There’s nothing more English than a proper roast meat & two veg Sunday lunch. And, unsurprisingly, they are thin on the ground in New York. Sure, ex-pat Village hangout Tea & Sympathy serves a roast for the outrageous price of $28, but it’s seriously sub-Wetherspoons*, and pretty much everywhere else does brunch on Sundays. Even the couscous joint, Café Mogador, across the road from me serves up plate upon plate of congealed looking eggs Benedict come the weekend. (Why, why do grown-ups insist on queuing to eat $12 plates of brunch eggs in restaurants that have nothing to with breakfast cookery?)
I’m not a big fan of people who move countries and then spend their time yearning for the comforts of home, but I do miss the companionable ritual of Sunday lunch. So I cycled over to a Greenwich Village apartment for my first ever Manhattan Sunday lunch, unsurprisingly hosted by an English friend, but happily furnished with Americans.
I did not cover myself in glory by rocking up an hour late, as I had failed to realise that the clocks went forward three weeks earlier than in London. Fellow guests were an interesting mix: a pretty ex-Teen Voguette, an education specialist & a handsome actor with a definite twinkle in his eye.
Pink roast lamb and a scrumptious berry cobbler had the Americans needing a gastronomic translation, but I was in seventh heaven as I poured double (heavy) cream over my pud, and chased it with a Creme Egg.
I promise I’ll eat bagels, burritos and brunch this week to make up for my shocking lapse from American eating habits.
*Crappy chain of English pubs, renowned for serving cheapo, mass Sunday lunches