.

Sheepish is how I feel for not trying Lebanese cosine earlier. I [heart] Maroush too.

Miracle Whip Makes Miracle Chips

Remember when the White House renamed “French Fries” to “Freedom Fries?” It was quite a strike at the hearts of the French, who were opposed to invading Iraq in 2003. Never mind that they would actually be quite pleased to be disassociated with fried strips of potato forever.

In England, French Fries aren’t called French Fries anyway. They’re called chips. And these fries/chips have one huge difference from their misnomerly American counterparts.

Pulp Fiction fans know the difference, since it exists to a greater extent in the Netherlands. It’s a substance that tastes “butter” than lard on sandwiches. It shouldn’t take a miracle to whip the answer out of your head.

Yes, it’s time to talk about putting mayonnaise on fries/chips. This might happen by accident when munching on fish and chips if the mayonnaise for your fish runs onto your fries. When ordering fries/chips in Amsterdam, it won’t be an accident. After asking if you want mayonnaise, the person behind the counter will douse your fries/chips with the stuff. It would probably be more accurate to ask whether you want fries/chips with your mayonnaise, not the other way around.

It sounds distinctly unappealing if you’re used to eating in the United States and getting ketchup on your fries/chips. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Something about the combination works. Maybe the fat in the mayonnaise binds with the grease in the fries. Perhaps the salt from the fries brings out some normally-buried flavor in the mayo.

Above all, it is oddly reminiscent of the classic combination of baked potato and sour cream. A smooth, cream on a starchy potato product, but with a bit more salt. When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad, does it? And it’s actually wonderfully delicious.

Wonderfully delicious, and wonderfully unhealthy. Remove the only remotely fruit product (or non-starchy vegetable product, depending on your personal beliefs) from fries/chips, ketchup, and replace it with collagen. Eat mayo on your fries/chips too often, and you’ll end up in the clinic named after it, not smacking your lips in enjoyment.

Just be careful. The snack can be pretty messy. Usually it is served with a small two-pronged wooden fork to help keep your fingers clean. Unfortunately, it doesn’t to anything to scrape our your arteries.

But for a delicious treat every once in awhile, mayonnaise on fries/chips is a wonderful combination. Take my advice, and don’t worry about being in Europe while eating it. Try it at home. Four (wooden) sporks out of five.

Lambasting the Mint Condition

Pretend you don’t know anything about lamb or how to eat it. For one moment, picture it as a new meat that has been discovered by mankind, and a team of scientist and chefs are fast at work to discover the best way to eat this new “lamb.”

Now, imagine that they declare lamb and mint to be one of the best ways to eat this new and mysterious meat. Chances are, you’re a little put off by this declaration. Meat and mint? Isn’t that like having beef flavored Altoids?

Of course, lamb and mint isn’t a new discovery. It’s actually a quite old and traditional pair. Put it in a pasty, and chances are you’re in England.

And if you happen to be in England, you really should try a lamb and mint pasty. Whether you get it from some old-fashioned bakery in the country or a commercial “Cornish Bakehouse” in London (like I did) it is an excellent piece of grub. Pasties, for starters, are nice flaky pastries typically containing potatoes, onions, and some form of meat, though you can find vegetarian versions. They’re kind of like the stepbrother of steak and kidney pie.

Inside a lamb and mint pasty lies a plethora of potatoes, some onions and lamb meat. If you’re lucky, the cubed potatoes and diced onions will be so soft from cooking that you can’t tell the difference between the two. You’ll also get a little more meat than I did. The only real bite of lamb I got was in the very center of the pasty.

There wasn’t much mint to speak of, either. Whether it just blended in to the pasty experience so seamlessly that it wasn’t noticeable or whether the folks at the Cornish Bakehouse are too cheap to include a man’s portion of mint sauce is debatable, but the fact that you can’t taste much in the way of mint isn’t.

Which is a shame, because as someone who has never tried lamb and mint before, I was really wondering what kind of mint is best with your slice of sheep. Is it peppermint? Spearmint? Some form of mystery mint?

That will have to be a question for a rainy day. In the meantime, the Cornish Bakehouse is serving up some pretty good food that overcomes its flaws. For £2.95, you can’t get much more artery-clogging, brick-in-the-bottom-of-your-stomach food than the brick-sized pasties they are serving up. The potatoes and onions are so good, you probably won’t mind that there’s barely enough meat to constitute a carnivorous meal.

Hey, the cheese and onion pasties are even cheaper. Why not save your lamb experience for another venue and just try a cheap and tasty pasty? The lack of meat and mint forces me to rate my Cornish Bakehouse pasty at just 3 out of five sporks, but a cheese and onion pasty would probably get higher marks for its more accurate nomenclature and lower price.
Now, “wool”dn’t you like that?

Haggling over Haggis

Ask someone you know if he or she wants haggis for dinner. You’re more likely to get a blank stare and a “what’s haggis?” than a “yes” or “no.”

You wouldn’t be alone. Even in Scotland, the home of this dish, the policy on haggis seems to be to eat it without thinking much about its contents.

Unfortunately, my self-imposed job is to ask the tough questions like “what is haggis?” After spending a research-filled day in Edinburgh, I can safely report back that haggis is made of … well … it depends.

That’s right, haggis is a lot like a hot dog in that pinning down a set of ingredients can be both difficult and stomach-churning. Canned haggis in the grocery store informed me it contained beef-filler. “Haggis” statues in a souvenir shop look like bloated sausage links, and might represent a stomach or lung. Grill a few Scots, and they’ll likely give you different opinions. The only definitive answer is to say that haggis is minced.

I think the waiter in the pub where I eventually sampled the flagship Scottish food put it best after I asked him whether it contained beef.

“No,” he answered. “It’s lamb.”

He paused a minute and bit his lip in concentration.

Then, to reassure himself, he repeated: “Haggis is lamb.”

Don’t press any further. Accept that it is pieces of lamb you don’t want to know about – probably containing large portions of lung meat. Bear it, grin and dig in.

Of course, if your haggis is traditional you’ll be eating it with tatties and neeps, also known as potatoes and turnips. Yum, turnips. Not the most appetizing of ideas, but it’s another tradition you must indulge.

Surprisingly, tradition knows what’s cooking. Haggis, tatties and neeps is a great combination. My haggis had a sweetness to it that I couldn’t quite place and certainly wasn’t expecting. Maybe (mostly) lamb lung is naturally sweet. Maybe it was soaked in brown sugar to cover up the flavor of something like ground aorta. Maybe turnip juice ran into the meat. Whatever the case, it worked.

The tatties and neeps were good, too. They were each mashed up a bit, but not to the point that there were no solid particles. Tatties are always good, whether they are called tatties, taters, potatoes, fires, spuds or chips. But the turnips were unexpectedly good, with a taste not unlike sweet potatoes. The whole collection was smothered in a slightly peppery gravy that contrasted nicely with the meal’s sweetness.

My meal didn’t just surprise my tongue, it surprised my eyes. I was expecting lumps of meat and starch on a plate. I got a layered cylinder that resembled the candle I made in elementary school by melting crayons and pouring a layer of hot wax on top of a layer of cool wax from a different color crayon. Throw in the garnish and fancy square plate, and it was like the cook was trying out for Iron Chef: Scotland.

Though it was a point of curiosity, the presentation certainly didn’t hurt the meal. If anything, the layered design allowed me to scoop up haggis, tatties, neeps and gravy in one forkful, letting the different tastes compliment each other.

The only drawback here is the same drawback that all traditional foods seem to have in pubs: price. The cheapest haggis I could find was £7.95 – a little pricey for a meal of mystery meat.

But, really, there are foods that are worth shelling out a few extra quid. And if paying extra means you are getting the best of the leftovers of what is probably lamb meat, you should be willing to crack the wallet in no time.

Get me a set of bagpipes and a kilt. I’m a believer in Scottish cuisine. Aside from the price and the minor fact that you really have no idea what you’re eating, there is no downside. Four tartan-patterned sporks out of five!

Of Money and Meatballs

“Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.”

That was me paying for food in Stockholm. You would think that traveling from London, where the dollar-to-pound ratio is roughly 2/1 to Sweden, where the dollar to Kronor ratio is 1/6, would be a little cheaper.

You’d be wrong. If you want to sit down in Stockholm and enjoy some native Swedish meatballs, expect to shell out close to 200 Kronor – 30 bucks.

Fortunately for the meatballs, they are simply scrumptious. I never knew a meatball could be so good until I stepped into a bar and restaurant just north of Gamla stan and ordered the Swedish meatballs. Imagine, if you can, a perfectly seasoned meatball that is neither overcooked nor undercooked. That means they’re moist on the inside without being hard on the outside. From what I understand, the meatballs actually contain mashed potatoes, which might explain their propensity for perfection.

But the thing that makes these orbs of meat most desirable is their sauce. They’re doused in a cream sauce that is somewhere between brown and yellow and carries the flavor that makes the meatballs so distinctive. You’ll probably like this stuff even if you’re foolish enough to not like gravy like substances, so make sure your meatballs are thoroughly covered.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about this dish is that the cream sauce is not used to cover up for inconsistent cooking. Often, when I eat at restaurants, I think the food is doused in gravy or sauces to cover for the fact that it’s only the chef’s second day on the job. But with Swedish meatballs, the gravy adds more than a little moisture, it adds its own distinct flavor. The meatballs would be plenty moist on their own anyway, so you know the gravy has to be there for another reason.

Any self-respecting restaurant will serve you your meatballs with boiled potatoes and Lingon berries. My potatoes were the only potatoes of their type that I’ve ever eaten that were boiled to perfection. It’s quite difficult to get them just right so that they are fully cooked but don’t fall apart. I can now say that getting them just right is quite the reward.

Lingon berries would probably deserve their own post if I had eaten more of them. Those that were served with Swedish meatballs were mashed and had one of the best sweet flavors I’ve tried. It was sweet enough that it should have been sickening, but somehow it wasn’t. I chalk that up to the fact that they had a natural sugar, rather than the processed sugar that usually creates such a strong sweetness.

The only real regret I had after finishing my meatballs was that they were so expensive. If you judge the meal against other sit-down meals in Stockholm, the price was actually good. If you judge it against meals in other countries, it will make your skin crawl.

But if you judge it on flavor alone, you’ll want to crawl back to the restaurant and order another plate.

Thank goodness I’m not spending the semester in Stockholm. I might be broke.

Tarting to like English Bakeries

Friday we made a trip to Salisbury, which is a little less hectic than London. In Salisbury, we made a trip to a bakery, which smells much better than London. In the bakery, my mouth made a visit to heaven while it enjoyed a delectable apple tart.

Not that the tart was necessarily better than London food – it was just cheaper and, for the most part, fresher. It was also the first time I’ve really “popped in” to a traditional English bakery, and I can now say it probably won’t be the last.

For 85 pence I got a miniature apple pie. Don’t think apple pie like American apple pie, think apple pie with a richer, more buttery crust that makes your mouth drip with passion. It was just about perfect.

In fact, the only real problem with the whole bakery experience was choosing what I wanted. It was one of those problems that you like to have: having too many cheap and yummy looking options.

All of the pastries were on display in a giant window that wrapped around half of the bakery, and the list of goodies reads like a Harry Potter book. Treacle tarts, cheese and leak pasties, chocolate buns, you name it, you could buy it. For a single treat, you could pay between 50p and 85p, making it very tempting to get more than one thing.

I knew I wanted a tart. I’m not sure why, mind you, but I was sure I wanted a tart. I guess they just seem English to me. Even eliminating eccles and cookies didn’t help much, because I still had lots of choices ahead of me. In the end, I narrowed it down to a lemon tart, a custard tart, an apple tart and a treacle tart.

The treacle tart was my first choice, but they only had those in larger form. It actually was a great deal, because the amount of treacle tart they were selling for £1.65 would have lasted me a week. Still, I didn’t want to gain too many extra chins, so I stayed true to my intention of buying one portion, and one portion only.

Next I eliminated the lemon tart on the simple basis that I wasn’t in the mood for lemon. That left me with apple and custard.

In the end, I wimped out. There was a lot of custard in the custard tart, and I was afraid I might not like it. In a move that was a little reprehensible, I decided that my immediate enjoyment was a little more important than my duties sampling different foods for this blog, which I should consider of paramount importance.

I would apologize, but that apple tart was so good that my apology wouldn’t be anywhere near heartfelt. Why risk my now-fond feelings toward English bakeries by trying something semi-new and slightly dangerous when I could solidify my love for them?

That means I have to give the whole bakery experience a full five sporks. Good smells, good selection, good taste… There isn’t much to say on the “bad” side of things.

Well, there isn’t much bad to say unless you want to talk about health. I already want to go back to the bakery. I want to try everything they had, because I bet I’ll enjoy almost all of it. But things that taste that good don’t come without a price, and that price is surely cholesterol.

Well, cholesterol and the insane amount of time I spent trying to decide what to buy. When you’re standing in front of one of these bakeries, healthy eating isn’t an option, it’s a fallacy.

Fish free-for-all

Now that I’ve had some time to sample a few kinds of fish & chips here in London, it’s time to report on the true state of the meal in England and compare it to my experience at Arthur Treacher’s last spring.

First, it’s important to lay down my sampling of fish & chips both in the UK and in the states. In the states, I’ve eaten the meal from Arthur Treacher’s of course, and from a delicious Irish pub in Syracuse called Kitty Hoynes. Here in London, I’ve had it on three occasions: once sitting down at a restaurant that advertised it and cooked it to order, once as take-away from a walk-in restaurant that scooped up a piece of fried fish and some chips from under a heat lamp, and once from a stand beside the Tower of London.

You probably know the prices to expect to pay in the US: About four or 5 bucks at Arthur Treacher’s or $8-9 at a pub. Here in London, you might as well replace the dollar sign with a pound symbol. That would all be fair and well, except for the fact that the dollar is currently worth a little less than half a pound. For those of you who aren’t too good with money (and judging from the current credit-crisis in the US, there are a lot of you) that can mean paying close to 18 bucks for one meal!

In fact, that’s almost what I paid in the sit-down restaurant. Fish, chips and mushy peas were something like £8.95. In the first shop I ate them at, my fish & chips came rolled in a piece of brown paper and cost about £5. In a strange twist, the stand next to the tourist trap Tower of London was a bargain of £2.50. That is the lowest I have seen fish & chips, and is actually cheaper than eating out nearly anywhere I’ve found in London. Even stranger, that price included a can of soda! Go figure.

Here in London, the presentation of your fish & chips will vary depending on where you eat. That’s a little disappointing, given the traditional image of a fried piece of cod and greasy fries nestled in a roll of newsprint is unfulfilled. In fact, you really can’t get fish & chips in newspaper anymore. The closest I came was a brownish paper that was probably a lot cleaner than newsprint, but definitely lacked in character. But if your chips aren’t rolled in paper, which happens more often than it should, they will be on a plate if you order in a pub or sit-down restaurant, or can be in a Styrofoam container, as were mine from beside the Tower of London.

The actual quality of the food will obviously also vary. When I ate sitting down, the fish was very good but could not have been eaten while walking. It simply would have fallen apart because it was too flakey. The other two times I ate the meal, I got a nice solid piece of fish that was fried together in a very solid way. Those suckers weren’t going to fall apart if I dropped it back into the ocean.

Oddly enough, the best overall fish & chips I had were the cheapest, and not just because of their bargain price. The fish, while it wasn’t as good as at the sit-down restaurant, was still very good, and the chips were piping hot. That price didn’t hurt, either. That basically goes to show that getting food fish & chips here is hit-or-miss. The second place I got them from, which is also the middle price range, was not of high quality. It couldn’t beat Arthur Treacher’s.

So the conclusion is that depending on where you go, you can get either great fish & chips or you can get mediocre fish & chips here in London – just like you can get either great fish & chips or mediocre fish & chips in the states, depending on where you go.

The real difference lies in the price, and in the condiments, which I have previously not mentioned. The British eat a lot of mayonnaise and vinegar. That isn’t a stereotype, and it isn’t over exaggerated in American’s minds. They eat the stuff on everything. It is also delicious on fish & chips. I’ve even found a new love for fries with mayonnaise on them.

In the end, your actual food will probably be more expensive than it would be in the US, and it might not even be as good. Despite all the evidence that shows fish & chips in London isn’t significantly better than fish & chips in the US, I have to say I enjoy fish & chips here a little more. There is some feeling to eating the meal while walking down a windy street in central London that you just don’t get from eating it in the United States.

It really doesn’t boil down to price, and it really doesn’t boil down to quality. I suppose it just fries down to tradition. Just like a cheese steak at a Phillies game seems better because it is renowned in the region, fish & chips in London just seem better.

Next post, I’ll try to address the strange issue of mushy peas. We won’t talk history or anything like that – even I’m not crazy enough to look up the history of mushy peas. Still, there’s something to be said about this odd British companion to fish & chips. As soon as I figure out what it is, I’ll type it up and let you know.

Tastes Plane

Ah, airline food. No one can resist the smell of microwaved, pre-packaged delicacies in the dry air of a Boeing 747.

At least, I couldn't on Monday night on my flight from Newark to London. Virgin Airlines supplied the food, seat, and entertainment. I provided the money and red eyes. With a scheduled departure of 9:25, I needed to provide plenty of cash and ended up with a good amount of red in the eyes.

There's not much point discussing the surroundings or costs of the flight as they effect the enjoyment of your meal. The flight boarded late and took off even later. The seat was extraordinarily cramped. The food was incredibly expensive given the ticket price. I did get to watch a television program or movie of my choice during the meal thanks to Virgin's incredible personal LCD television.

Once we were in the air, my hungry belly turned at the scent warm food. Unfortunately, I had to wait about 30 minutes for my food until first class was served. Eventually, the stewardess came around and passed me my food. A main dish, roll, water, wine, crackers, cheese and Oreo cheesecake were loaded onto my tiny tray table.

The main dish was a combination of beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, and broccoli. The potatoes were watery and managed to mingle with the gravy to make a sort of "grashed potatoes" that didn't taste too bad on the beef. I had to debate eating the beef, as I was a little worried that the U.K. company would have imported British beef, which still evokes uncomfortable images of angry cattle. I decided the USDA probably had my back and let my churning stomach guide my fork.

The cheese and crackers were pretty low-quality, but that was okay, because they matched the wine. I'm no connoisseur, but the wine tasted like the grapes had been grown by the light that filtered through the tiny windows of the plane.

Fortunately, the cheesecake was surprisingly satisfying. Whether because it was good while the rest of the food was mediocre or because it really was delicious, I was undeniably happy while wolfing down the piece from the pie-sliced-shaped plastic container. It even made the episode of Futurama that I was watching taste better.

Several hours later, after everyone on the plane but me had fallen asleep and woken back up, "breakfast service" was delivered. Apparently Virgin thinks breakfast is a choice between a roll or a "Strabury breakfast bar." That meant I got to wolf down a granola bar while marveling at the way the British pronounce the world "strabury."

In the end, the food wasn't anything worth calling home about on the air phone. It was pretty good for airline food, but that only merits 2.5 sporks out of five. The airline didn't even use sporks! The would have saved a little space in the premium real estate of my tray table. As it stood, my spoon spent much of its time jammed between my water cup and cheesecake tray -- space that would have been better served holding the tubes of salt and pepper, which were pushed under the cheese where they were unavailable to hold season by beef and gratatoes.

But my mediocre food met my mediocre expectations. Check back for the real food reviews from the United Kingdom. I can just taste the fish & chips now.