I’ve seen a post going around about how bland British food is. And having spent eight months there long ago, and never finding a burger that wasn’t cooked halfway to crisp but in the American restaurant, I can agree on some things (granted, this was the height of the mad cow scare). You think pineapple on a pizza is weird? Try canned corn.
But every time someone claims British food is bland, I remember stepping into a bakery in Bath and buying an eclair made that morning, a crisp shell filled with fresh whipped cream (none of that yellow pastry-cream goo, feh) and glazed with a sweet dark layer of rich chocolate.
I could get piping hot pasties stuffed with fluffy potato and just enough sharp cheese to be a delicious meal in itself; the pastry would crumble into thin buttery flakes. Or sausage rolls with sausage that was sausage, all the way through, and not laden with old pepper the way the American stuff is. In fact, the sausages by themselves were mellow, subtly flavored links that were just greasy enough and not too greasy.
I could sit down in a teashop and get raisin teacakes slathered in melted butter, sweet and salty and oh so good. Or a plate of scones; delicate, dense rounds just barely sweet, to be split and spread with the heavy richness of clotted cream and topped with the garnet sharp-sweetness of strawberry jam. Nothing will ever match scones and cream; I dream about it.
More varieties of cheese than I knew existed, and all locally made. Good chocolate, not some poor excuse that has only enough cacao to meet the legal minimum--chocolate that came in textures. Golden, crunchy filled cookies that bore as much resemblance to an Oreo as fresh-made mousse does to canned pudding. Candy bars with layers of chocolate, caramel, and delicate wafers that had actual flavor, not just a blast of sweetness. The indescribable weirdness of the Crunchie bar.
If you think British food is bland, you just haven’t tried the right thing yet.