I’m tired of being lied to.
‘Aw, English food? That would be a good idea!’
‘Saloni, not even the English like English food.’
Sorry, you asked what my favourite food was, and now you’re telling me my choice is invalid?
Right then, ungrateful gourmand, we better get down to business. The business of cauliflower cheese, of crispy roast potatoes, and of gravy-soaked Yorkshire puddings.
And while we’re at it, you can do away with the masala box — we’ll only need salt and pepper where we’re headed.
A combination of (very happy) coincidences, well, coincided to bring this post into existence.
First up, we have my brother who, having recently made his way to England, is steadily discovering the joys of the local fare, one malt vinegar-soaked cheesy chip at a time (preferably consumed while being spattered with the sorry-to-bother-you drip-drip-drizzle of rain that can only be English).
Then, with pub gardens opening up across the country, I had the privilege of watching my friends enjoy cold pints of cider in the spring sunshine, which, to be sure, is the only type of sunshine that should exist (she types, as she swelters through the forty-degree Gujarat heat).
And, as if all that weren’t enough, along came Colin the Caterpillar and his legal debacle which, while I’m sure was unfortunate for all parties involved, was particularly unfortunate for me, as someone who can’t do much to get her hands on authentic English food, let alone any quirky insect-shaped baked goods.
All this makes for some pretty severe hunger pangs that only English food will satisfy — and, at this stage, anything goes.
A greasy, lukewarm fry-up at the local caff? Yes, that’ll do; extra baked beans and HP sauce, please. Fish and chips gobbled up on your windy, shingly beach of choice. Quiche Lorraine, ladled with extra, extra mature cheddar from the West Country. Fish finger sandwiches bursting with tartare sauce. Sausage rolls (if they’re not from Greggs, I don’t want them).
Silky, sultana-topped bread and butter pudding. Afternoon tea replete with cold cucumber sandwiches and a tower of clotted cream-topped scones (and no, contrary to what ‘hi-tea’ at certain 5* hotels may have you believe, whipped cream will almost certainly not be entertained). Piping hot Cornish pasties. £3 jacket potatoes at the UCL Students’ Union.
And don’t even get me started on the glory of pub food. I’ll spontaneously combust if someone were to so much as mention those delightful steak and ale pies paired with buttery mash — seasoned with little else but salt, naturally.
Shall I go on? With pleasure.
My beloved Sunday roast, best gobbled down with the fervour and urgency of someone facing wartime rations — and only after I’ve belted out my uniquely tone-deaf rendition of Jerusalem at the local abbey that morning. (For the record, if Jerusalem happened to be playing in the background when you asked me where I was from, my answer would be, well, ‘England’. What, is there another option?)
And the yearnings don’t end at food, naturally. The things I would do to jostle my way through to a sticky pub bar, on a mission to procure a shockingly overpriced pitcher of Pimm’s with customary floating fruit — fruit that will almost certainly find itself soggy, forlorn, and abandoned at the bottom of the pitcher by the end of the night (not too unlike its drinker).
Of course, it’s close to impossible that the seemingly benign food of England would hold such a special place in my heart without some nostalgia attached. You don’t just wake up craving boiled Brussel sprouts every day (or so I’m told).
See, I have no doubt that any sudden urges to make sticky toffee pudding are laced with longing for those simpler, impossibly luxurious, days of my life in England — the idyllic countryside of the southwest, the comforting hustle of London. And, after all, aren’t most of our comfort foods deeply rooted in nostalgia for those more carefree times? Times when we were cooked meals by those we held — and, with any luck, still hold — dear to us.
One of my most cherished England-shaped memories is that of leisurely, food-filled exeats (weekends on which our boarding school released us into the outside world, woe betide said outside world). I’d be invited, without second thought, into the homes of my friends, Lucy and Clemmie, whose mothers took me in as one of their own, treating me to delicious, home-cooked British meals that I crave to this day.
These cravings only heighten in direct proportion to the hoops I have to leap through to find genuine English grub in India. And yes, I can hear your thoughts now, loud and clear: you live in India, land of endless spices, of food steeped in rich flavours, and all you can think of is deep-fried Mars bars? In a word, yes.
And right now, rather unfortunately, the burden of this strange gastrobsession seems to be falling on the shoulders of my father, who I moved in with for ‘just for a week’ in March of 2020. (I’m still here). Perhaps on more occasions than he’d like, the dear Papa Miglani feels compelled to enter the foreign territory of putting together spag bol or shepherd’s pie for dinner, as he slowly comes to terms with the fact that his daughter happens to be one of five people left in the world who still enjoys English food to such an extreme extent.
In fact, when I prefaced his review of this piece with ‘it’s just a rough draft’, his immediate quip was ‘a piece on English food? That’ll always be a rough draft, har har har.’ Sigh. He also finds great amusement in discovering just how unpopular his photos of my comfort food are amongst his followers online.
Again, the poor sods have no idea what they’re missing.
Admittedly, eating my way through the infinite cuisines and dishes of the world is a pretty Sisyphean task of overwhelming proportions — one that I haven’t even come close to making a dent in.
However, for now, at this rather humble stage in my life, I am quite content to declare that there is no better food out there than what the English have put together for us. Job well done. Jolly good. Not bad mate. Etc.
God Save the Queen — and her land’s glorious food.
Until next time,
S
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Tell me: What’s your favourite food? And why isn’t it English?
Cover image captured by Deepansh Khurana for Unsplash.