Commander's gives you bread pudding and a hat on your birthday!
A few years ago, we splurged and went to Commander's Palace for Mr. G.'s birthday. They sat us in the garden room (which I always call the jungle room) overlooking ancient oak trees and they fed us bread pudding.
That bread pudding sparked a memory and created confusion all at once.
Granny Hebert (my mom's mom) used to make bread pudding. I can remember her kitchen down to the brown side-by-side refrigerator, the zillion cans of soup in the pantry (she grew up in the Depression) and the salt and pepper shaker collection. But I cannot remember how she made that bread pudding.
I don't think the woman ever wrote down a recipe in her life. And I don't remember any cookbooks among the romance books she favored. So she probably kept the recipe in her head.
Granny Hebert made the best bread pudding.
Since Granny's death, I've looked at bread pudding recipes in puzzlement. None of them sparked even a vague memory. They just didn't seem right.
Then I tasted Commander's bread pudding, and a bell rang.
Commander's recipe is widely available on the internet. It's a complicated dish involving tons of eggs. I can't imagine Granny would've used a dozen eggs in a single recipe. She was a widow living on a very fixed income, and she didn't raise chickens.
So I asked the family for help.
My mother correctly pointed out that my Nanny (Granny's oldest daughter) would know the recipe. Sadly, Nanny is no longer with us.
My aunt said she didn't know the recipe.
They're a lot of help.
Finally, my cousin - who was Nanny's youngest daughter - offered the most helpful tips. She remembered some of the ingredients and that it had a meringue.
That's what was different about Granny's bread pudding. A lot of times, the bread pudding you get in a restaurant is a gooey dish of bread, fruit and milk. Granny's bread pudding - like Commander's - had a meringue on top. And it never had raisins.
I found this recipe on the internet, and it feels right. This is the poor Cajun's bread pudding (no offense to Commander's). No French bread. Certainly, no dozen eggs.
Give it a whirl:
Ingredients
4 slices of white bread
4 tbsp sugar
3 1/2 cup milk
4 eggs, separated
1 tbsp vanilla extract
pinch of salt
1/2 stick butter
raisins, optional
Directions
Break bread into an oven-safe dish. Soften the bread with small amounts of milk.
Beat the sugar and egg yolks together in a separate bowl. Add the remaining milk and stir well.
Then add vanilla and salt and pour the milk mixture over the bread. Add the raisins. Cut the stick of butter into chunks and mix in.
Place the dish in a pan of water inside of the oven and bake at 300 degrees for 40-50 minutes or until a toothpick or knife comes out clean.
For a meringue topping, add 2 level tablespoons of sugar a pinch of cream of tartar to each egg white and beat. Spread on top and bake at 350 degrees until the meringue is golden brown. Serve warm.
York is seriously beautiful with river views, pubs, a cathedral and a coffee shop set inside the ancient city walls.
It's been a few years since we visited England, and I never finished blogging about it. Lately, I've been watching the BBC series "North and South," which is set in the fictional Milton but makes me think of York.
Ah, York. Lovely, beautiful York. London is great, but York is something else.
For a newspaper reporter and a former newspaper reporter, this was an exciting sight. Alas, it no longer houses a newspaper. But how cool is this building? It overlooks the river in York.
We walked this city (city centre at least), crossing the river multiple times across the many bridges, climbed the city walls, explored the area's chocolate history, found a favorite coffee shop, got lost in Marks and Spencer, took a ghost tour, waved at William and Kate, sampled the worst pie ever, wandered crooked streets centuries old and crashed a wedding. We also found time to venture by bus into the countryside where we rumbled past the ruins of Richard III's castle and squeezed through a wall in a bus packed with Japanese tourists to gape at the stateliest of homes.
So get ye to York if you have the time. And buy me a house there.
Harry Potter is alive and well in York. Seriously, there are wanted posters for him along the crooked streets that supposedly inspired Diagon Alley.
York is dripping in history.
For the Romans, York was Eboracum. The Romans turned York/Eboracum from a sleepy meadow into a city. We met some of the people who populated Eboracum at the Yorkshire Museum. They included this guy:
Constantius was York's forgotten emperor. You probably are more familiar with his son: Constantine the Great.
Near the museum are the ruins of an abbey. As someone once wrote: "Here we must leave the venerable pile in the evening of its glory." The ruins are pretty glorious. This was one of the wealthiest monasteries in England. It started tumbling down in the 1530s, when Henry VIII decided to get a divorce and started dismantling the Catholic Church's wealth and influence.
Remains of the Day: St. Mary's in York.
The Tudor influence still is felt in York.
From history, we moved to chocolate. Yum! York easily could be home to Willy Wonka. There's a lot to do in York. We couldn't do it all. So I rattled off a list of options to Glenn. He picked the chocolate museum. This was one of our favorite things in York. The Quakers brought chocolate to York. They thought it was better for them than alcohol. The River Ouse also helped since it provided a convenient means of transporting chocolate to the rest of the world. York brought you KitKat bars and those chocolate oranges you open with a whack at Christmas.
We learned all of this at the chocolate museum. And we got to make chocolate lollies (lollipops).
Our chocolate lollipops!
After our chocolate lesson, we wandered through York and got turned around. We looked up and found ourselves at the bottom of a steep hill topped by a castle tower. Somehow, we'd stumbled across Clifford's Tower. I imagine many a Yorkshire school child has rolled down that hill.
This tower was built by Henry III. The king and queen were supposed to stay here when they visited York. However, they rarely ventured that far north so the tower became a place to store valuables.
As you can imagine, the view from atop this tower is spectacular.
The view from Clifford's Tower.
From Clifford's Tower, we decided to walk the city walls. York City Centre is encased by ancient walls. In fact, the city boasts more intact walls than any other city in England. Fun fact: the gateways in the walls are called bars. These are where the good people of York used to put the severed heads of traitors on pikes. You know, as a warning. Glenn found a Yorkshire tap room near one of the bars. A bar near a bar.
We devoted nearly an entire day of our trip to York to a side trip to Castle Howard. I read about Castle Howard eons ago and always wanted to visit it. Turns out, you can hop on a city bus from York and eventually end up at Castle Howard.
The hotel desk clerk warned us it would be a boring ride through the country. As if! I was fascinated by a glimpse at life outside the City Centre: Stops at a massive strip mall where we collected passengers who got on with their shopping bags and departed at little villages.
Then we rolled past this:
This, my friends, was built when King Stephen was on the throne. Guess who slept here? Richard III. It was long thought that Richard's only legitimate son was buried in Sheriff Hutton, where this castle is located. That's been disproven.
Yep. Nothing interesting to see on that bus ride!
Finally, we arrived at Castle Howard, famous as the setting for "Brideshead Revisited." It's a house that makes you think of governesses and the moors and "Downton Abbey." We really wanted to move in. Bailey would have so much room to roam!
Castle Howard
There's recently been a dustup within the Howard family. The brother who'd been running the estate for decades was evicted in favor of an elder brother who previously chose not to take on the white elephant.
I didn't hear any family gossip on the tour. Instead, I encountered a lovely tour guide who once lived in Florida and attended exercise class with Burt Reynolds' blonde girlfriend. So much for butlers and governesses.
The other day, I bought a block of Velveeta. I don't know what I was thinking either.
Actually, that's a lie. I know exactly what I was thinking.
My husband loves mac and cheese. While pushing my cart through the grocery store, I spotted the Velveeta and - in that haze of dubious recipe shortcuts that always seizes me at the grocery store - I picked up a box. The grocery gods convinced me it would melt beautifully and create glorious mac and cheese with ease.
Sanity quickly prevailed, and that heavy box of Velveeta stared at me every time I opened the fridge until I finally decided enough was enough. I opened the cardboard box, tore into the wrapper and looked at my block of cheese. It was the color of a traffic cone and very rubbery in texture. Could it actually be a traffic cone fashioned into a rectangle?
I was further dismayed when I read the instructions. I only needed a chunk of the stuff. That meant I had - oh, I don't know - 50 more chunks until it was gone.
Then I melted the Velveeta and discovered it really should only be used with Rotel to make dip. It does not make very good mac and cheese. There were complaints from the peanut gallery.
I kept the remainder of that huge block in the fridge for weeks. At various times, I contemplated Googling for Velveeta recipes or offering it to a neighbor with many kids (because kids will eat anything). Finally, reluctantly, I threw it in the garbage. It hurt. I hate waste. But I couldn't force the stuff on Mr. G. Milk products don't agree with me so it's not like I could even take one for the team on this one. Into the bin it went.
Now I'm back to making Granny's cheese sauce when Mr. G. wants mac and cheese.
For the record, I don't recall Granny ever making cheese sauce. I remember her spaghetti with the canned mushrooms in the sauce, her burnt meatloaf (it was delicious) and her bread pudding. But my mother insists the family cheese sauce recipe came from Granny.
To make it, you melt butter and add flour. Then you stir in milk (and dry mustard for some reason) and stir until the sauce thickens. Cheese comes next. It's gloopy, oopy and decidedly not Velveeta. Maybe I could package it and sell it as Cheese Sauce That Doesn't Suck.
Tonight, I tried to get Mr. G. to watch a show about Shreveport restaurants with me. He refused. The reason: "A Very Brady Christmas" was on in the back.
Don't worry too much about him. He got caught up in the nostalgia of seeing the Brady family once again. He later emerged from the bedroom with the sad news that the Brady Christmas movie was really lame.
I could have told him that as I feel that I've watched every Christmas movie ever made. I LOVE CHRISTMAS MOVIES! I watched a really sad one recently starring Jason Robards. I had to watch a few cheery movies to make up for it.
It got me to thinking, though, about the silly things we watch every year. Part of the fun of Christmas is just sitting on the couch watching Christmas favorites. I love the ones from my childhood. All my life, I'll remember watching "A Christmas Story" with my mom, dad and sister and reveling in the humor of it.
Here are a few of my favorites. Make up your own mind about "A Very Brady Christmas" (but don't say we didn't warn you):
BELLS OF ST. MARY'S
Hands down, this is my favorite Christmas movie. It even edges out "It's A Wonderful Life." Everything about this movie is great, but I really love the Christmas pageant in which the kids make up their own script.
IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE
I'm pretty fond of Jimmy Stewart so - of course - I watch this every year. Some years, we're lucky enough to catch it on the big screen. It makes me want to buy an old house and fix it up. Did you know, by the way, that Richard Nixon built the White House press room over a swimming pool? The joke later became that they needed to add a trap door for troublesome reporters. That story reminds me of a famous scene in this movie.
HOW THE GRINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS
I love Ron Howard. I have no love for Jim Carrey. I'm able to stomach him as the Grinch because of the makeup. Plus, I like immersing myself in a Hollywood-extravaganza Whoville. And I kind of love it that the little girl can't sing.
FROSTY THE SNOWMAN
This transports me back to childhood. Skip the sequel. It's awful.
RUDOLPH
To this day, I don't understand what's so bad about wanting to be a dentist. That weak plot point aside, how can you not love the Island of Misfit Toys? I think that scene resonated with me. Recently, I was at Dirt Cheap, where I bought a little Thanksgiving owl who was missing a leg. I proudly put him on my mantle and gave him a back story. He lost the leg in the war. No Island of Misfit Toys for him!
TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
The mice in this movie live in the walls, but they wear clothes and sleep in really comfy beds. It's kind of like "The Borrowers." The entire town has to work together when a Scrooge in the bunch publishes a letter in the newspaper questioning Santa's existence. Watch it and I defy you to get the clock song out of your head.
A CHRISTMAS STORY
If I don't watch this every year, I feel like it wouldn't be Christmas. Glenn sat down and watched it with me this year. You should have heard his laughter. This is such a well written movie with sly narration. It's a classic even if - like me - you secretly worry about children shooting their eyes out.
ELF
Will Ferrell in tights. Enough said. Oh, and SANTA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
THE HOLIDAY
Every Thanksgiving, I give thanks for Nancy Meyers. OK, not really, but I should. The great thing about Nancy Meyers' films is that you get an interesting plot and a fabulous house. This movie, has two fabulous houses - one of which is a cozy cottage in the snowy, English countryside.
LOVE ACTUALLY
I could've done without the porn storyline, especially since I watched this with my mother the first time I saw it. But I break into a smile every time at the recording studio scene that opens the movie. Also, the wedding scene, the first lobster, Hugh Grant dancing, etc., etc., etc.
CHRISTMAS IN CONNECTICUT
Oh, Barbara Stanwyck. How could you make up a husband and kids and a house in Connecticut for a newspaper column? Also, does anyone actually flip pancakes like that?
HOLIDAY AFFAIR
Wait, Robert Mitchum and Janet Leigh made a Christmas movie? They did! It's not particularly memorable, but it's cute.
CHRISTMAS CAROL
There are a million versions of this classic. One even stars the horrible Jim Carrey. I love the 1951 version. It's the only one for me, with one notable exception.
A MUPPET CHRISTMAS CAROL
I can't explain it. I love everything about this movie, even the meeses. How can you not love Michael Caine singing through the streets of London? Or muppets in Dickens-era costumes?
A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS
I don't watch this one every year. It depresses me a bit for some reason. However, Linus' speech is killer.
REMEMBER THE NIGHT
I discovered this last year while trying to find something new. It stars Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray. Barbara is a criminal. Fred is an attorney. Fred takes pity on Barbara and takes her home to his mother and aunt for Christmas. It's really quite good.
BACHELOR MOTHER
I watch this every New Year's Day, but it's set at Christmastime. Ginger Rogers plays a shopgirl who gets mistaken for the mother of an abandoned baby. She politely insists the baby isn't hers. The store - which plans to lay her off after the holidays - surprises her with a Christmas present that turns out to be the baby she had to give up because of her uncertain employment. Trust me: It's funny. Haha.
Every year at Thanksgiving, I head to the grocery store for oysters and chicken livers. This isn't a combo I'd normally put in my cart, but it's necessary to assemble my Granny's oyster dressing.
Don't get me wrong. I must have cornbread dressing, turkey, a roll and cranberry sauce once a year or I sink into a deep depression. But I also must have oyster dressing. It must be that bit of Cajun in me.
I'm the first to admit that oyster dressing isn't for everyone. It has a strong taste, but I love it. I tote it to every Thanksgiving gathering and brace myself for no one but me spooning a portion onto a plate. My mother only makes it when I come home for the holidays, because we're the only two in the family who eat it. What is everyone's problem? We need more converts!
I don't actually recall my grandmother ever making this dressing. What I recall is my mother making it because it was her mother's recipe. Regardless of whose recipe it is, it's become my holiday tradition.
Rice is also an integral part of the recipe. Here's a fun fact about me: I make terrible rice. My rice is always mushy. Even a rice cooker doesn't seem to help matters. Don't you want to sample my rice dressing?
This year, I thought about skipping the oyster dressing. I got sick - as I've mentioned a million times - and I thought about skipping Thanksgiving entirely. That thought depressed me, especially since I was supposed to spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents. Who knows how many more Thanksgivings we'll have together? 20? 30? (Thanks, Sophia).
So I dragged myself to the grocery store the day before Thanksgiving. The parking lot looked like Walmart as the clock ticks down to Black Friday. Insanity. After crying a little about the price of oysters and having a long thought in the produce section about where Granny procured her oysters, I went in search of chicken livers and came up empty.
Finally - after scouring the meat section for the 10th time and directing the umpteenth person to the turkeys (they were hiding) - I asked the butcher, who sent me to the freezer section. There, amongst the Eggos and the Cool Whip, I found the secret room of the grocery store where they hide the weird animal parts. Included in there were my chicken livers.
Finally, back home, I assembled my mushy rice, oysters, chicken livers, etc. and threw them into the fridge for the next day. Mr. G. came into the kitchen and immediately fled to the living room. He hates my oyster dressing.
At Thanksgiving, I set my dressing next to a similar looking dressing. See! It's not just me. Other people make rice dressing. Then I sat near the table and directed everyone to my dressing. Just kidding!
As always, there was plenty of leftover oyster dressing to take home. No worries. More for me!
Then Mr. G. surprised me.
Mr. G.: "Hey, make sure to get some of that dressing to take home."
Me: "You mean my oyster dressing?"
Mr. G.: "Uh, no. That other dressing. That was really good. It had hamburger meat in it like rice dressing is supposed to be made."
Haworth is just unbelievably beautiful ... and it's Bronte country!
One of my lifelong dreams was to visit where the Bronte sisters lived and died (for the most part; Anne died at the seaside). So when I headed to London with Mr. G. last summer, I worked out how to reach Haworth - AKA Bronte Country - in north England. Then I told Mr. G. it was very convenient to London (it's not) and would be absolutely no trouble to reach (it's not) and that we would stay overnight in an actual pub (winner winner, chicken dinner).
This is where Mr. G. is just an absolutely wonderful sport (and a big part of the reason I love him). He's never read a Bronte novel in his life. But I told him that we would stay in an actual pub and see the moors, and he was in. Then he so immersed himself in the outing that he developed an intense dislike of poor Branwell Bronte.
From the hustle and bustle of London, we were off to the English countryside.
Our journey started at King's Cross, where we felt very much like Harry Potter. Alas, the trains are sleek and modern - in other words, nothing like the quaint individual compartments of Harry Potter. I booked the evening train so we could squeeze as much out of London as possible during the day before heading north for the final leg of our visit. However, we had enough sunlight to see a glorious rainbow. It was a sign. We quite enjoyed Yorkshire. It was relaxed and friendly compared to the congestion and sophistication of London. In other words, it was much more our speed.
We got to Leeds, turned the wrong way on the platform and were turned around in the right direction by a friendly train attendant with a Scottish accent so thick that we just squinted at her in confusion. Finally, we caught the Keighley train (far smaller and less posh than the previous train) and found a taxi to Haworth. It was very much an adventure.
By the way, Keighley is pronounced Keith-lee. Haworth is Ho-worth.
In my mind, the Brontes lived in a lonely parsonage on the wind-swept moors. They, in fact, lived in a tiny town. They were villagers, not rural farmers. The parsonage is just back of the main drag with a lovely view of the graveyard. Death was very present in the lives of the Brontes.
We were quite comfortable at The Old White Lion. It has a bar and a lounge right out of "Fawlty Towers."
Our inn/pub was The Old White Lion. It's at the top of a very steep street, and it's a 300-year-old coaching inn. I knew the age of the place would appeal to Glenn. In fact, he loved the entire vibe. We
Glenn came to Yorkshire hoping for this.
stepped in, close to midnight, and found a group of older locals drinking in the bar. They immediately welcomed us into their conversation before calling taxis to ferry them home. Glenn insisted - with much glee - that the bartender was like someone out of "An American Werewolf in London," but I think he was just hoping. Glenn was in his element: Beer, friendly conversation and a cranky bartender.
The next day, we tried and rejected the English breakfast. I just can't cotton to kippers and stewed tomatoes. Then we strolled up the cobblestone main street of Haworth. Everything screams Bronte, from the names of the shops to the multitude of pubs that Branwell Bronte frequented.
The Bronte influence is everywhere!
I filled in Mr. G. on Branwell while we walked and widow-shopped. Branwell was the only boy in a family of girls who would become lionesses in the literary world. You know, of course, that the girls grew up to publish "Wuthering Heights," "Jane Eyre," etc. The children grew up amid great sorrow (a mother who died young of cancer, horrific boarding school conditions and two sisters who died from those horrific boarding school conditions), not to mention the ever present knowledge that they would be cast onto the street when their father died and the parsonage went to the next preacher and his family. Ironically, the Rev. Bronte outlived every single one of his children.
Branwell was supposed to be the family's saving grace. With his sisters, he created elaborate stories about his toy soldiers when he was just a boy. He was wildly creative and incredibly sensitive. It's not a good mix. Branwell turned into a wastrel who got mixed up with a married woman and descended into the drink. That married woman's name was Mrs. Robinson. Coo coo c'hoo.
Branwell Bronte drank here ...
The way my mother told the story, the girls hid their own talent and published under fake names because the family was supposed to be pulling together to launch Branwell as an artistic genius. It's clear that Branwell was a disaster who wasted any money and effort his family invested in him. Every pub in Haworth seems to have a sign that proclaims Branwell once drank there. It's no great wonder that he died in his early 30s.
Today, Branwell is famous for his wasted life and for his artwork that hangs in the National Gallery. The painting is of his sisters. In a fit of who-knows-what, Branwell erased his own image from the painting. It's just as well. It's the girls who left the lasting legacy.
And here ...
We went through the parsonage, which remains much as it did in the Brontes' time, downstairs, at least. Upstairs, Charlotte's bedroom was bare of furniture as was the small bedroom that Anne and Emily once
Branwell left us this at least.
shared. Branwell's room, though, was dressed up with the furniture and knickknacks from the set of a recent movie on the Brontes. It was so realistic - not at all tidy but cluttered with drawings and books - that Branwell could have left the bedroom just five minutes prior, likely to pop into the pub. Mr. G. sniffed with distaste at the amount of attention devoted to Branwell.
We wandered through an addition to the parsonage which contained tons of things that belonged to the Brontes, including their dogs' collars. Then it was down the stairs to a special exhibit on Branwell's artwork.
Mr. G. wandered into the exhibit and walked swiftly out. "Why does he get an exhibit? His sisters are the ones who actually accomplished something" he angrily said.
Sorry, Branwell.
NEXT: We nearly die among the sheep poop to walk in the steps of the Brontes (except Branwell; he stayed home and drank).
Before we went to England, I supplied Mr. G. with guidebooks and forced him to watch travel videos. Then I asked him what was at the top of his list for the trip. His response: Pubs.
I never have to eat fish and chips again. You can see the pea mush underneath the giant fried fish.
So we experienced the pubs, which I learned are bars with typical bar food. In other words, it's beer and fried potatoes. I sampled the fish and chips, but I couldn't embrace them. They were greasy in an unfamiliar way (in other words, not like McDonald's). Also, pea mush is inexplicably popular in pubs so I now know where Nigella Lawson got her inspiration. And ... a Cajun dish is on every single menu. We were never brave enough to actually try a Cajun dish. Do they have Tony's over there?
Fortunately, Mr. G. adored the pubs. They offer so much beer on tap, a friendly atmosphere and sports on multiple television sets. He even pretended he was interested in soccer and made soccer-related conversation with the other pub patrons. Mr. G. was right at home in England. It was very cute.
Behold: The White Hart.
So I have some pub-related advice for you: If you're ever in London near Aldgate East station, do pop into The White Hart. Jack the Ripper left a body just outside the loo window. It's very quaint.
Actually, I didn't go into the loo at The White Hart so I don't know if it even has a window. I was too busy laughing quietly while Glenn tried to talk soccer with a family from Hong Kong who spoke not a word of English other than "We come from Hong Kong." Glenn persisted, pointed at the TV screen and asked which teams were playing soccer while the family giggled politely.
It was while looking at what Glenn was pointing to on the TV that I noticed the chalkboard sign advertising the pub's association with Jack the Ripper. We were there, killing time (haha) before a Jack the Ripper walking tour.
We'd ducked in because I was out of my comfort zone of Mayfair. Thanks to Marriott points, we were staying in a very nice section of London. We came back every night to a turned down bed and classical music playing softly in our room. If it hadn't been for those Marriott points eventually running out - and, of course, Bailey Boo back home - we might have just stayed in London.
The White Hart, where you can get a whopper next door.
Now we were in the East End, which looks rough even on episodes of "Call the Midwife" and in fact looks nothing like episodes of "Call the Midwife." Still, we were visiting the streets in which Jack the Ripper killed his victims. Was the neighborhood still dangerous? It certainly didn't look like Mayfair, which is full of fancy cars, expensive shops and a sprawling park. So I was relieved when Glenn suggested finding a pub upon realizing that we were very early for our tour. A pub seemed safer than standing on the street just begging to get mugged. Can you tell that I'm from a small town?
I fell in love with this church and then grew amazed that such grandeur could arise amid such poverty.
Side note: For the most part, the East End is perfectly safe these days. We were in Spitalfields, which is home to an impressive church, tons of pubs and every ethnic restaurant you can imagine. Keira Knightley used to live here. Samantha Morton still does. We were in absolutely no danger.
Spitalfields also is Jack the Ripper country. He killed six women, all residents of Spitalfields. Two of them actually were killed in Spitalfields (the rest died in Whitechapel).
The White Hart is conveniently located next to a Burger King. It features traditional pub fare as well as Thai food. And it has that interesting advertising gimmick.
You can't buy this kind of publicity!
There's a chalkboard drawing of a woman in a Victorian-looking dress and an odd hat along with the explanation that Martha Turner drank her last pint at the pub. She was found three nights later behind the pub with more than 30 stab wounds.
Our tour guide knew all about Derrick Todd Lee ... and Jack the Ripper.
Fortified with this knowledge, I was rather smug when we started out Jack the Ripper tour. We met our tour guide right across from the pub and started walking to the scene of where the first body was found. I thought, "Oh, I know where we're going!" Then we walked and walked and walked. We walked right past the pub for a long ways. In fact, we walked far beyond "at the back of the pub" before he dramatically pointed to where the body of Martha Turner had been found. I looked back and couldn't even see the pub.
