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!

Not only that, I didn’t know anything about the vast language difference between American English and British English.  American say “fries”, British say “chips.”  Americans say “chips” and English say “crisps.”  So, sometimes I didn’t know what was going in my mouth, other than in a previous life it might have been a potato.

Not only did I have trouble with the language, I couldn’t find anything in a shop.  Mitch, the man I’d run away for, would send me to the shop and ask for eggs.  Naturally, being raised in America, I’d go to the dairy section.  Then, on not finding the eggs, I’d go shuffling eggless back to Mitch, who always seemed to be surrounded by his mates.  I’d say the store was out of eggs and then everyone would give me that look.  Later on, I’d discover that eggs in England are always sold on the shelves near baking products and never are sold refrigerated.  I didn’t know this, but the natives expected me to know this.

Since I’d watched Monty Python most of my American life, I thought I had a diploma on how to be English.  It turns out I had only a kindergarten education as to what it was like to be English.  I hated to ask Mitch to explain every other word, custom and food item to me since I didn’t want to look like a complete idiot in front of him and his mates.  He’d surely kick me back to America otherwise.  And I’d look foolish going back to the country I’d absconded with my tail between my legs because of an argument over condiment identification.

 I had given up pork two years ago as a token attempt at pseudo-vegetarianism.  When I realized pork was the only item on the menu, I whispered a protest to Mitch.  He glared at me and said it would terribly ungrateful of me to refuse food cooked by his mates, pork or not.  After the smell of the sizzling bacon butties tickled my taste buds, I suddenly agreed with him.  So, I eat a dead pig, even though I swore off them two years ago.  What were the pigs going to do about it?  Or the vegetarian police?  Nothing.   Why let good food go to waste?  That would be a worse crime than eating the pork.  Besides, Mitch and his mates might not ever let me live it down if I refused their food.

Since I saw a jar of bright yellow mustard around the campfire, assumed it was the sweet yellow mustard most American kids grew up with.  I wondered only for a moment why the jar was so small.  There were about half a dozen of us up on the Tor.  How could this jar possibly hold enough for all of us?  Well, perhaps Mitch knew that I was the only one who liked mustard.  I remembered his recent warning about not refusing offered food, so I generously helped myself.  As I slathered the yellow mustard on, everyone on the Tor completely quieted.

The English are very polite, but will not pass up a chance for free entertainment, even if it’s at your expense.  Even Mitch, proud of his exotic American trophy wife, would never let a chance for a good practical joke on her go by.  When they quieted, I glanced down, saw my shoes were tied and my fly zipped and wondered if they were really staring at something over my shoulder.  I would have turned to look, but my hunger forced me to focus on the food.  As I raised the bacon butty to my mouth, they seemed to all lean forward.

I unflinchingly took a huge chomp out of my butty, to show how grateful I was to have been given food by Mitch’s friends.

And promptly discovered that English mustard is eye-wateringly, mule-kicking HOT.  It’s an extremely good contrast to the mild bread and butter, but only in moderate amounts.  Tabasco sauce is like pancake syrup in comparison to yellow English mustard.

Mitch’s mates smiled and chuckled.  One quietly asked me if I had meant to put so much mustard on.

“Of course I did,” I lied.  “I’m not afraid of a little flavor.”  Or of having my sinuses completely drain in public.  I very quickly got a reputation for being tough as nails and not to be messed with.  That was the first time the ice broke with these crazy English fellows, and they then approached me like a fellow human being.  But I was always careful to ask about any other food I put into my mouth in England again.

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