The Authentic London Experience
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“Before we go to Buckingham Palace, we have to get some of those mince pies.”
“Ugh, do we have to?”
“Yes! We’re in London at Christmas. It’s, like, compulsory to try traditional British mince pies when you’re in London at this time of year.”
“Fine. But they sound gross. Who puts meat in sweet pies? Only the Brits.”
“They don’t have meat in them. The mincemeat is just fruit and stuff.”
“Really? So why do they call it mincemeat?”
“Beats me. They’re kind of weird over here. Look at that — ‘Freshly Baked Mince Pies’ — it’s, literally, a sign! I guess we’ll head into that café to try some.”
The café is dim and grimy and void of customers, but that doesn’t stop the American tourists. It’s all part of the authentic London experience, or so they think.
“You here for the pies?” calls the woman behind the counter as she wiped her hands on her apron and leaves behind sticky brown smears.
“Yes,” says one of the tourists. “And we’ll have two cups of tea.”
The woman nods and sets to work, clattering plates and cups and saucers and teapots along the way. A few minutes later she plonks the order down on the table without flourish.
The pies look enticing enough. They have flaky, golden-brown pastry shells and are dusted with icing sugar. The mincemeat filling has bubbled up during baking and is oozing through the pastry seams, releasing the aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon.
With only the slightest hint of hesitation, the tourists chomp on the pies and their faces light up. It’s interesting. It’s confusing. It’s tasty. But it’s… it’s…
“It’s meatier than I expected.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Are you sure there isn’t any meat in them?”
“I think so but… Hey, excuse me, miss?”
The woman in the grubby apron looks up from behind the counter. “Something wrong?”
“No. We were just wondering — is this authentic mincemeat?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Is it just fruit and spices in the pies?”
“Fruit and…? Oh, hang on a minute.” The woman emerges from behind the counter and marches across the café and out into the street.
The tourists watch her as she peers at the café window and her face transforms into a scowl. With a swift about turn she struts back inside.
“Jim!” she shrieks. “You did it again, you tosser.”
Muffled shouting comes from somewhere in the back.
“One more time and you’re sacked!”
The Americans shuffle in their seats, uncomfortable.
“Sorry about that,” the woman says. “Jim and his bloody typos. It’s not the first time — I knew I shouldn’t trust him with signwriting again, not after the trouble we got in last time with the Lemon Eel Puddings.”
“Okay… so, I’m sorry, is there meat in the mince pies?”
“There is. Because they’re mice pies, y’see. Very popular, they are. But adding that extra N really is misleading, isn’t it? ‘Specially this time of year with Christmas and all. Tell you what, I’ll give you two more, on the house, as an apology. How’s that sound?”
