Accent-uate the positive

A flash of an English accent results in ears perking up all over the place here in the Big Apple. With some great results. There are the free drinks from the Starbucks around the corner (don’t tell the manager, but the baristas are suckers for a bit of British). There are the lengthy conversations with strangers whose second cousin thrice removed once lived in London, though no one is entirely sure where – there was a pub on the corner, though, if that helps. But most of all when people hear you speaking Betty Britain’s language, it prompts them to talk to you out of the blue (or the red, white and blue) – and suddenly the city is a friendlier place.

When I point out that back home we don’t actually reside in the great city of black taxis and Union Jacks, that in fact we now live about thirty miles north-west of London, in a pretty village with fields and sheep and a tennis club and – oh, pride – a cricket club on the village green, their eyes glaze over. Everyone knows something about London – they are excited that the Queen is guarded by some dapper guys with huge furry affairs on their heads who are forbidden to smile; they know there are strange-shaped buildings named after vegetables – but beyond the end of the Northern Line, what happens there?

#6, the only one of our offspring who lives here with us in Manhattan (the rest having scooted off to that big scary land called Adulthood where everyone parties all night long and no one has any money left by the end of the month), is embracing her Britishness on a need-to-use basis. She is full-on English at home (I could almost have sworn she said ‘Oh drat’ the other day when she dropped a cereal bowl and decorated the kitchen floor with a very avant garde arrangement of Cheerios and 2%) – and positively American at school (though I have yet to hear her describe anything as ‘swell’). Until she wants to be noticed, and then it is all the vocal equivalent of tea and scones and cucumber sandwiches.

I tell people with great pride that our daughter is bilingual. She simply offers up a sigh of despair at her embarrassing mother and asks where her sneakers (trainers) have got to.

However, a word of caution. One thing we Brits do not take kindly to is the question, Are you from Australia? I don’t know why, because I know lots of lovely Australians (well, a couple anyway), but somehow I always feel most affronted at being mistaken for an Aussie. There’s only one thing worse: being mistaken for a northerner.

Inspiration struck today at ... Gotan, Franklin Street, Tribeca

I have been meaning to visit this place for a while as it looks so cool, perched at the meeting point of several streets downtown. So I’m afraid to say I was left with a nagging feeling of disappointment.
Pros: You can sit and chat incessantly with your friend for two hours and frankly my dear, no one gives a damn.

Cons: The coffee comes in one size only, is tepid and leaves something to be desired taste-wise. Sorry, ultra-trendy baristas of the older variety, you haven’t quite got it right.