By the expression on their faces, I knew I was about to make a grave gastronomical error. I’d been seeing (and dreading) this expression more in more in the days since I’d moved to England. I was the only American among my new British friends up on Glastonbury Tor frying up that quintessential English treat — the bacon butty. This decadent sandwich consists of thick, pork chop-like English bacon slices, dripping with grease, slapped between buttered bread and whatever sauce you fancy.
Things had been very disorienting since my sudden move to England at the request of the man I’d fallen in love with. “Run away with me,” he pleaded and I did. I left behind not only the only country I’d ever known, everybody I’d ever known, but also a good bit of the foods I’d always known. Imagine my shock and horror when I discovered that there is no such thing as an English muffin in England!
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