On Sunday, we ventured south to make a pilgrimage to Borough Market in London, nestled along the south bank of the Thames where the city has been feeding itself, in one form or another, for nearly a thousand years.
The market traces its origins to at least 1014, when traders gathered on London Bridge itself to sell grain, fish, and livestock, a chaotic, fragrant, probably rather pungent affair that eventually got so rowdy it was banished from the bridge entirely. By the 13th century it had settled into the streets of Southwark, where it has more or less remained ever since, surviving the plague, the Great Fire, the Blitz, and the relentless churn of the city around it.
For most of its life it operated as a wholesale market, a working-class engine of commerce where costermongers and traders moved enormous quantities of fruit and vegetables before dawn.
Then, in the 1990s, something shifted. A new generation of farmers, artisans, and specialty food producers arrived, and Borough reinvented itself as something rarer: a place where food is not merely sold but genuinely celebrated. Today it is considered one of the finest food markets in the world, and standing inside it, that assessment feels not like hyperbole but like simple, obvious fact.
Everywhere you turn are beautiful things to eat: artisan breads and pastries, hand-crafted jams, spices, sausages, vibrant vegetables, specialty foods, mushrooms and delicacies that include tables practically buckling under the weight of gorgeous cheeses, plus three butchers and at least two fishmongers. And that’s in addition to the many ready-to-eat stalls paella, stews, savory sandwiches and beyond. We wandered, taking in the whole glorious, aromatic, shoulder-to-shoulder pageant of it all.
Then, we stumbled across the duck confit stall. A cheerful salesman offered us a thick sample, and Ted and I exchanged glances as we savored that fatty, soulful mouthful of duck. We both then looked, almost simultaneously, at the sign boasting about the duck confit sandwich smothered in caramelized onion relish on a brioche bun. I clocked this immediately, filed it away, and we moved on.
After making selections for dinner and certain “necessities” for the Airbnb that included a roll of raw butter, thin-sliced prosciutto, a crusty loaf of bread, we circled back to Duck Confit Guy. “I knew you two would be back!” he announced as we walked up, with the satisfaction of a man who has seen this movie before. “Oh, you’ll want it with the raclette cheese,” he added, and again Ted and I eyed each other.
Melted French raclette cheese and duck confit? An embarrassment of riches doesn’t quite cover it. We exhibited extraordinary restraint and ordered just one to split, then hunted for a place to eat it and finally claimed an open wine barrel outside a closed pub.
As I took the first bite, I felt I could almost weep. Rich, gooey cheese smeared over a heap of warm duck confit, wedged between sweet, soft grilled brioche. The only thing missing was a glass of red wine. Ted polished his half in roughly three minutes. I ate more slowly, wrapped up what remained, and we circled back to a nearby pub. Glass of wine in hand, I casually produced my sandwich from my bag, certain I was flouting some obvious bar etiquette and entirely sure that I didn’t care.
This is part of a series of travel stories from my adventures in Ireland and London in April 2026. Visit the main page for the full series. All photos copyright Kathleen Flinn, so paw’s off without written permission.
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