You don't make friends with Salad in London

It occurred to me over a lunch date a couple of weeks back, that despite this being my 13th month here, I have only encountered one palatable salad.

The Talbot in Islington treated me to a delightful Waldorf salad, my taste buds savouring the rarity of such a dish until well after the last morsel was swallowed.

In England, salad tends to translate to 'plate of lettuce drenched in salad cream'.

I think this can be explained by the UK's general inability to grow it's on fresh fruits and vegetables.

This doesn't explain my most awful salad experience to date though.

At The Light Bar in Shoreditch, I ordered a rocket, tomato and haloumi salad. What I got instead more closely resembled my mortal enemy the ceaser salad and actually contained 13 sardines (yes, I counted them).

After some fuss they agreed to bring out the salad I'd ordered. However they actully brought out the same salad, minus the anchovies; haloumi added. Anchovies have a nasty way of infiltrating the senses when you're someone who does not appreciate them.

Vomit.

Luckily I had wonderful company and a kopparberg mixed fruit cider to soften the blow.

I now resolve to attempt no further salad consumption until I return home or land in the Mediterranean; whichever comes first.

Fresh Australian fruit juices and our vast array of fresh produce are both something my body craves and misses often.