Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Rules Rules
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
When I am in London, nothing can deter my pursuit of dining debaucheries. Three times a day, I am never without an answer to Shakespeare’s warmed-over, and always relevant, question for the ages: to eat or not to eat.
My paunched stomach is in spiritual step with George Bernard Shaw: “There is no sincerer love than the love of food.” I am the functional, gastronomic embodiment of Jane Austen: “One cannot have too large a meal.”
I inherited my dad’s Falstaffian rotundity without inheriting his self-discipline. The result is delusional dieting.
Breakfast, I once read, is the most important meal of the day. I start my day with a full English breakfast. Two eggs, bacon, grilled tomatoes, fried mushrooms, fried bread, baked beans, bangers and blood pudding. Coffee, of course.
Lunch most often, too often, means a stop at one of my preferred London pubs. In a genteel 18th Century dining room, I like to think I’m sitting in the exact chair where Charles Dickens once sat.
Quaffing an aromatic ale on tap, I order a luncheon plate heaped high with battered, flaky, tender cod, with chips, with a side of mushy peas. For color, a garnish sprig of mint. Tartar sauce. Dark malt vinegar.
Over the course of many waistline and wardrobe re-measurements, I’ve established that the best dinner place in London for breaking my dietary rules is, inappropriately enough, Rules restaurant in Covent Garden.
Since the 18th century Rules restaurant has been filling empty abdominal cavities. It serves classic British cuisine in a foodie fantasyland unruffled by concerns about culinary scarcity. Eighteen thousand “feathered and furred” entrees, the most in all of Britain, are served annually.
Rules was established in 1798, the same year the British Royal Navy defeated the French in the Battle of the Nile. Ever since, driven by spite, the French have sneered at British cooking—a slam that is entirely unfair. At Rules, I set out to prove my point.
From habit I settle into a red-cushioned, plush booth to await a waiter who, as his other duties permit, slowly gets around to noticing my table. Panting with impatient anticipation, I am like a game bird ready to be stuffed. And when the bill arrives, plucked.
First, a frothy, dark Guinness in a frosty, silver tankard beckons. Then, a dozen oysters escorted by a tangy, crystalline mignonette. Then, medium-rare, pinkish prime rib on the bone glistens in its own juices. Yorkshire pudding. Yellowy truffle macaroni. Roasted green squash. Browned-in-butter cauliflower. Gravy and horseradish are mandatory. For dessert, sticky toffee pudding.
Walking towards my hotel in the Bloomsbury neighborhood, my love handles sway like two oil lamps on a horse-drawn royal carriage. My steps are measured, careful. No fast movements, I tell myself. Nothing that might gurgitate my digestion towards indigestion.
I stagger into a haberdashery selling leather belts. I leave outfitted with a belt one size larger.
