My American mind boggles at British eating habits

The US insistence on supersizing everything may unnerve visiting Britons, but the UK’s enduring affection for stodge ruffles our feathers

Is it unreasonable to travel with expectations of food that behaves as it does on our home turf? Briton Simon Parker was recently let down on his cross-country cycle by the food on offer at the roadside stops in America’s heartland. The coffee, he found, was weak. The drink pairings selected by Simon’s fellow diners were unusual (a soda and an americano on the side of a fried breakfast does seem unwise). The portions in the United States are dangerously large, he said, and there is an overwhelming presence of processed food.
This is correct. It fuels an enormous health crisis in the US. But Simon’s route was particular. Cheap roadside food in Britain is hardly healthy: budget motorway hotels are uniform in serving fried bread, fried bacon, fried sausage, fried hash browns, fried mushrooms, and fried tomatoes. Sadly, a sideline of the Anglo-American Special Relationship is a kinship in the dedication to ultra-processed, unforgivably bland food.
I spent my childhood in the US, and have lived in the UK for two decades as an adult. The British mind may “boggle” at American eating habits, but most Yanks would say: “Right back atcha!”
If America’s insistence on supersizing everything strikes an odd chord in those visiting from across the pond, it is Britain’s enduring affection for stodgy, traditional meals, and unnerving juxtaposition of familiar ingredients, that ruffles Yank feathers. Interviews with American friends and family raised the following issues:
An Anglophile American I know sees this as the biggest minefield to traverse in Britain: an otherwise highly sophisticated and adventurous eater, he draws the line at Fergus Henderson’s nose-to-tail eating (definitely no tripe, kidney, liver or heart) and is particular about which type of animal he will eat, eschewing all poultry that isn’t chicken or turkey, venison, eel, wild boar and veal. Americans often avoid lamb, too. That the same folks blithely eat hot dogs is kind of funny.
If the baguette defines the French, and the hot dog Americans, surely the tinned bean is the ultimate culinary symbol of Britain. They have been named as favoured treats by the current Queen and the late Princess Diana, both of whom presumably had access to a wide range of alternatives. But if you have not been raised on these cloyingly sweet piles of mush, they’re a tough sell.
Although they come from New England, the British collectively consume two million tins of them a day – more than the rest of the world combined. These haricots swim in a tomato sauce laden with 10 per cent of a person’s daily sugar allowance, and 20 per cent of the salt they need. Yet they inspire as much national pride and unqualified praise as the country’s National Health Service. They are served at breakfast, lunch and dinner, and appear on regular rotation in schools for children, on top of jacket potatoes or sponge-like ultra-processed sliced bread (more sugar and salt).
This is a surprising combination. It is also astonishing how many pre-made sandwiches there are in Britain. Americans love sandwiches, but they tend to like them Subway-style, composed in front of you, so you can choose the fillings. When Pret moved to New York, an American friend invented what he called “The Pret Diet”. He ate there daily because he found the food so deeply boring that he knew he wouldn’t eat much.
The season of bread sauce and Christmas pudding (rich, stodgy, boozy) is fast upon us. These items, rather like the rolling of an R, are things best navigated from an early age, or not attempted at all. They are more Marmite than Marmite, and strike fear in the hearts of visitors. How, in the land that invented manners, can one politely, but firmly, decline?
If Britons baulk at the volume of soda and coffee imbibed by Americans, I have yet to meet a visiting American who isn’t taken aback by the British drinking culture. “It’s like a never-ending frat party, but for adults,” observed a visiting Bostonian.
This is a double entry. First, most foreigners find it odd to add milk to the drink. Second, about half of my British friends operate a children’s tea, in which adults dine later, and on far more interesting food, than children. Children seem relegated to a sad rotation of bland things like sausages and mash or fish pie. The US may be the birthplace of the chicken nugget, but American children I know tend to have more openness to a range of foods – thanks, it would seem, to exposure.
One thing that makes it difficult to navigate the British dining scene for American visitors is that we may be in pursuit of a different goal. Recently an American cousin with fond memories of atmospheric London pubs in the 70s and 80s, wandered South Kensington, perused local reviews, and settled himself in for what turned out to be an astoundingly disappointing meal. He was served mushy fish and chips, decidedly un-mushy peas (hard as nails, he said), and the beer selection was poor (mainly in cans). “Who eats this stuff?” he asked me afterwards.
Had he asked me beforehand, I would have advised caution when choosing to eat in a pub. Take a recent review of a pub in North London, where the diner noted: “The food wasn’t the best.” Okay, this could be helpful, I thought. What made it bad? “We ordered a pizza and chips with gravy. Unfortunately, they forgot to cut the pizza, and the chips tasted undercooked.”
The mind, as Simon wrote about America, boggles: What would the successful delivery of pizza, chips and gravy look like?
And lest you think this eccentric combination of starch with a side of starch is the exclusive domain of a pub meal, see a current menu offering in Pizza Pilgrim, Britain’s finest pizza chain: “Americana: A Napoli classic & our pizza chefs’ favourite: creamy mozzarella base topped with hot dog sausages & french fries.” American by name, but British by invention.
In both cases, this order of pizza with chips was perhaps inspired by the other baffling national dish, the chip butty. A sandwich of chips, or french fries, on pillowy white bread, has been circulating since the 19th century, and it is every bit as unappealing as it sounds.
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