I was in Myers of Keswick, the beloved English food provisions place on Hudson Street, today to pick up a delectable Pork and Stilton meat pie (really, really good—trust me). The place was filled with Limeys, chatting ad nauseum about soccer or rugby or cricket or some such stuff. Lots of pale, pinky complexions. Not a Yank in sight. Could have been a corner shop anywhere in Blighty.
I waited patiently while a old guy regaled the counter boy with some unending yarn. He wasn't buying anything; just gabbing. The counter boy finally caught my eye, causing the large-beaked, balding, bespectacled elder to turn and look at me. "American!" he spat out, with what seemed like real disgust. "Took our country! Took our culture! Took our language!" I looked for a twinkle in his eye, for the corner of his mouth to turn up, indicating he was having me on. Nope.
"That's right," I replied, with a smile. "And we're not going to give 'em back."
The met pie was super yum. I'm not giving that back either.