Opening my mouth in London

London was different this visit. As the newness of my Netherlands experience has given way to a realisation that my time on the Continent this tour may soon be passing, London appeared both welcoming and daunting.

It's strange to be in a place where I can eavesdrop again, a place where the cabbies can speak intricately in a language I understand. I too can be understood, but I speak not the same tongue. The distance from the North Shore to the East End remains forbidding.

It's not the physical distance that's the issue. I don't mind being a long way from "home" because home is not really a physical place but a compilation of narratives in to which I can reconnect with. It's the nagging sense that people think I'm a rube or an idiot because I'm an American.

It all comes down to Football. When I approach a Briton about Football, the inevitable response-be it from a cabbie or headhunter or investment banker-is "You mean ENGLISH football?" My visceral, unstated response is invariably "Of course I mean English football, you bloody lime-ass idiot! Do you think I want to talk with you about the New England Fucking Patriots?"

Instead, I say: "yeah, I mean English football, who's your team?", and having memorised Simon Inglis' outstanding Football Grounds of Britain ten years ago, win the person over quickly by surfacing the anatomical details of their chosen club's current or former stadium.

Still, that moment of being treated as an idiot yank foreigner still rankles. I lived in that country for seven years and gratefully hold its passport. I have even suffered through eleven Tottenham Hotspur seasons of football futility. But all that counts for nothing when I open my mouth.

Restaurant Karma

Saying goodbye to beloved restaurants is always a sad experience for me--the knowing of deeply-held cravings never to be fully satisfied again.

I had to say "vaarwel" to my favorite Surinamese-Chinese in Delft this winter, forever leaving me to quest for a new contender for "world's best Fried Rice". But losing London's Gili Gulu and Crocker's Folly this trip really hurt.

Gili Gulu was a rare London restaurant which hit a happy trifecta of price, presentation and portion. A fixed-price conveyor-belt sushi joint with colour-coded plates (the veggie green plates included yummy noodles with bean sprouts), it served as a beacon from its St. Martins Lane location for those seeking limitless soy sauce and wasabi. Its replacement, called Pomodoro something-or-other, a dire-looking anglo-Italian place, offers no such succour. Sob sob...

Further sobs ensued when I landed at the now derelict Crocker's Folly in Maida Vale. Seeing this grand Victorian house-sized edifice stripped of it furnishings hit me in the solar plexus. Once home of London's most satisfying Sunday Roasts (carving most of the world's mainstream beasts), Crocker's was particularly popular among my London Business School colleagues as an alternatingly peaceful suburban retreat from the pressures of MBAing, and as an unusually raucous of place to watch the world's least raucous sport, cricket.

Crockers had a strong Australian undertone, though unlike most London pubs, Crocker's Aussies congregated in front of rather than behind the bar. It was where I tried Victorian Bitter and the Cooper's ale range from Down Under. And it was a place where I entertained and had great conversations.

But change is life. And today's recovery from the loss of Crockers led me miles away in terms of culinary paradigm, if but a mile on foot: Khan's Iraqi Grill. Coming from the Netherlands where "shoarma" is made from hideous pork shavings (a preparation developed by someone undoubtedly plumbing the lowest depths of Hell), the Iraqi Grill's succulent and sweetly spiced shwarma proved a revelation with its flavor. Khan's Iraqi Grill can be found at 355 Edgware Road, W2.
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