My Anglophilia started long ago. I fell in love with the hushed sadness on the pages of Remains of the Day. I went through a phase where my morning began with a milky cup of English Breakfast tea instead of coffee.
I’m annoyingly vocal about baked goods—persnickety, even—and I’m convinced that society is far too accepting of mediocrity when it comes to the other sweet science. It’s the formulaic element to many bakeries that turns me off.
I craved a good ribeye one weekend, and the Stater Brothers meat department wasn’t going to cut it. But making the pilgrimage down to Morena Boulevard to drool over the meat case at Siesel’s is far trickier when you live in North County and have a squeaky infant.
These days, it seems like every neck in the San DiegoCounty woods is adding a pizza place that could be called “legit.” Youcan’t turn the corner without tripping over someone’s artisanal sausageor in-house mozzarella.
Mad Men fans may still have the 1960s ditty “Zou Bisou Bisou” running through their heads. But it wasn’t just bits of frothy French music that captivated America in the 1960s. The boisterous Julia Child did kitchens everywhere a favor and made classic French techniques and menus accessible to American eaters.