Only the most sour-faced leftie would refuse a Pimm’s: it evokes the other Eden, demi-paradise version of England: the languid days on level croquet lawns; the plock of leather on willow; splashing, passing oarsmen; the Glastonbury chumminess of Henman Hill. I first tried it as an undergraduate at Oxford (I can feel the comment love already) and I never taste it today without remembering those sunlit, sozzled days.
Oliver Thring, my favorite posh, snobby, verbose foodie at The Guardian, in “Consider Pimm’s.”
Ahhhh christ. I just… I could… I mean, reading this is like… oh, he’s just a modern-day Jane Austen, isn’t he!?!