Two and a half years ago, Paul and I flew to London, rented a car and drove around Wales for about a week, during which we somehow got into the habit of pausing each afternoon for scones with jam and clotted cream.
By the end of the trip we could hardly fit into our clothes.
But before we started in on all the scones Wales had to offer, we stopped to pick up lunch from Yotam Ottolenghi’s eponymously-named take out joint in Notting Hill.
This was one of those food excursions that I had been looking forward to for months and which Paul had been not-so-secretly hoping I would forget about so that we could head on our way without a detour.
But I didn’t forget, and after a minor parking fiasco we ended up at the tiny counter, picking out an array of colorful salads and other treats, both sweet and savory, which we savored at a nondescript rest stop somewhere along the way….
