Things I'll Miss
Pubs
I know from experience that making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got, and have often been in situations where taking a break from all my worries sure would help a lot. I always want to go where everybody knows my name – unfortunately, while I’ve been in London I’ve been unable to go to the Castle Adult Superstore in Springfield. Therefore, pubs have filled that role, and filled it well.
Taylor’s, the sports bar in Eugene where the Oregon Marching Band goes for cheap shitty drinks and the occasional taco at 1981 prices, is not necessarily a friendly place. Part of this is because the head bartender moonlights as The Grinch, and part of this is because it’s just sort of an open, dimly lit room with tables, booths, taps, and a perennially sticky floor. They didn’t take the time to make it friendly and beautiful because as a college bar its patrons aren’t intended to appreciate much beyond the bottom of their glass (or maybe that sticky floor towards the end of the evening).
As I’ve mentioned before, every pub feels like a friendly neighborhood bar. They succeed at this much in the same way that Applebee’s tries to feel like a friendly neighborhood restaurant but shits itself through overenthusiasm. Whenever Tom and I have been tired or bored, the nearest pub is never too far away (another plus), and we always feel welcome to have a seat and drink a pint or two, or maybe eat some of the damn fine food they serve.
Also, you’re not expected to tip the bartender. I mean, seriously – all you did was draw me a pint of Strongbow and then hand it to me. If they expected a tip for that, then I’d expect a tip from myself for wiping my own ass.
The Tube
When my former roommate and future God Emperor of Earth, Josh, came to visit me from Copenhagen a couple months ago, he couldn’t stop babbling about how great the metro in Copenhagen is. How it was rated the best light rail system in the world. How it’s always on time. How the trains are fully automated and driven by computers.*
*Y’know, because letting machines run things always works out.
He usually said these things to me while we were standing on the platform at some London Underground stop, waiting for a train that was late, or while we were hoofing it up and down flights of stairs or broken escalators in Tube stations in Central London in order to change lines, or when we were forced to alter our travel plans and make a 90 minute detour because the line we were planning on using had been shut down for maintenance.
That’s the thing – the London Underground is a beautiful trainwreck.
And I understand that that statement may be a bit confusing, being as I’m referring to an extensive system of high speed underground trains as a trainwreck. Let me be clear – it’s a metaphor.
Like I was saying, though, I love the Underground for how well it works in spite of the fact that it’s an antiquated system that has literally every reason to suck. The maps are easy to understand and so far I’ve only encountered one train car that smells like piss. The constant renovation that forces commuters to use detour buses is frustrating, but it also provides a reliable excuse for whenever you’re late to class.
Furthermore, the outdatedness brings introverted Londoners together in ways that are quite simply beautiful. For instance, less than half of the stations have ramps or elevators, forcing people with children in strollers to hoist the stroller up and carry it up or down flights of stairs as needed. The thing is, almost every day I see complete strangers helping parents carry their child laden strollers down staircases. Underground cars seldom have enough seats, but people of all shapes and sizes will frequently vacate their cherished seat if a pregnant woman or old person boards the train and has nowhere to sit.
What I’m saying is, the Underground has character. It may seem cranky and hard to work with, but deep down it’s got a heart of gold. Y’know, like Becker.
Man, how many Ted Danson references am I going to fit into this update?
The Food
“You’re going to miss English food? But English food tastes like armpits!”
Yeah, some of it does. The trick is to avoid things that taste like armpits. Words to live by, really.
I’ll probably never have this volume of kickass Indian food ever again in my life, largely because I have no plans to ever go to India. As I’ve stated in earlier blogs, Indian food here, particularly along Brick Lane, is uniformly good, and I’ve picked up an addiction to lamb curry and Naan bread that I probably won’t be able to sustain back in the States.
Unfortunately, as I’ve also mentioned, it’s really easy to run up a big tab with Indian food because they keep offering you so many additions to your meal that you start ordering them just because you want to pretend you’re a king with ten waiters bringing him endless dishes of food. “More poppadoms! More Naan bread! This will be the grandest meal of our lives!”
The trick is to find an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet, which Tom and I did last weekend. It’s not an all-you-can-eat buffet in the Izzy’s sense – there’s no long table with a sneezeguard, nor is there a tray in sight. Basically, you order the buffet (7 pounds 95, where we went) and they bring you lamb curry, chicken tikka, vegetable curry, rice, Naan bread, some kind of drumstick, and a potato seafood cake that I didn’t even know the name of. And trust me, that’s all you can eat, unless you’re a total fatass. This business model would not work in Tennessee.
I’m also going to miss the fish and chips. Yes, I know they have that in America, but not only is it better here, it’s generally cheaper and more widely available. I’ve grown to like cod, although it’s still no halibut, but what I think I’ll miss most are the fries.*
*Which I’ve been grudgingly referring to as ‘chips’ in order to save time. They are not chips of anything. They are fried. Hence, fries.
I can’t quite describe how the fries are better over here, but they just are. For one thing, they aren’t McDonald’s yellow (unless, y’know, you’re at McDonald’s) – they’re closer to white, and cut wide like steak fries. And they serve them with salt and pepper and malt vinegar, which is how I’ll continue to eat French fries for the rest of my life. And you can dip them in HP Sauce, which, if you haven’t tried it, is made out of unicorns and dreams.
Will I forget all of this as soon as I get my hands on an honest-to-goodness chimichanga? Probably, yes. But that’s just because, as much as I’ll miss a lot of stuff over here, I’m also nostalgic for the stuff I’ve been seeing and eating since I was a baby.
…Three Men and a Baby, that is!
Truman Capps will not miss soccer. In civilized sports like college football, only 200 or so people in the stands play annoying instruments, as opposed to fucking everyone, South Africa.
I know from experience that making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got, and have often been in situations where taking a break from all my worries sure would help a lot. I always want to go where everybody knows my name – unfortunately, while I’ve been in London I’ve been unable to go to the Castle Adult Superstore in Springfield. Therefore, pubs have filled that role, and filled it well.
Taylor’s, the sports bar in Eugene where the Oregon Marching Band goes for cheap shitty drinks and the occasional taco at 1981 prices, is not necessarily a friendly place. Part of this is because the head bartender moonlights as The Grinch, and part of this is because it’s just sort of an open, dimly lit room with tables, booths, taps, and a perennially sticky floor. They didn’t take the time to make it friendly and beautiful because as a college bar its patrons aren’t intended to appreciate much beyond the bottom of their glass (or maybe that sticky floor towards the end of the evening).
As I’ve mentioned before, every pub feels like a friendly neighborhood bar. They succeed at this much in the same way that Applebee’s tries to feel like a friendly neighborhood restaurant but shits itself through overenthusiasm. Whenever Tom and I have been tired or bored, the nearest pub is never too far away (another plus), and we always feel welcome to have a seat and drink a pint or two, or maybe eat some of the damn fine food they serve.
Also, you’re not expected to tip the bartender. I mean, seriously – all you did was draw me a pint of Strongbow and then hand it to me. If they expected a tip for that, then I’d expect a tip from myself for wiping my own ass.
The Tube
When my former roommate and future God Emperor of Earth, Josh, came to visit me from Copenhagen a couple months ago, he couldn’t stop babbling about how great the metro in Copenhagen is. How it was rated the best light rail system in the world. How it’s always on time. How the trains are fully automated and driven by computers.*
*Y’know, because letting machines run things always works out.
He usually said these things to me while we were standing on the platform at some London Underground stop, waiting for a train that was late, or while we were hoofing it up and down flights of stairs or broken escalators in Tube stations in Central London in order to change lines, or when we were forced to alter our travel plans and make a 90 minute detour because the line we were planning on using had been shut down for maintenance.
That’s the thing – the London Underground is a beautiful trainwreck.
And I understand that that statement may be a bit confusing, being as I’m referring to an extensive system of high speed underground trains as a trainwreck. Let me be clear – it’s a metaphor.
Like I was saying, though, I love the Underground for how well it works in spite of the fact that it’s an antiquated system that has literally every reason to suck. The maps are easy to understand and so far I’ve only encountered one train car that smells like piss. The constant renovation that forces commuters to use detour buses is frustrating, but it also provides a reliable excuse for whenever you’re late to class.
Furthermore, the outdatedness brings introverted Londoners together in ways that are quite simply beautiful. For instance, less than half of the stations have ramps or elevators, forcing people with children in strollers to hoist the stroller up and carry it up or down flights of stairs as needed. The thing is, almost every day I see complete strangers helping parents carry their child laden strollers down staircases. Underground cars seldom have enough seats, but people of all shapes and sizes will frequently vacate their cherished seat if a pregnant woman or old person boards the train and has nowhere to sit.
What I’m saying is, the Underground has character. It may seem cranky and hard to work with, but deep down it’s got a heart of gold. Y’know, like Becker.
Man, how many Ted Danson references am I going to fit into this update?
The Food
“You’re going to miss English food? But English food tastes like armpits!”
Yeah, some of it does. The trick is to avoid things that taste like armpits. Words to live by, really.
I’ll probably never have this volume of kickass Indian food ever again in my life, largely because I have no plans to ever go to India. As I’ve stated in earlier blogs, Indian food here, particularly along Brick Lane, is uniformly good, and I’ve picked up an addiction to lamb curry and Naan bread that I probably won’t be able to sustain back in the States.
Unfortunately, as I’ve also mentioned, it’s really easy to run up a big tab with Indian food because they keep offering you so many additions to your meal that you start ordering them just because you want to pretend you’re a king with ten waiters bringing him endless dishes of food. “More poppadoms! More Naan bread! This will be the grandest meal of our lives!”
The trick is to find an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet, which Tom and I did last weekend. It’s not an all-you-can-eat buffet in the Izzy’s sense – there’s no long table with a sneezeguard, nor is there a tray in sight. Basically, you order the buffet (7 pounds 95, where we went) and they bring you lamb curry, chicken tikka, vegetable curry, rice, Naan bread, some kind of drumstick, and a potato seafood cake that I didn’t even know the name of. And trust me, that’s all you can eat, unless you’re a total fatass. This business model would not work in Tennessee.
I’m also going to miss the fish and chips. Yes, I know they have that in America, but not only is it better here, it’s generally cheaper and more widely available. I’ve grown to like cod, although it’s still no halibut, but what I think I’ll miss most are the fries.*
*Which I’ve been grudgingly referring to as ‘chips’ in order to save time. They are not chips of anything. They are fried. Hence, fries.
I can’t quite describe how the fries are better over here, but they just are. For one thing, they aren’t McDonald’s yellow (unless, y’know, you’re at McDonald’s) – they’re closer to white, and cut wide like steak fries. And they serve them with salt and pepper and malt vinegar, which is how I’ll continue to eat French fries for the rest of my life. And you can dip them in HP Sauce, which, if you haven’t tried it, is made out of unicorns and dreams.
Will I forget all of this as soon as I get my hands on an honest-to-goodness chimichanga? Probably, yes. But that’s just because, as much as I’ll miss a lot of stuff over here, I’m also nostalgic for the stuff I’ve been seeing and eating since I was a baby.
…Three Men and a Baby, that is!
Truman Capps will not miss soccer. In civilized sports like college football, only 200 or so people in the stands play annoying instruments, as opposed to fucking everyone, South Africa.