I’ve been to farmers’ markets before—in Ann Arbor growing up, in Chicago, even here in London, at my local market in Marylebone—but Borough Market is like all of the others combined, times a thousand. As soon as we emerge from the tube and walk through the limestone archway on Borough High Street, we are bombarded by purveyors of everything from fresh vegetables and buttery pastries to goat’s milk ice cream and soft, eggy strands of pasta. Hugh lets me wander up and down the aisles, and I stop to watch one vendor stir a three-foot-wide paella pan, offering up piping hot bowls of tender prawns and rice to a throng of hungry customers. The market is vast, occupying three distinct spaces—the Green Market, Three Crown Square, and Jubilee Place—and as I zigzag through the maze of stalls, I’m glad Hugh is here to keep me from getting lost. “This place—I feel like I’m in a fairy tale.” “I thought you’d like it.” “Like it? I love it. I may never leave.” “Ah, so my plan to get you to stay in London is working .
