When I heard I was going to live in Oxford for two years I was prepared for a diet of sausages, fried fish with chips (fries), and buttery potato dishes. And to wash down this heart-stopping and hip-expanding diet, we’d have a choice of warm beer or Earl Gray tea. But as the days of perfect weather continue to surprise me, so does the varied cuisine I find down quaint alleys, behind unassuming doors, and waiting on back cobblestone streets.
After more than 15 years in the hierarchy of the chef community I have become a ruthless food critic. Taste, presentation, sanitation, and service, you name it, I’ve been trained by the best and I’ve honed my skills quietly and without fanfare. From cheeseburgers to foie gras, great chefs have trained me to love it all.
Within a few steps from the cliché pubs that cater to tourists looking for an English experience, there are unremarkable storefronts hiding remarkable food. The prices of these family owned eateries can range from incredibly low to reasonably high but the taste, sanitation, service, and presentation have yet to let me down.
A good example is Little Clarendon, a small side street hiding between two restaurants with giant signs announcing ‘best food in Oxford’. If you dodge the bicycles and bustling students, you’ll find French, Italian, Japanese, and Lebanese restaurants along with the most amazing old world bakery. Each storefront was unmemorable until I tasted the food. Walking into Elham’s Lebanese deli, I was shocked by the stark interior but when I tried a plate overflowing with Mama’s cooking, I could taste the tradition going back generations; every herb, each spice, perfectly in balance. I can’t tell you how to pronounce anything beyond hummus, but Mama Elham uses only fresh ingredients seasoned perfectly, garnished carefully, and this is the cleanest restaurant you’ll ever find.
This weekend we stumbled on a few farmers’ markets, bursting with fruits and vegetables. We were remaking that it could have been anytown USA, until we found Brockleby’s Pies. These looked like simple pot pies but we were told they were “authentic Melton Mawbray’s Pies” which means they were baked in a specific geographic region of the UK. Yes, we were standing in the presence of the champagne of pot pies. As we walked down the unending line of pies, we read the names and marveled and the simple ingredients: Chicken pie, contained chicken and cream; beef pie contained beef, potatoes, sauce, and so forth. Then we came upon wild deer pie, salmon pie, beaver pie, and finally penguin pie. As we stared in disbelief and wondered about the fate of the penguins, the gentleman behind the table suggested the penguin could be frozen. Having no freezer, we declined to purchase any pies this week. We left the penguin pies behind, the irony of freezing penguin not lost on us. As we walked away the pie-keeper shouted, “Join the pie club and we can pop the penguins off to you?”.
