No Love in London

You may have noticed that I have not updated for awhile. To be honest, I'm wandered and ate and wandered and ate, and nothing at all excited my palate. Sure, the Indian restaurants are more authentic and there are novel snacks such as Prawn Cocktail potato crisps. However, there's been no edible happiness, no dizzy desire in a dish, no food orgasms.

When I first arrived to Chicago seven years ago, I popped into a hole-in-the-wall Thai joint along 55th Street. I vividly recall my first taste of thai - biting into the beef see-eu, the crisp tang of basil ricocheted in my mouth and melded with the soft rice noodles and egg in orgiastic perfection. The intense yet balanced flavor, magnified by the newness of experience, awakened my senses. Not just smell and taste, but colors were brighter, music sounded better, and - I know it sounds crazy - more keen to touch. And the dishes kept it coming - green curry with the sharp lemongrass & chilis mellowed by coconut milk, pad prik king with pulpy seared eggplant. If such unadulterated joy could exist so easily and readily, then the quality of human life is uplifted as a whole.

Btw, this was just an run-of-the-mill Thai restaurant, and cannot be compared with my favorite, Spoon Thai, which I would discover after six years of holy food pilgrimage. But, that's another story.

Sure, I was younger, less exposed to global cuisine, with a more sensitive palate. But, in this city, as I nose around the canon of British cuisine and London restaurants, I haven't even had a flicker. And I've tried a lot: English Roasts, mince pies, Italian pizzas, Yorkshire pudding, French brasseries, paella, ostrich burgers, pastys. And nothing.


Then today, the killer.

They are not here. That's right. Not a single banh mi sandwich shop in all of London. For those unfamiliar, banh mi is this most amazing little sandwich - the bastard offspring of France and Vietnam, it features french bread, pork, pickled veggies, with touch of vietnamese style mayo. Now, I cannot taste a banh mi without crossing an ocean. No sweet-savory sonnets of BBQ pork. No quartets of jalapeno, daikon, cilantro, and carrot. No warm baguettes laden with delicious euphony.

The grey London skies just got a menacing gunmetal sheen. My walk to work colder, with the wet chill darting under my coat and glove's hem. Without the pure simple joy of gastronomy, my daily life is robbed of its glow. What's a foodie to do in a country without great cuisine?

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