a journey

plus, my inaugural food mini-blog: THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF LONDON

well, i made it to london

After a final clean out of the various drawers and hiding spots in my apartment (why did I still have my paper covid vaccination card?), it was time to go.

I threw this out

The plan was simple, in theory. I would fly over to London on Saturday with six massive duffel bags full of all of the clothes that Brian and I owned. Plus Brian’s Normatec boots, a Bose soundbar¹ . . . you get the picture.

I also brought my giant, beaten up, but much-loved blue Telfar and a roller bag full of hard drives, computer equipment, and whatever I forgot to put in the duffel bags.

Brian and Blanche would be joining me in two weeks. Everything left in our apartment was going to be shipped by boat.

At JFK, everything went according to plan. I drove us to the airport, said goodbye to my car (will miss you, BLANCHE2), and Brian and I lugged the bags in. A huge thank you to my friends at The Fort for the deadlift training - it really came in handy. I said goodbye to Brian and hoped that they would accept my almost 70lb (that’s about 5 stone, apparently?), oversized bags. They did.

it looks smaller in the photo :/

With my British Airways Avios account now depleted, all aboard to London. I didn’t manage to sleep much on the flight, but instead watched snippets of the following films:

• A Star is Born (2018)

• Wicked (2025)

• Chicago (2002)

• The Departed (2006)

I did doze off at some point and woke up, quite startled, to Vera Farmiga’s pretty atrocious Boston accent.²

So far, so good.

But then, I lost my wallet.

Sort of. I got off the plane in London and the minute I stepped onto the jet bridge I realized I didn’t have my wallet. They wouldn’t let me back on the plane but said they would look. So I started tearing through the above-referenced massive Telfar bag.

After about 10 minutes, still no luck. I took a deep breath, remembered I had my phone, my passport, and my health. But as the cleaning crew was coming onto the plane, with me sitting down still on the jet bridge next to the boarding door with what I assume was a very sad look on my face, a very lovely flight attendant came to me with my wallet. It was in the compartment with the safety card. Why was it there? I don’t know.

Okay, one minor issue, but that is to be expected (he thinks, with the optimistic naïveté of an American).

Passport control. Fine, I use the eGates. Nobody says a word. Down to baggage claim (sorry, the baggage hall). All the bags are there! Intact! No problem!

But here begins the fun.

I had done my research and been here before: Heathrow has porters at arrivals who you can pay £35 to basically load all of your bags into a big cart and they’ll help you get it from baggage claim through customs and to your car.

There were no porters. Nowhere to be found.

I went up to the British Airways help desk. The woman disclaimed responsibility. “We don’t control the porters, that’s Heathrow.” Okay, fine. Do you have a number or contact for them. “No.”

So this was the situation I found myself in. Needing to push three small trolleys, my roller bag, Telfar, and myself through customs, through 3 sets of doors that you can’t get back in through.

not ideal

I don’t watch the Amazing Race for fun. I watch it for inspiration. So yes, I pushed all of this through all the doors, running back for the next trolley before the doors closed on me.

“Bit dodgy looking, this all is,” said the customs officer while neither helping nor stopping me.

But I made it through.

More to come on my initial London thoughts, but I will share one thought I jotted down:

have gay guys in london ever seen the movie miss congeniality?

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Issue 1: Lunch?

As I didn’t have a kitchen during my first week, I had to buy lunch when I was at the office.

I also forgot about this part of my Substack while in the whirlwind of getting all set up at work, so forgot to take proper pictures and notes. But, alas.

Kin

My new boss took me out the first day (she ordered a glass of white - big law habits never die, I suppose) for a lovely lunch at Kin on Leather Lane. I had their Nasi Goreng. The egg was slightly overcooked, but I don’t mind that with such a spicy dish. Fast service, decent prices.

5.5 out of 10 Big Bens.

Scotti’s Snack Bar

Okay, now we’re talking. In 30 Rock, Tina Fey explained that “I believe that all anyone really wants in this life is to sit in peace and eat a sandwich.” She’s not wrong.

At Scotti’s Snack Bar, technically, there’s a menu, but it’s not on the wall, and definitely not online. Instead, there’s a small selection of sandwiches served on a crusty bread or ciabatta. Like everyone else, I came for the schnitzel.

I was out of luck. The next chicken schnitzel wouldn’t be ready for 20 minutes and I do have a day job. But I spied out of the corner of my eye a huge hunk of freshly roasted turkey breast.

I took that on ciabatta with everything (lettuce, tomato, onion, mustard, mayo).

that contraption is their tea dispenser

I took a bite, forgot to take a photo, and ate the whole thing in two minutes. You know when something is just simple, warm, and right? Well balanced, well seasoned? I always appreciate a place that doesn’t “fuck with the food” but instead just treats it well and serves it fast. If that speaks to you, this is your place.

8 out of 10 Big Bens.

Johnny Schnitzel at Myddleton’s Deli

It’s hard to review a to-go (“take away”) salad, but this is worth a special shout out and a stop if you’re in the Islington area. I mean, look at this beast.

7.5 out of 10 Big Bens.

1. One of the strange things about moving from the US to the UK is that you have to look at the back of every electronic device you own to figure out if it can work with the UK voltage . . . some things are fine, like a laptop or (apparently) a Bose soundbar . . . my KitchenAid, Cuisinart, rice cooker . . . no luck.

2. If you are curious as to just why a Boston accent is so hard to master if you’re not from there, I recommend this pretty amusing episode of Decoder Ring. But the thing that trips most people up is not the non-rhotic part (dropping the Rs in “Harvard yard”) but that people like my Nana will add an R sometimes if a word ends with a vowel and the next begins with a vowel. That is how “Is Ma upstairs?” comes out as “Is Mar-upstairs?”