Strangely, it is not the Golden Gate, not even Boudin’s sourdough bread or clam chowder on the pier that’s on my mind as the plane touches down on the tarmac in San Francisco. Instead, all I am thinking of is, well, weirdly enough, scones!
At Heathrow’s Galleries lounge, where I have stayed firmly put — skipping London’s summer rush, for almost half a day’s worth of doing nothing but gorge on champagne, WiFi, food and the British press — the highlight has been a high tea of sorts in true Brit style. The scones have stolen the show — warm, buttery, with real clotted cream; not the flaky glazed kind that have been fashionable the world over for a while now. The treat has been repeated at 30,000 feet on the BA flight, and despite a dry mouth and a palate unable to taste very much besides Tattinger, I have found the carb comfort so, literally, heady that I can’t get the memory out of my mind.