London Tastes Like Home

I boarded the train from Heathrow in a slouched, disheveled, and jet-lagged state. Looking out the window, sunlight kissed broad patches of shimmering grass, brightened parents’ faces, and quickened the skips of frolicking children. In that moment, London seemed too good to be true.

But my internal pessimist did not want hopes to get too high. Beneath this façade of beauty, he told me, was a culinary desert. For British families, such picnic weather was surely accompanied by soggy cucumber sandwiches and the reheated, breaded, tasteless mush they call “fish fingers.” (These terrible things look like the remnants of mermen’s hands washed upon shore.)

Navigating a new city comes with its unique challenges. However, I was armed and ready for London’s worst – with my mother’s pocket-sized pink umbrella to shield myself from the city’s incessant drizzles and sodium-packed Cup Noodles to brace for the banality of bread, beans, and beer. Yet, one week in, London offered consistently comfortable weather and an unforgettable meal.

The following day, I met Eric, an old friend and local gourmand, for dinner. He offered two options: “Thai place” or “French bistro.” I asked for an authentic English dining experience. He said no.

We chose Thai. I stepped inside and was greeted with the warmth and liveliness of a traditional English pub. In a dimly lit space shaped long and rectangular, a steel counter divided the chefs from the customers. As we were led across the narrow space, the mixologist juggled bottles of colorful liquor and laughed with diners; the head chef flipped a flaming wok and called out orders; and a chorus of “Yes, chefs” rang out before we sat across the grill chef, who turned from the open flames of his charcoal grill to greet us. I feasted on this performance of improvised theatrics: hearing the noise, feeling the fire, following the blurred movements.

Within arm’s length was a young English chef, talking, laughing, sweating, wiping, grilling, slicing, tasting, seasoning, garnishing before serving. I sat right across from him, face to face, seeing every part of that complicated process we call “cooking.” The chef sweated over the glowing embers; waves of warm air brushed against our faces, tinged with the seductive smell of smoke. The scene consumed me before I began eating.

After a brief, energetic conversation, he turned his attention to a generous cut of English pork chop on the grill. Intuition guided him. He lifted the meat to see the crust, pressed it for resistance, and nodded in satisfaction. In the thickest area, he inserted a digital thermometer, observed the reading, and picked up his Japanese knife. I began to salivate. Down went the knife, slicing the meat cleanly off the bone. My hands began to sweat. Horizontal cuts were made, rendering both fatty chunks and lean strips. Tender, rosy slices emerged between the coffee-colored crust. My left leg began to twitch in desperate anticipation. Finally, he spooned a dollop of chili relish on the side.

The chili “relish” was a pounded sauce made in advance using dozens of Southeast Asian aromatics and spices. It lent a passionate red to the blushing pink pork, claiming aesthetic superiority over traditional English pork chops drowned in sand-colored gravy. Not only pleasing to the eye, the fibrous texture of pounded chili, lemongrass, and ginger contrasted the softness of succulent pork. The sauce yielded strong, complex tastes, exhibited in the play between vegetal and fruity flavors, fresh and fermented smells.

The dish was eaten with rice, a pairing intrinsic to my friend and my Chinese upbringings. We were served brown rice native to South Asia. Aside from its rich mahogany color when cooked, its lightness differentiates it from other rice varieties. I began to alternate between bites of pork, sauce, and rice. The performance around me melted into the background as sweet, sweet pork fat melted in my mouth, coated my tongue - just like mother’s red braised pork. London or Beijing, this was home.