Quick conversion

I’ve been droning on about the execrable standard of eating in England for years. Over-priced, terrifyingly priced and/or mediocre food has been typical of my gastro-experiences in London. Sure, there have been a few noteworthy exceptions but for the most part, I have clung closely to the opinion that the best way to dine in London is to jump on the Eurostar and go to Paris. Bad food in London has also contributed to the promulgation of a very satisfying parochialism of the gullet. London may have the Rosetta Stone but you can get a decent cup of coffee in Sydney.

Finally, however, I think I’m going to eat with gusto, pleasure and satisfaction in London. Responsible types have kindly taken my culinary welfare in hand; suggestions have been made, directions have been provided, orders have been placed. All of a sudden, I find that I am actually prepared to change radically my position on the state of eating in the United Kingdom today on the basis of one trip to the Borough Markets. I’m caught between describing my response to this place as that of a bull in a china shop, a kid in a lolly shop or a sniffer dog at a warehouse party. I am pretty easily pleased when it comes to food. Here, I was ecstatic. Minor jetlag and consequent disorientation made the whole experience even more deliriously exciting. Baskets full of goose fat! Burnt caramel ice-cream! Pickled garlic! Chorizo!
Smoked fish and crab claws! Horseradish! Piles of fresh vegetables! A hot vat of cassoulet out of which a monsieur ladled bowlfuls of thick, ducky, beany, garlicky goodness à la Carcassone. Interminable delights.

Without one skerrick of a doubt, I can state that I will return. Tomorrow. It’s a Thursday to Saturday market, you see. The weekend crowds will crush me. The Borough Market strikes me as a wholesome place – local food, slow food, organic food, artisanal food, regional food, preservative-free food, soul food, culturally authentic food, patriotic British food – and I have no doubt that my character will benefit from a repeat visit. It barely needs to be said that I did not quit my début empty-handed. After months of rice and noodles, I thought it necessary to reacquaint myself with some of the basics. And besides, I am a houseguest, it would be discourteous in the extreme were I to renege on my self-imposed duty to stock the larder.

a) Beurre de la France

Salty, sweet French butter. Is there anything better in the world? The man who sold this butter also sold salt, huge bowlfuls of pink and grey fleur de sel from Normandy. Lawyers, seachangers, career vacillators, take note. Here is a noble profession: vendor of butter and salt (with a sideline in fine yoghurt). Oh yes, and on the countertop, sadly out of sight, perch fresh pots of crème caramel. If one’s abdominal girth is to be expanded, if one’s cholesterol is to be raised, this is definitely a good way to do so.

b) British Cheese

Is this cheese made from cow’s milk? Yes. Is it a blue cheese? Yes. Is it a British cheese? Yes. This happy flowchart leads straight to Stilton, bought from a lovely how’s-yer-farver Cockney fromageophile here. Some weird Protestant restraint made me leave this large stinky refrigerated cheesemonger without any caerphily or Brie de Meaux or wonderful cheddar, all of which I submitted to sample. As I promised the cheesemonger, je reviens. There are raw milk cheeses to be rocked.

c) Jamon (jamon) español
Jamon serrano, to be precise. The charcuterie counter will ever keep me from making a whole-hearted commitment to a meat-free diet. I will be flexitarian till the end. I love jamon serrano with a passion that words will only defile. The boqueria which sold this also offered boquerones, the small pickled anchovies which are so very dear to my heart, manchego, and a dazzling array of chorizos, garbanzos, aceitunas, pimiento and other miraglos del España.