Not so super sunday, plus monday till now!
Trip Start Jan 27, 2008
30Trip End Apr 06, 2009
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First off, the ribs. I could have gotten spare ribs already cut up, but they are much more dramatic in the rack, so checking the local butcher's, we found them whole. Problem is, either pigs in the UK are horribly skinny, or they just cut all the meat off the ribs. Seeing as nobody buys a full rack of ribs in this country, they just probably save the threadbare bits of the lean English pig for those silly yanks on the way to watch their indecipherable "football" on such a sunday. Or perhaps, noticing my attempt to pull the entry door, they flipped the secret switch under the counter, rolling over the secret shelf with the nice meaty ribs and bringing out the virtually meatless variety for the not confirmed US shopper
Real and true BBQ sauce is difficult to find as well, but they have a near substitute: HP brown sauce. A bottle of HP, a bottle of honey, and a half-pint of teacher's scotch whiskey does just fine in lieu of proper barbecue sauce adulterated with bourbon, molasses and honey. A pinch of spice, and it was ready to marinate for a day or so. This worked out perfectly.
On to the chicken wings. English chickens are the opposite of the pigs, I gather. Nice fat little wings, meaty and pink like a chicken should be. Perhaps they feed the chickens on the good bits of pork unavailable to foreigners.
Buffalo wings, it soon became evident, would be quite impossible to make here, as the recipe requires a certain kind of hot sauce only, going by many names in the States, but having no name at all here. Found a few different kinds of hot stuff, but nothing remotely resembling what I needed. However, in the search, I did find jamaican jerk sauce, the same kind we use at home, so a big cheap beer and half a jar of that later, marinade #2 was born.
If you've been following, in the last episode, we were on the way back to London by car from Bristol. We arrived around 8 pm in the eve, picked up the supplies for the meat dishes as well as a bottle of rum, some limes and fresh mint to make a good mojito, we were off
Islington, as the crow flies may be only a mile or so from Maida Vale. As the car drives in L-town, however, it takes about 20 minutes. Arriving at our destination, we were amazed to see that the four lads had a place palatial by london standards, a big living room and dining room with a huge kitchen. 4 bedrooms upstairs for the fellows, and a bath and a half. The world of high finance has been treating them well, apparently. A flat-screen tv and sky sports, and we were on our way once kickoff came at **gasp** eleven at night. Ribs and chicken were devoured, many mojitos made and consumed, and John actually made it to the bitter end of the game, sitting with me as my team choked on the dust of the giants. Ouch.
The good thing, though, is that I am glad to be here in London where american football is not understood at all, and watched even less. Wouldn't want to be in boston for that upset. I'm sure that all over town brawls erupted, and upon getting home, many dogs were kicked. Boston is a sports town, and gets rather upset, especially when losing the Big Game to a new york team.
There's always next year.
So, it being tuesday, I'm slated to fly out on a 10 pm flight to delhi, leaving the pretty smile and comfortable embrace of Carola, and setting out on a difficult and potentially dangerous journey to retrieve my trusty steed, Rocinante, from the snows of the Himalaya, and drive down through the heart of India once again. **yawn. . . ** Old hat, I know.
See you in Delhi.