The Best Fish and Chips in Windsor

Here is another bit I read from A Yank Back to England. We're having lunch in Windsor--this is one of our favorite stories! Hope you like...

My Youtube debut

After some initial misgivings, I was talked into doing a little video for Youtube (sneaky Prodigal Wife said it was "practice" for a reading!)... and here it is! Let me know what you think, but please be gentle...the grease paint is barely off my training wheels!
(PS: If you find it amusing, please rate it/favorite it and pass it along...if you all like it, I'll do some more.)

Fellow expat Michael York says...

I know Brits are not supposed to show emotion (stiff upper lip and all that) but you know me better than that by now! Plus, what can I say? Michael York thinks the characters in my book -- my family in other words -- are rather Dickensian! Well! Well, I'm not in the least offended, in fact I totally agree and I love it! Anyway, Michael finished reading A Yank Back to England: The Prodigal Tourist Returns, and here is what he said:

"A perceptive, engaging and informative take on contemporary England as seen through the eyes of a fellow expatriate who writes with humor and affection. The cast of characters has an almost Dickensian vivacity." Michael York

What a gentleman! I always knew I liked him. Now the ball is in your court--I hope you'll give the book a read and enjoy it too!

The Prodigal Tourist finds a home

You may have heard, the Prodigal household is celebrating--we've found a publisher for my book about my rediscovery of my old home! It's to be called A Yank Back to England: The Prodigal Tourist Returns and will be out in December in Washington, everywhere else in January.
We were holding off on the happy news (not on the celebrating, as you can see from the pic) until the website was ready, but we got scooped by our friend Melissa at Smitten by Britain , who already put the book in her Amazon store! (You are naughty, and we love you for it!) so... here we are! Site-less but thrilled! Until we're ready, we will link to Amazon on the side column (US, UK, Canada, & Europe) for anyone who wants to take advantage of the low pre-order price. (And tar very much!)
For those of you who are unsure, or new to the blog, we do have a wonderful testimonial from Pulitzer-prize winning critic Michael Dirda, who read the mss and wrote:

“Half memoir, half travel book, A Yank Back to England never stints the reader: Here is England seen entire, from inside out, from bottom to top, as Denis Lipman returns from America to his working-class family home in blighted Dagenham. From there he, his young American wife, and his cockney Mum and Dad embark on a series of funny, touching, madcap and even surreal adventures as they visit celebrated landmarks and holiday spots in England—as well as a good many pubs. The result is an absolutely wonderful book, not only about going home again but also about love and family and tradition and the passage of the years.”

Couldn't ask for a better quote from a wonderful critic and author. Now one more thing: I want to thank all of you who have supported and encouraged us over the otherwise-bleak last few months--reading your comments and emails has been most wonderful and cheering, and I mean this most sincerely.
So celebrate with us! Lift a glass to A Yank Back to England, to me, and to the long-suffering Prodigal Wife!
Cheers,
Denis (a.k.a., The Prodigal Tourist)

Afternoon walk

“Been up to the church, have you?” A familiar voice jarred my musings as I walked back through the quiet village of Rattlesden. Again, it was Dave, only this time he was weeding a garden beside the pub. I stopped for a moment and watched him turn over the garden.
“So Dave, the food in the pub, you didn’t actually say before—”
“Well,” said Dave with a smile spread with irony. “He calls himself a chef, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s just a cook. But the food is not too bad.”
Well, it hadn’t been too bad at all. In fact, the Sunday cold plate had passed all expectations. Not that expectations for food in pubs ever ran that high with me. But the fact was, our “local” was very local, just a two-minute walk away. And the menu was surprisingly adventurous. So it seemed churlish not to try the place for a hot dinner. I ambled back to our little nest. I found Lew, recalled to life and back in the kitchen, making tea.

At the beach

“Did you bring Kate’s bathing costume?”
“A bathing costume?” Frances looked at me as if I were an exhibit in a museum.
“Alright, alright, but did you?”
“No,” said Frances firmly. Then she smiled. “But I did bring her swimsuit.”
In addition to my arcane bathing terminology, Frances found my family’s English beach etiquette mildly amusing. She watched as we staked out a piece of beach with deckchairs. Within short order, Mum had taken off her hat and shoes and cardigan, and begun studying racing form. Meanwhile Lew had unbuttoned his shirt, taken off his shoes and socks, and rolled up his suit trousers to his knees. I was still ripping up my jeans, trying to create shorts, as Kate rushed towards the water’s edge.

A yank back to Broadstairs, part 2

But it’s the rocks and the sand and the sea I adore the most. Perhaps I’m drawn to the edges of England because I can’t wait to get away from it all, and that’s why I love to plunge into the very salty, very cold, very uninviting grey green sea with lemming-like fervor. Maybe I like swimming away from the coast to gaze upon the undulating shoreline that crumbles gracefully, in part, like a giant piece of Wensleydale cheese. if only to better understand where I have come from and why I always swim back to it.

High Tea at the cottage

“Right, Jessie, girl, let’s eat before it gets cold,” said Lew, rubbing his gnarly hands together. It sounded like sandpaper on wood.
“Nice bit of bacon, this. Not salty. Lovely it is. Lovely,” cooed Jessie.
“I forgot the tomatoes!” I said, jumping up again.
“Shall we carry on then, son?” asked Lew.
“I see you’ve got yourself a beer, Dad,” I said, somewhat peevishly, grabbing one for myself and Frances.
Lew raised his glass to me and smiled innocently.

A quiet evening

The new hotel we had booked for our overnight stay in Windsor was replete with bow-tied French staff who were not only competent but actually liked children. As we were feeling somewhat drained, it was quite pleasant to be sequestered on a quiet suburban street, in a big old house with a well-tended garden and a big pond full of fat goldfish.
Once settled in, we did not feel like moving. Fortunately, the hotel provided a set dinner on a French theme, not exactly memorable but quite acceptable. After dinner, we strolled around the charming garden and Kate made a bee-line for the pond like a human divining rod. Thankfully, that was the only excitement in store for us that evening.

Back to Bleedin' Blighty, part 2

I gazed out of the window at the thick, snot-colored clouds that seemed to go on forever. England. It had to be England. I pulled my face into a grimy crease to speak, but the attendant was on a mission and spoke first, with authoritarian kindness.
“You’ll have to hold your baby in your lap and strap her in. I have to stow the cot.”
“How can I—?” I asked, lamely. But she was gone, mumbling something about landing soon and being back in a jif. A jif, a jiffy, the attendant was becoming a little more English, a little more quaint, the closer we got to London.
Here we go again, I thought. Another so-called vacation.

Back to Bleedin' Blighty, part 1

I was hot. I had a headache and my daughter needed to be changed. Her diaper had blown up as big as a zeppelin, only heavier, warmer. The attendant returned wearing blue plastic gloves. She grabbed my package of squelchy diaper, popped it in a bag, then wagged a blue plastic finger at me.
“I really must ask you to strap yourself in, sir.”
“Yes, alright, but—”
The plane squeaked, the sound of foam polystyrene packaging slowly being twisted and torn. I was feeling a little anxious.
”Is it supposed to sound like that, the plane?”
“Oh, what, the squeaking? I know, I know, they do that, don’t they? Everything’s made of plastic now, isn’t it?” Thinking she had reassured me, the perky attendant turned her attention to Frances before scurrying back down the gangway.
“You’ll have to strap yourself in too, madam.”
“Did you sleep?” Frances asked me kindly.
“No. I drank. Headache.”
“Twit.”

Black clouds overhead

“Look at it, look at it! Bloody weather! Typical! Typical!” I was ranting now.
Frances was looking displeased, not with the weather, rather with the black cloud that had settled about my shoulders. She told me to lift it. Lighten up. Or at least, smile sardonically. And the cloud would lift and the weather would improve. She really said that. Annoyingly, she was usually right when it came to this cloud business. But I was having none of it. I was tunneling away, deeper and deeper into the darkness of my mood. And that was that. Frances, with Kate in tow, was understandably trying to ignore me, hoping perhaps, I’d go away. But I did not go away.

In the footfalls of Oscar Wilde, part 2

We did not explore the town, but walked instead by an old wooden lock located by the river, in a separate channel. A man was maneuvering his boat into the lock. He never looked up, but he obviously knew what he was doing. He jumped to the side and, using a big paddle like a handle, shut the lock gates. Then he turned wheels and opened two sluice gates. Creamy, green water gushed from one part of the lock to the other, and his boat rose to meet another level of river. Then he reopened the gates, untied his boat, jumped back on, and put-putted away. I felt like applauding. I could not imagine myself doing such a thing. I would have panicked and, no doubt, disrupted the flow of water or disabled the lock.
Just beyond the bridge, the river widened and opened up, with an old mill on one side and the squat gorge on the other side. We enjoyed the view but had seen enough. Looking for Oscar’s old haunts seemed a bit silly now, even to me. Besides, we were all very hot and getting hungry.

In the footfalls of Oscar Wilde, part 1

Just about noon, we shot across a bridge and promptly left Goring-on-Thames, our destination. Sheepishly we turned back, gently recrossed the river, and parked near a post office. We were welcomed by a church and few houses, but not much else. At least it was not flat. Just across the bridge, we could now see the land suddenly hiccuping into a small forested gorge, providing a delightful, verdant backdrop to the slow-flowing river.
Oscar Wilde had spent a family holiday in Goring, but I could not think why. We never saw anyone, even the ubiquitous Swan Hotel on the opposite bank looked deserted. Perhaps the heat of the day had scared everyone inside. Safe to say, we were the only tourists strolling across the bridge that afternoon. The river was flowing quite well and part of the greenish water was filled with mud, like a seam of fast-flowing milk chocolate.

At Arundel Castle

The family chapel was large, like the inside of a small cathedral. The vaulted ceilings seemed cavernous. The floor and some of the columns were made of khaki-colored marble. Down the center of the chapel was a massive oriental carpet. The altar had silver vases and heavyset candlesticks. Above all this was a very narrow stained glass window, like a bejeweled bracelet in a stone setting. The rest of the chapel was also made of stone and looked like fussily carved icing, as if someone had gone overboard in a cake decorating contest.
Down more corridors and through more doorways, we eventually found a room that appeared to be shoehorned from a well-to-do suburban house into the bowels of the castle. We were in a lounge and office with working electric bar fires and a dropped ceiling. Perhaps this area was used by the family when the gawking hordes had gone.
“This must be the private parts,” said Jessie innocently.
“Not that private, Mum,” I said with a smile.

Sunday seafood teas in Dagenham, part 2

The fishman showed up regular as clockwork. A few honks of the horn was all it took to attract his regular customers. I always went out with Lew, to help him make his selection. The fishmonger’s thick cheeks, hands, and forearms were lobster-red. He always wore a floppy green jersey and a bright, starched white apron. The crustaceans were never weighed out, but rather scooped up in pint and half-pint tin mugs. Mum always requested pinky red prawns.
“Knock ‘em down,” Lew would say in his gravelly growl, and the fishmonger would reluctantly bash the tin mug on his makeshift counter, bending a sea whisker or two but allowing a little room for a few more prawns. The cockles were like very tiny clams and, along with winkles, were my favorites. Winkles, those very tiny black sea snails, were tasty but required patience and a little skill. Needles or hat pins would be distributed with saucers filled with vinegar and pepper. Using a needle, I would flip off the winkle cap then twist inside the shell and pull out a tiny crustacean. I preferred ‘winkling’ out a whole bunch at a time and making a sandwich.
“We didn’t always get prawns,” said Jessie, half remembering.
“No, WE didn’t.” Lew cast a knowing smile in my direction.

Sunday seafood teas in Dagenham, part 1

“Remember the teas we had on Sunday, Mum?”
“No, I can’t say I do,” said Jessie, tearing at a slice of bread.
“Of course you do,” scolded Lew. He went on to explain, mainly for Frances’ benefit, what afternoon Sunday tea was like.
“The fish man showed up, on Sunday. He sold prawns and winkles and cockles, welks. Never much liked welks. Mum got the prawns, I got the winkles, and Denis had the cockles. Lots of vinegar and pepper, and bread and butter. Lovely.” He grinned at the memory and I recalled it myself.
Seafood was a regular Sunday afternoon treat in Dagenham. Shrimp, tiny, tiny crustaceans, heads and tails pinched between forefinger and thumbs, a slight crunch like biting into the sea. Cockles, chewy and soft and tasting mostly of the vinegar and pepper they were dunked in. The seafood was sold from the back of a van that dripped with briny ice water and smelled of the sea.

My Nan holds court at “The Vic,” part 2

“I’ll have what she’s having,” my Nan would say, pointing. An assortment of half a dozen liqueur-type drinks would appear, which she would drain like shooters. Inebriation was never far behind, a condition feared by all the menfolk who dated her daughters. Unfortunately, curtailing Nanny’s booze intake evoked her wrath, but plying her with drinks did not abate it. For no particular reason, my Nan would focus her ire on one of her daughters’ boyfriends.
I’m sure it was the same thirty years before when Lew was courting Jessie.
“So the journey down was okay?” asked Frances, changing the subject.

My Nan holds court at “The Vic,” part 1

“Like a Tartar, Mum was,” said Jessie. “A real Tartar. When the drink was in her.”
Jessie said ‘the drink in her’ as if her mother, my grandmother, had been possessed of a spirit other than gin. And Jessie could see it as clear as clear, as though it were yesterday. I thought I could, too: an aging lady, her looks, along with husbands and lovers, all gone – but there she was, holding court in that pub, holding onto what was left. Friday night was always the big night out, because Friday was pay day and the Vic, really the Victoria Public House, was the place to go. And Nanny Evans always came along. According to Lew, my old grandmother would sit in the corner nursing a Guinness. Then, suddenly, she’d be reminded of the vicariousness of her existence and the fragile jollity of her demeanor would implode into a searing jealousy of her daughters and their boyfriends. It was their time.
“And your Nan would sit there drinking and then, for no reason, she’s start in on one of us. For no reason at all,” said Lew, to me. “And God help us when she did. All us boys were fair game.”
Then Saturday morning would roll around and, I was told, she would happily remember nothing.
“You dreaded it, but you had to take it.” Lew sounded regretful, even sympathetic. “Had a hard life though, your Nanny. They all did in those days.”

At the Beetle & Wedge, part 2

I glanced at the menu the waiter had left and nearly fell off my chair.
“That coffee is five bloody quid! Five quid!” I was almost yelling.
“Calm down,” said Frances. “It's a whole pot, and these cookies are delicious. Try one!”
I was not to be placated. “Are you going to drink it all?”
“I don’t know yet, probably not.”
“That’s what I thought!”
“There’s plenty for two. Let’s get another cup.”
“They’ll charge another fiver for that!”
I was having a rare but full-fledged cheap moment. After Frances finished a couple of cups, I polished off the rest with the cream. I was not about to leave anything. Frances divided the rest of the pastries between me and Kate, who was just back from flirting with the bartender.
“These are delicious! And don’t say they ought to be. Just enjoy them, and relax.”
“Relax!”
“Yes.”
“Probably want a bloody tip as well,” I mumbled.
“Don’t worry about the tip,” said Frances expansively. “I’m sure it's included.”