The Royal Treatment
N 1958, WHILE living and working in London, my grandparents shared a meal with Queen Elizabeth. Not a hamburgers-on-the-grill-with-a-few-close-friends kind of meal, but a formal banquet with 500 other Americans. My grandparents marched past the queen, curtsied and bowed, then were made to eat English food, which is to food what the polka is to music. Nevertheless, for my grandmother, it was like the birth of Jesus, a line of
