You Say Sandwich, We Say Yeah!

Husband and I were invited to have Tea with the Queen. The annual Garden Party is held for all those who have contributed to Scottish culture, and husband has most certainly done that recently. I accompanied as a doting spouse. It was my finest hour. I even wore clean underwear and everything.  The party is held in the manicured grounds of the Palace of Holyrood, the Queen’s Edinburgh Residence and the gardens are framed by an ancient ruined Abbey and the even more ancient hill of Arthur’s Seat. On arrival, we sauntered in and amongst the invited guests, watching Queenie and Phillip bestow royal glances to simpering Royalists. We got bored and wandered off to the refreshment tent.  We’d been told the tea is the best cup of tea you’ll ever have. It wasn’t. Luke warm and anaemic, it felt like a Cup Of Tea’s dying, pathetic, younger sibling, so I moved on to other items on the menu - cold mocha drinks, passionfruit tarts, eclairs, raspberry topped cakes, e...

The Chip Butty is an institution I am not sure I want to admit membership of, but in support of true scientific research, I shall admit - though, only once - to consuming this monochromatic staple of British diet. You would think Britain, with its history of Sandwiches (think "The Earl of...") would be more inventive with their bread-based food products, but therein lies the genius of the Chip Butty - it is so classically simple, understated and unexpected: who would have thought that you could get so much starch and empty carbohydrates into such a small, compact space? That its nutritional content hovers somewhere between zero and minus 20 makes the perfect base (or cap) of a night's heavy drinking, and this is part of its success, particularly in Scotland and working class cities across the UK. Its single colour and single taste could only be described as "unexpected" - in that when you eat something, you would expect it to taste of something...