Fancy a Bite?

So, all my housemates talk about how they expect to lose weight since the food is so bland here. But I don’t know what they’re going on about; British food’s not so bad. In fact, I think I might have to watch my waistline. It’s a good thing I’m walking everywhere. And when I am out exploring the city it becomes difficult to contain my dorky excitement for food. Bath has an amazing range of dining venues- plenty of Indian, Sushi, Vegetarian, Thai, Greek, Italian, (standard, but unfaltering) pubs and an endless string of adorable cafes with toothsome pastries. And that’s excluding Bath’s impressive variety of butcher, cheese & chocolate shops, and, most importantly, an incredible farmers' market. Every time I turn a corner I see a new restaurant I want to try. I mean there’s even a place that specializes in milkshakes here. Evidently, they have a Cadbury Crème Egg flavor. Don’t worry- it’s on the to-do list. It might be a tiny city, but the options feel endless. Before I arrived I read in a travel book that Bath’s biggest fault was a limited dining selection. Whoever made that observation clearly must not have toured Bath very extensively, because my mental list of places to eat out has far exceeded my memory’s capacity. I feel like I’m suffering from too many options and not enough time. Personally, I’d like to move to introduce an official fourth meal to the day.

Although, I’ll confess up front before I get any further, I am lacking on some quintessential British and Bath culinary experiences. I haven’t had a Sally Lunn OR a Bath bun yet, and I’ve only eaten a barely sufficient plate of fish & chips, not to mention I haven’t had a cream tea either. (For a later blog entry, perhaps?) Despite that shameful preface though, since I’ve arrived in Bath I’ve had some mostly delicious, but uniformly memorable food encounters. Passing through the city on a day-to-day basis, I’ve noticed a number of reoccurring British specialties advertised like steak and kidney pie, Sunday roasts, fish and chips, Cornish pasties, puddings and scotch eggs. Since I’ve never heard of them, scotch eggs distinctly snagged my curiosity. Scotch eggs, I’ve learned, although commonly associated with Scotland were actually created in London. Thanks, Wikipedia! One of my housemates, Stephanie shared my increasing interest, and when we found two sold in a cheaply priced pack, we decided to split the cost. We couldn’t wait to sample our scotch eggs. In theory, they sound like they should be insanely wonderful. I mean sausage and a hard-boiled egg coated in breadcrumbs and deep-fried- how could you go wrong, right? Not so much. By the first bite I noticed that the sausage tasted disturbingly bland and spongy, and the egg lacked any sort of distinguishable personality. In the end, I simply resorted to dousing the entire thing with hefty quantities of salt and pepper just to introduce some sort of flavor, good or bad. Scotch eggs unfortunately fulfill the stereotype of tasteless British cuisine. While I always feel it’s good to test something at least once before deciding to like or dislike the item, in this instance, once was beyond enough. No pleasant surprises here. Outside of scotch eggs, though, I’d have to say that all my other experiences have imparted a positive impression of culinary Bath.

Baked goods, I believe, might be the best things I’ve had here so far. I do have to admit I harbor a mild obsession for a good pastry, and the British surely know their baked goods. Out of all the pastries I’ve sampled in the last three weeks, treacle tart remains unquestionably superior. Honestly, it might be the most sublime thing I’ve eaten in Bath. Or ever. Apparently, treacle tart was first invented as a method to put old breadcrumbs to use. Essentially, its combination of minimal ingredients and simplistic directions renders an unexpectedly luxurious final product. Let me tell you, frugality has never tasted so good. There are no words to describe how incredibly, incredibly perfect treacle tart is. Nope, never mind, I take that back, there are several. Syrupy, sweet, cloying, rich, buttery, thick, golden divinity probably most fittingly express it. If heaven had a flavor, I thoroughly believe it would be treacle tart. One treacle tart alone was worth the over-priced plane ticket. Seriously. However, I’m no miser, so this treacle tart infatuation might become a Saturday morning routine. Flapjacks- and no, I don’t mean pancakes- win a close second in terms of flavor. Extremely prevalent in England, a flapjack is basically the most wonderful possible combination of a very chewy granola bar with the intoxicatingly honeyed taste of baklava. Sainsbury’s sells two boxes of flapjack bites for 3 pounds. I’ve stocked up. Sweets in general, though, seem to be a big deal in Bath, and there is a surprisingly extensive amount of confectionary and fudge shops. I can personally vouch for the banoffee fudge and the cinder toffee. Especially the cinder toffee, which is otherwise known as ‘honeycomb’ due to it’s warm amber shade and aerated appearance, which delivers an exceptionally pleasurable crunch. But I promise that there is food outside of candy in Bath.

Yak Yeti Yak is one of the better restaurants I’ve visited. They serve Nepalese dishes at reasonable prices, but in all sincerity, I pretty much knew I loved this place regardless when I saw their entrance sign shaped like a foot. Inside, there’s a room where diners sit on pillows on the floor, while a rather enormous net-like contraption suspends from the ceiling in another, which is also covered in feet. The soft perfume of burning incense and vaguely terrifying wooden masks create a lively lunch atmosphere. I selected the vegetable curry of the day (OK, I’ll be honest, I’ve totally forgotten the exact Nepalese name), which was served with dal bhat, or rice and lentils, on a metal platter. The intensely colored curry was pleasingly subtle and mild and the earthy flavored dal possessed a gratifyingly comfortable creaminess. Bath boasts a diverse assortment of Asian restaurants ranging from Chinese to Thai to Indian. There are two Thai restaurants on the same block as Nelson House that constantly expel several different sweet, spicy and fried smells into the street. It’s like an entrancing scent snare; it’s a wonder I don’t break down and eat there every day.

Personally, though, I love Indian food the most. And the 15% discount that most places offer on takeaway seems like a deal. But I haven’t ordered Indian in Bath yet. Within the first few days, I noticed an Indian restaurant a block away from my house and I quickly grabbed a menu to study dishes and prices. I instantly observed, however, the bold faced note that rice was not included with any of the entrées. At first I thought it was a personal quirk to charge for rice separately, but I quickly came to the startling realization when I examined other Indian menus around town that purchasing rice in addition to one’s entrée is the regular practice, not the exception. Doing so, I have to admit, seems rather counter-intuitive to me. Curries cry for rice, or naan at the very least, and I don’t quite understand why it isn’t automatically included with the meal, except, of course, as a way to charge an extra pound or two. So, I haven’t eaten any Indian in Bath, but I’m slowly coming to terms with the custom.

On my children’s literature study trip to London, though, my class went to Brick Lane, which features several different Indian restaurants, for lunch. We ate at Standard Balti House. There, I ordered (rice not included) a satisfying plateful of velvety, UK-style lamb korma, lusciously heavy on the coconut, while my friend Adrienne feasted on an impressively sizzling skillet of brazenly flirtatious ruby red Tandoori chicken. Honestly, the korma was so fantastic that I didn’t mind the extra cost for rice, and it’s fueled my cravings for more. I think I might have to shell out for some Indian this weekend… But, back to Bath. Last weekend, I dined at a swankily priced Greek restaurant called Opa with some friends. Since we’re all poor college students abroad in a country with a miserable exchange rate, we stuck to ordering an appetizer each and sharing. In an adventurous mood, I ordered the Htapothi. Otherwise known as octopus. It was served grilled with lemon on a crisp salad and my server recommended drizzling balsamic vinegar on top of it. The only unfortunate aspect of the dish was that the octopus was sliced into circular disks, so the suction cups on the tentacles remained visible, but the full-on excitement factor of ripping into an arm of octopus was lost. Still, it was remarkably delicious. Soft, white and remarkably meaty, it didn’t have an overpowering seafood flavor and the sweetness of the balsamic vinegar did indeed balance the acidity of the lemon nicely. I cleaned my plate. Although, I’ve consciously tried to clean my plate when I eat out, because, while I’ve never explicitly asked to take home leftovers, none of my servers have offered thus far either and I hate to see good food, but mostly my money, go to waste. Doggie bags don’t seem to be a British practice.

Outside of restaurants, though, I’m becoming well-versed in terms of British grocery store chains. Starting from the high-end, and working down, there’s Waitrose, which personifies all that’s classy and European. I walked around it on my day off and entered grocery store paradise. Their employees get to sit in chairs while they ring customers up! It’s definitely a cushy place. They have a lovely selection, but since I’m on a strict food allowance budget, I don’t plan on shopping there too frequently. Marks & Spencer has a similarly upscale vibe, but slightly more affordable prices and a gorgeous pastry case. Also, as a side note, on the way to London during my study trip, we took a toilet break at a British gas station. Inside they had an M&S Simply Food as a ‘convenience store’, if you could call it that. Some of their merchandise included orchids, whole chickens & artisanal raspberry and white chocolate cupcakes. Our ASE chaperone, Andrew Butterworth, told us that Brits consider M&S Simply Food stores passable if they’re desperate. Clearly, Brits don’t know much about 7-Eleven Slurpees and hot dogs. Food in England, I’ve noticed, is on a totally different level. But, getting back to grocery stores, Sainsbury’s more or less is equivalent to a Kroger back home. It’s a typical supermarket that features a decent choices and relatively frugal prices. Although, I can’t say much for their produce, which they usually sell ridiculously close to its expiration date. Overall though, they’re an old reliable. And then there’s- well, it’s safe to say I have found British Wal-mart. And its name is Iceland. It’s a fluorescent freezer constantly packed with crying babies, obnoxiously bright sale signs and low-priced frozen goods, among other grocery staples. While I might return for special deals, I plan on avoiding the questionable frozen section for fear of Chinese lead poisoning.

Even though it’s only been about three weeks, I’ve already acquired a fondness for certain British brands. I have a newly undying adoration for McVitie’s dark chocolate digestives & Hob Nobs. No, they are not digestive aids, as the name potentially misleads. Basically, digestives are what the British call ‘biscuits’ and we Americans call ‘cookies.’ Whatever the name, I assure you, they’re tasty. Additionally, I’ve adopted a love for hot cross buns, which are frequently purchased in grocery stores in a two for one deal. They make remarkably good sandwiches. Furthermore, I’m drinking Whittard’s tea- mostly jasmine- by the gallon and just yesterday I serendipitously unearthed an abandoned tin of Lyle’s golden syrup in the back of our cabinet at Clarendon from a former session. Similar to Nutella, it’s nutty caramel warmth makes anything and everything taste better. I may or may not still be hiding it in the back of the cabinet. It’s odd to think that once I return home, I might start to miss my favorite British brands. If I get homesick for some American food while I’m in Bath though, I suppose I could always venture down the street to this takeaway place known as American Hamburgers. Plus, it might present a potential insight to see how the British translate American food. A previous cursory glance at their menu has led me to believe that the British view of American cuisine is not totally accurate. Because, you know, nothing makes me nostalgic for home like a black grape milkshake. Just like mom used to make. Mmm…

There Goes the Neighborhood...

British houses are quite different from American houses, which totally makes sense until you’re standing in one. Then you realize the exact idiosyncrasies of our allies across the pond. These architectural differences, among other things, seem to arise both from a superficial issue of phrasing in addition to complex structural distinctions. One of the most automatic variations, however, is the expression ‘ground floor’, which demonstrates a clear disparity between British and American terminology. To those of us in the States, ‘ground floor’ insinuates the basement level of a building, but here in the UK, ‘ground floor’ simply means the floor most immediately entered through the front door. Consequently, our (US) second floor becomes their (UK) first floor and so forth. I’ll stop here before I talk myself into circles. But anyway, discovering that ‘ground floor’ did not in fact signify ‘basement’ came as a great relief to one of my housemates living in the ground floor single who thought she was relegated to a lonely, and potentially very creepy, English basement. Thankfully, no one lives in the actual basement, which is hardly a basement at all in the American sense as the kitchen and dining area occupy that space instead of room for additional storage.

In any case, my house here in Bath has loveably random furnishings and a quirkily constructed layout. Upon our initial arrival my roommates and I conducted an ecstatically intensive inspection of our temporary property. We noticed, straight away, several collections of books (mostly travel guides), DVDs and VHS tapes (spanning eclectically from Fight Club to Bridget Jones’ Diary), school supplies (stashed in desk drawers), bath towels (safe to use hopefully?) and spices (that might easily be a few decades old). Every closet, desk drawer and cabinet held hidden assortments of useful materials; one less item we needed to purchase for the semester. Most likely these objects were abandoned by participants of former sessions whose suitcase(s) became increasingly cramped as souvenirs accumulated. Equally erratic, the furniture appears like a wild mash-up of posh antiques and rudimentary college basics. Our living room has a lovely wooden end table yet I have a fold out desk chair. The mix is at once startling and inviting. The furnishings seem probably less stereotypically ‘British’ and more like just an arbitrary rotation of estate sale, and in some instances, yard sale goods. And the washing machine? Don’t even get me started… I basically need a biblically thick manual to figure out how to operate that thing. Or maybe just the perennially helpful advice of Wikipedia. Actually, though, it’s the design of the house that most evidently signals its British style.

(The dining area and kitchen is my favorite part of the house)

The relative width of the house is shockingly narrow. Overall, there’s an overwhelming feeling of compact economy since both the hallways and the staircases only fit roughly a body and a half at the very most. Two-way traffic typically becomes somewhat tricky here, so we have to tread cautiously. Often we find it necessary to pause and alternate turns. No wonder the British are so polite. Their houses, or at least the urban properties, probably force them into such behavior and I hesitate to consider how hectic the hallways will become if everyone runs late. Furthermore, as I stated earlier, the kitchen and dining area are intriguingly enough located in the basement, which connects directly to the backyard complete with clothesline and charcoal grill. Although I doubt either will receive habitual use until mid-spring. Unlike the smoothly adjoined kitchen, dining and backyard space, heating does not flow through the entire house. Central heating here generally remains an anomaly, but that’s partially related to the fact that we’re occupying in an unrenovated Victorian townhouse. On my part the old-fashioned lack of central heating doesn’t disturb me too much. Back home I live in an old house and a city where heating costs are sky high, so we keep the thermostat- sometimes painfully -low. My flat mates, on the other hand, required a brief period of adjustment. They learned pretty quickly that the best solution to a poorly insulated house is simply an extra layer of clothing. Furthermore, certain architectural features display a marked attempt to conserve heat. For example, both the front and back doors feature a small antechamber between the door and the house which functions as a tiny cavity to trap the cold air from the rest of the house. Brits, it appears, prefer clear distinctions between hot and cold. Especially in the instance of our water, which spews out either arctic icy cold or scald-the-skin-off-your-hands hot. Warm does not exist from the faucet. If you want warm water you have to mix it in the sink. Similarly, the ‘bathroom’, ‘loo’, ‘washroom’, or what have you so far remains the most puzzling aspect of the house.

Behold the European bathroom: built for- well, I’m not exactly sure, but definitely not efficiency. Almost each floor has a bathroom or some sort of unique hybrid. It’s difficult to explain. Our house has a bathroom in the basement that fully aligns to the contemporary American perception. It contains a dual shower and tub, toilet, sink and mirror. The ground floor has no bathroom, however the landing between the stairs leading from the ground to the first floor includes a tiny little closet with just a toilet and sink. From here on up, though, things grow slightly unfamiliar. On the first floor, the ‘bathroom’ adjoins my bedroom. Inside there’s a bathtub without a shower, a sink and two chest-of-drawers. But no toilet. There’s also carpeted flooring curiously. But no toilet. I’m acquainted with the European custom to create distinct areas for the shower and the toilet, but this specific separation seems particularly inconvenient in its spacing. My roommate hypothesizes that the plumbing was added to the house later, so the modern result looks quite clumsy. Continuing to the final floor, the bathroom freely stands as an independent room complete with shower and sink. But no toilet. Obviously, it becomes a bit sticky- read: competitive- when everyone needs to use the toilet, principally for the girls on the second floor. Yet this problematic separation finally makes me pleased that I live in an all-female house. Too much estrogen? So what? A mistaken run-in while transferring from shower to toilet with a male resident would just be a thousand different shades of awkward. No thanks. But prospective conflict doesn’t only occur between housemates. After all, we’ve got neighbors.

(Note the vertical mail slot)

Truly, no house is complete without neighbors. Even the cantankerous kind. Apparently the next-door neighbors do not share the same sense of lively exuberance as my flat mates and I. In the past it seems our neighbors have lodged frequent grievances against our house concerning noise problems. By ‘noise problems’, this means that they have complained about excessive sound after ten on weeknights and weekends. According to my housing orientation guide, Widcombe is a neighborhood of young professional types who enjoy plenty of beauty rest and expect constant serenity. Well, that’s a bit difficult for eight 21-year old girls temporarily transported to Bath for a semester. Regardless of their debatably high-maintenance demands, though, it’s easy to see how somebody could disturb their neighbors here since the houses are literally packed side-by-side. Back at home I live in a city, so I’m used to somewhat more noise than average even during obscene hours of the night and/or very early morning. But in terms of physical closeness, my house looks like a country estate with a hundred acres surrounding it. We discovered, thanks to the housing orientation, that the wall of our living room directly lines up to the wall of our neighbors’ bedroom. Yep. This just got super awkward. Subsequently, the kitchen and dining room serve as the social hub of the house in an unspoken attempt to placate the neighbors. After discussing our individual situation with other ASE students, we realized that the other houses had similarly acquired unsavory reputations or housed unfortunate layouts as well. A fellow ASE student in another house related how a man rents a garden flat directly underneath their house, which generates a strange dynamic since no one wants to disturb the renter, and thus feels badly about walking too heavily at odd times of the day. Maybe over the course of the semester my roommates and I will manage to impart a decent impression on the neighbors and mend prior difficulties. Perhaps we’ll invite them over for a barbeque and finally give our grill some proper use. But no matter the neighbor situation, it's generally a collective acknowledgement by ASE participants that everybody grows rather attached to their respective houses. And I can definitely vouch for that fact. Out of all the houses in Bath, I really love mine best.