I’m not a homesick Brit, but I’ve read enough English novels, both historical and contemporary, to feel like I could be one. There’s probably a German word to explain the feeling of nostalgia for things you’ve only read about but never experienced in real life, and I felt a wave of this the first time I went to Spencer’s Jolly Posh, when the cafe was still in its original location on Irving Park Road. It was the middle of the winter of the 2014 polar vortex, and the sight of bacon sandwiches on the menu, and sausage rolls, and scones served with real clotted cream cheered me up considerably. It was like stumbling into a real-life version of a meal served to a hungry British orphan or a hobbit. The shelves of imported British groceries—digestive biscuits and crisps and Maltesers and spotted dick and, naturally, tea—were equally enchanting.
The quality of the dishes also varies widely. There’s a very flavorful braised and roasted chicken with a crisp skin, moist interior, and a nice peppery kick. But there’s also a sad and dry duck confit served with baked beans that I think were supposed to serve as a contrast to the fattiness of the meat but instead added some necessary moisture. There’s a delightfully tangy and acidic crudo, served in an adorable little jar with a toggle lid, but the aforementioned potato skins crossed the line between well done and slightly charred. At brunch, I had a bowl of vanilla-bean Greek yogurt with granola and honey that was so good I vowed to figure out how to prepare it at home so I could eat it every day. But I also had a duck scramble with soggy potatoes and almost no egg.
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