Fags & Faggots

 It was late February 2002, and I was getting ready for my first trip overseas. 

I had lucked into a handful

of gigs, and I was thrilled by the chance.

I grew up watching lots of Hammer horror films, and almost any British show I could find. Monty Python's Flying Circus, The Benny Hill Show, Dave Allen, and Tommy Cooper were regular viewing thanks to public television. I spent plenty of time reading British literature, especially Arthur Conan Doyle. My maternal grandfather’s family was British, so it’s fair to say I was an Anglophile.

I thought I had a pretty good understanding of “the Queen’s English.” I was well acquainted with terms like spanner, lorry, telly, and most hilarious to twelve-year-old me, fags (or cigarettes, for those unaware). I was under the mistaken impression that “wanker” could be used as a term of endearment, not unlike jagoff. I later found this to be…not quite accurate.

I was admittedly concerned about the food. While I occasionally consider myself adventurous, I have limits. I’ve never been much of a fan of seafood, so fish and chips were not high on my list. Kidney was also unlikely to be consumed voluntarily. I’d heard of Yorkshire pudding but had no clue what it was. Maybe like chocolate pudding, but made with a special Yorkshire recipe?

I was at a festival up on the North Sea when a guy I was hanging out with - drinking with, more accurately - decided to order the aforementioned Yorkshire pudding from the local café.

He ordered it with double beef.

What?

Beef on pudding?

I felt my stomach churn at the thought of it. I ordered chicken and chips. A nice, safe meal.

Then I saw the Yorkshire pudding with double beef.

To my surprise, it was this big puff pastry-like thing, served with two hefty pieces of meat and gravy. It looked and smelled delicious. I made sure to try some the next day.

It was so good.

Note: when in doubt, ask.

My tour was based out of Cardiff, a place I knew very little about. My cousin’s husband had once been stationed there, so I knew a little. But really, not much.

My friend Hayden suggested I take my own salt and pepper with me. Just to play it safe, I brought along a few bottles of hot sauce too. My friend 2-Tone had told me we had a better selection stateside, so I erred on the side of caution.

This served me well.

The salt in Wales reminded me of rock salt. Perfect for removing ice and snow remnants from the driveway and front steps, but not what I wanted on my food.

My friend Chambers had lived in Ireland for a while, and he strongly suggested I try deep-fried sausage. At that age, I’d try damned near anything fried. Plus, I like sausage, so it went on the Must-Try List.

My first meal in the UK came from the local chippy. I went with the deep-fried sausage, and yes, it was. It lacked flavor, though. British sausages have a tendency to be a bit bland to American taste buds, so I reached for the salt.

That’s how I came to the aforementioned conclusion.

American hot sauce to the rescue.

It made for an amazing combination. Paired with some local beer, it was the beginning of my expanding personal menu.

I heard about - and saw - laverbread and gave it a quick pass. It might taste sweet as pie, but I’ll never know. It had the same color and consistency as roofing tar.

I shouldn’t have been so judgmental. I came from a place where chipped chopped ham passed for lunch meat, scrapple was considered breakfast by otherwise sane people, and gas station pepperoni rolls could get a man through an eight-hour shift. Add squirrel with biscuits and gravy, trail baloney, and whatever wild game happened to be in the freezer, and I was hardly in a position to question anyone else’s menu.

Still, after thirty-five years of American “food,” it was difficult to trust foods I didn’t recognize as food.

I learned a lot more slang while there. 2-Tone was prolific in it, especially while driving. Legend has it he invented road rage. Having experienced his driving firsthand, I wouldn’t argue the claim.

“Dozey twat!”

“Bloody pillock!”

“Fucking WVM!”

WVM being short for “white van moron,” or a tradesman vehicle.

He had a running joke that the American tissue brand Puffs probably couldn’t be sold there. Too close to “poofs” or “poofter,” a less-than-delicate term for a gay man.

As my time in England and Wales wore on, I became more adventurous with my culinary choices. On a trip to Oxford, we stopped at a little restaurant on the motorway: Little Chef.

It was akin to a Denny’s, if I had to compare it with something in the States.

The only problem was that I didn’t recognize much on the menu.

I had come to recognize fries as chips, and a salad is a salad is a salad, but the trademark dishes came with names that baffled me. So, I did what any reasonable person would.

I looked around to see what other people were eating.

I saw a guy eating something that looked interesting, so I asked the waitress what it was.

I wasn’t prepared for the answer.

A hot beef clangor.

“A what?” I asked.

My accent had already given away my non-local status, so she kindly explained what this “clangor” involved: beef, potatoes, onion, and gravy served in a puff pastry.

Sounded good to me.

I ordered one, along with chips and a Coke.

When she brought it to the table, I had no clue how to eat it. It was too delicate to cut properly with a knife and fork, but not something you could pick up like a sandwich.

Brits don’t eat much with their hands, so I looked over at the guy who had already ordered one and watched him.

He mashed his fork into the center, essentially made a mess, and forked it in.

Easy enough.

It became my go-to any time we stopped at a Little Chef. To my surprise, not all locations served them.

St David's Market was where I was introduced to faggots.

Hot, meaty, juicy faggots.

Yeah, I know. Same word as here, different meaning.

The faggots I’m referring to are a delicacy. Think a porky meatball with a meatloaf consistency, served with mushy peas, chips, and gravy. 2-Tone swore St David’s was the place to get them, and he wasn’t wrong.

After lunch, I got to talking with a guy who owned a comic book stall. He and I worked out a deal for me to ship him some American horror comics and some unusual Marvel Comics back issues.

This cleared out a box of stuff I’d almost forgotten about, made me a few bucks, and from what he explained to me, would net him a nice bit of cash. The old horror comics had been outlawed when they came out, so they were rare as hen’s teeth there.

After six weeks in the UK, I came home, hopefully a better man.

I experienced so many things I otherwise never would have.

And I learned to really love some hot, meaty, juicy faggots.