Afternoon tea at the Taj

Time to burst a few bubbles.

When the English talk of "tea," they mean the hot beverage whose consumption follows any activity of moderate exertion.

(Where I grew up, tea was also the evening meal. Dinner was what you ate at noon.)

Hardly ever, though, does tea involve tiny sandwiches and clotted cream and daintycakes. This is a still-vivid misapprehension about life in England: that everyone stops work at 4 p.m. for a pot of tea and some delicate snacks.

In fact, most people are too busy for anything more than a quick cuppa and a couple of HobNobs.

So when we went to the Taj in Boston for afternoon tea to celebrate my birthday, it was as much of a novelty for me as for anyone else.

There were teeny-tiny open-face sandwiches with egg salad and prosciutto-melon:



Smoked salmon dolloped with chived cream cheese and caviar, and little lobster choux puffs:



And cucumber sandwiches, built from translucent layers of refreshing green crunchiness:



And then came dessert: scones with clotted cream and lemon curd,



Macaroons, opera cake, financier, and a lemon tart finished with gold leaf,



and a horribly out-of-season strawberry dipped in dark chocolate.



Oh, and there was tea, loose-leaf, served in individual pots that sat on handy warming plates. That too was a novelty; where I come from, you keep your tea warm with a tea-cozy.

To reassure The Boy

The Boy is away in Miami this week, being corporate. As is often the case when he leaves me to fend for myself, he worries that I eat enough (bless 'im).

He knows I'm not likely to spend hours creating a culinary masterpiece when I can quickly slap together a couple of slices of bread and cheese (like the fabulous Seaside cheddar with which I am currently obsessed; it's strong and mature, with crunchy calcium bits. Apparently it's a WholeFoods exclusive. I'm convinced that they're waiting until I'm completely addicted, and then they'll stop carrying it ...)

Sorry, that was a tangent, wasn't it?

Anyway, to quell The Boy's fears that I'm starving myself, this was last night's dinner:



Okay, I did slap some bread together, but it was organic wholewheat, filled with Alaskan salmon and cucumber. Add a couple of grilled asparagus and some leftover salad (greens, tomatoes, apple, green beans) and it's a tasty plateful.

And this morning's breakfast?



A yogurt-banana-strawberry-orange smoothie and a bowl of oatmeal topped with strawberry-rhubarb sauce.

Yeah, I'd say I'm eating okay.

The wearing of the red, white and blue. Or not.

April 23 was St. George's Day. But I don't need to tell you that, right? Unless you celebrated so heavily that you're only just waking up. Woo! A crazy time, what with everyone wearing "Kiss me, I'm English" shirts and the Chicago River dyed red, white and blue, and local politicians mentioning ancestors who fought at the Battle of Hastings, and all the bars offering half-price pints of sausage rolls?

Oh, right, that didn't happen.

You'd think the pubs, at least, would jump on the bandwagon, given that there are few other promotional excuses between St Patrick's Day and Cinco de Mayo. Though perhaps the day's timing isn't great in Massachusetts, following as it does on the heels of Patriots' Day.

In England, until recently, patriotism and nationalism were a little too closely intertwined; for some, the Union flag had symbolism similar to the Confederate flag over here. But the tide is turning, largely because English pubs have realized there might be a bob or two in it.

At LimeyG headquarters, of course, we were already prepared.

Breakfast: Heinz baked beans on toast (topped with my new obsession, Seaside cheddar).



Lunch: cheese and pickle sandwiches. Has to be Branston Pickle.



Dinner: shepherd's pie.



We'd planned to crack open a tin of Heinz treacle sponge pudding, but the temperature had been in the very un-English high seventies all day, and somehow a bowl of dense, sweet cake topped with hot custard just wasn't as appealing.

Oh well, I guess we can always save that for next year's debauched festivities.

A nice little sandwich

Last night, lovely reader Ashley complained that my photos of The Boy's creations made her feel inadequate; here we were, enjoying fabulous roasted veggies, while she sat down to horseradish and sauerkraut sandwiches (at least I think that's what she said; I was halfway through a bottle of South African Riesling at the time).

So lest you should think we're constantly in the kitchen, throwing together fantastic dishes, I wanted to let you know that sometimes we have sandwiches, too:



Slow-braised short ribs with a truffled grilled-cheese on brioche. The beef was fall-apart tender, with a fabulously rich, dark intensity. The sandwich was buttery, slightly sweet, and the bread had the lightest toasty crunch. Just looking at the photo is making me salivate at the memory.

But hey, we didn't make it; this was from Sidney's Grille at the Meridian in Cambridge (formerly the Hotel at MIT; for some reason, the restaurant gets only a passing mention on their corporate site).

So Ashley, do you feel better now?

Sandwich person

The other day I worked from home. The Boy called mid-afternoon to see how I was doing and asked what I had for lunch.

"Guess," I said.

He sighed. "Oh. Of course. A sandwich." He thinks I'm strange.

The Boy, when he's home alone to eat, uses the stove. Maybe just pasta and a quick fresh pesto, or baked salmon and a salad, but always a meal that involves pans and heat and a variety of utensils.

Me, I slap something between two slices of bread and I'm happy. I love a good sandwich.

Of course, "sandwich" means something different to everyone. My perfect version has (unsurprisingly) an English accent--though that doesn't mean delicate, no-crust watercress triangles. Rather, it suggests an egalitarian approach to the filling: equal amounts of every ingredient, so each bite is a balanced blend of flavors.

This is almost the perfect sandwich. Really. This picture makes my mouth water. I can imagine biting through the soft, slightly nutty bread; the crunch of the cucumber and the moist sweetness of the tomato meeting the creamy cheese and salty ham.

(Why is it not actually perfect? Because that's processed cheese. If it were year-old cheddar, I'd be licking my monitor.)

Of course, now I'm thinking about the most truly British and perfectest sarnie (as My People say) of all: the cheese and pickle toastie. It's really just a straightforward cheese sandwich, with the addition of an even, generous schmear of Branston Pickle, an addictive sweet-and-sour chutney-esque condiment that is to the English pantry as ketchup is to the American.

Dropped into the toaster (or, if you will, George Foreman grill) until the bread is slightly crunchy and the filling has warmed and fused together in a joyous embrace, it's a thing of beauty.

(Mouth is watering again.)

I've never been able to appreciate the traditional American sandwich (okay, that's an extreme example) quite as much. The filling ovewhelms the bread like too many packs on a weary donkey. A sandwich should be a careful creation, a harmonious song of taste and texture--not a portable, edible container for a half-pound of meat.

The Boy, of course, disagrees with me entirely. If I may question the witness:

Me (just now): Honey, do you think a sandwich should be a portable, edible container for a half-pound of meat?

Him (without hesitation): Yes.

We do agree on some things, though--the worst sandwich we ever had was on a British Midlands flight from London to Teesside. They served a breakfast travesty of rubbery bacon (probably nuked, possibly--gasp--steamed) still sporting a fatty, gristly rind. Not what you need at 8am after a seven-hour transatlantic flight.

(Ironically, one of the best was the warm, fragrant, buttery sausage panini served on the same flight two years later.)

And we like the medianoche at La Viña, the bakery/cafe/neighborhood hangout around the corner from my in-laws'; the pork is roasted in-house before being sliced and added to ham, swiss cheese, pickles and mustard between slices of a sweet egg bread and pressed. Perfect with a tiny cup of potent, bitter espresso.

I'm curious about the Stubbs, the famous calorie-laden egg/bacon/sausage/cheese concoction served (on doorstop slices of Texas toast) at the Coppell Deli and a favorite snack for members of the Dallas Cowboys (here Nate Newton learns how they're made).

And even though I know it's a ridiculous promotional item, I'd still love to order (and, at around $200, have someone else pay for) the world's most expensive sandwich: Iberico ham, white truffles and quail eggs on ... oh, it's on sourdough bread?

Well then, never mind. I don't do sourdough. I might love a good sandwich, but there are limits.