Thanksgivings Past

Today is marks my 6th Thanksgiving in London and each year I can’t help but to let my mind wander back to that first year. This is the untold story of my Thanksgiving past …

The weather had turned colder and we’d even received a few snow flurries early in the year. My flat was cold. The windows were loose, which caused them to welcome the breeze to flow through the small, one-bed flat. I was homesick. This wasn’t my first thanksgiving away from home, but somehow the realization that I wouldn’t be observing the holiday had really put me in a somber mood. I’d only been in London about two and a half months at that point and only knew two other Americans living in the city. In 2010, celebrating Thanksgiving in London was a fairly foreign concept (much like good BBQ). In the past six years the Brits have jumped on the American Tradition bandwagon and finding places to eat (or rare pumpkin ingredients) in the city is a lot more common now. However, in 2010, The Breakfast Club were the only restaurants offering a Thanksgiving Day meal.

We managed to talk, beg and plead our way into a last minute booking at the Angel location. The manager must have tired of the three of us calling every hour to ask if there had been cancellations because he finally promised to squeeze in another table to fit us. While many of my friends tell me tails of very boozy Thanksgiving days, my family has never followed that tradition. However, when I read online that the Soho restaurant was BOYB (Bring Your Own Bottle) I decided there was no harm is changing it up a bit. Plus, maybe a cheeky glass of red is just what we all needed to kill the homesick buzz. We all separately made our way to the restaurant (with an additional British friend also in tow) to discover I wasn’t the only one who had read about the BYOB option and thought it was a good idea to grab a bottle for the table. So we arrived, each with our bottles of wine, to be told the Angel location doesn’t offer a BYOB option. We each ordered a glass of red instead.

Now, I hate turkey. I’ve never enjoyed turkey and this isn’t just some legacy thing where I didn’t like it as a kid and as an adult I might. I have tried. I have tried hard, especially in the last month, to learn to like it but the fact remains; I hate turkey. Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday, but not because of the traditional sides. I like to skip the veggies, stuffing and cranberry sauces and go straight to the items typically made by my family just for me. This includes baked honey ham and mac and cheese. Yes, I know I’m spoiled and I’m okay with that. The Angel menu offered two options; a traditional turkey dinner or Mac and Cheese. I ordered the Mac and Cheese, while the others went traditional.

We sipped our wines and talked about our family traditions, things we found strange about the British culture and all things American. Our British friend laughed and joked at all the weird things we ate and expressed her excitement in experiencing her first Thanksgiving. We kept sipping our wine and chatting. I remarked that my large wine seemed bottomless and then the food was served.

The traditional plates were piled high with many layers of goodness. The other three seemed well pleased with their choices and started to dig in. Then there was my plate. There sat a single cheese and pasta square, about three inches high and four inches wide. It didn’t move. It was hard … as a rock. Okay, okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, but not by much. I could only stick my fork through it about half way and I could pick it up in one swoop and wave it around. We died laughing! Our British friend asked “What is it supposed to be like?” “Not like this!” we managed through the grasps for air.

I washed a few bites down with my never ending glass of wine and enjoyed the others company while I pushed my food around my plate. The waitress came to clear the table with a wink and commented “Wow, you all have really milked those glasses of wine. Don’t worry, I won’t tell!” The lone male in the group turned a bit red and said “You noticed, huh?” She smiled and carried the plates away.

“Noticed what? What did you do?”

“I’ve been refilling our wine glasses until the table with our bottles of wine”

“No way! How did I miss that? How much have we drunk?”

“Probably about 3 bottles of wine”

“BETWEEN THE FOUR OF US?!”

“Oh, don’t worry. We had a big meal!”

The drink hit me when I stood up. I hadn’t finished the full traditional spread and the unknown number of glasses definitely did a number on me. We headed to the tube giggling about how naughty he was and how lucky we were the waitress let it slide. The tube was a bad idea. The jerking and shaking made my stomach twist and turn and all that wine started to tell my brain it wanted out. Stuck on a moving train I started to gag. “No! No! No! I told my body. You can’t do this to me!” Swallow. Swallow. We were the only people in that carriage car so my friend suggested maybe I could push my lips between the cracks of the door of the tube, throw up and no one would ever know the difference. It seemed like a good idea to me so I tried. It wasn’t a good idea. No, it was an awful idea. The smell of sick filled the car as we screeched a stop at the next station.

“Let’s move to the next carriage,” my friend suggested as people started to pile onto the tube, stepping over my sick.

Embarrassed and ashamed, we swore to never speak of the incident again. It was a foreign land, a homesick holiday and a memory to write off in the books. As the years have passed and I’ve found my footing here in London, my feelings toward this first Thanksgiving have changed. I can now laugh about the “unspeakable" and still feel a bit ashamed. However, now each year I grow more and more thankful for the life I have created in this wonderful city. Today I will enjoy a home-cooked meal with ham; mac and cheese (and the traditional spread as well) with my closest friend from all over the world who have become family.

Happy Thanksgiving from this London Family!