Assimilating the young and foodish me into British life has proven more frustrating than expected. I assumed it would be easy for me to adapt to the London foodscape, given I was educated in New Yorkese, a language with vast similarities to English, and was already acquainted with orange marmalade.

Turns out there was more to mastering the British food curriculum than distinguishing crisps from chips, aubergines from eggplants, tomatoes from tomatoes. 10 years into my London education I discovered I hadn’t even heard of, much less tried, a beloved British condiment, Heinz Salad Cream.

“The stuff is magic, double amazing!” I was informed by Opera Tavern chef Ben Mulock. “You’re not ignorant. Just uninitiated.”

“It’s the nuts,” said Disco Bistro chef Carl Clarke.

It’s the nuts? What’s the nuts?

I took to Twitter to find out why a creamy yellow liquid linked with dog testicles was routinely fed to British pre-adolescents. The quick succession of emotional responses made it clear Heinz Salad Cream was more than just salad dressing, sandwich spread or mayonnaise alternative.

The brand was created 100 years ago in Northwest London at the Heinz factory in Harlesden. The global food giant behind Heinz Salad Cream may have been American, but the phenomenon was made by and for the British.

The mere mention of it brought out the inner eight-year-old in dozens of my Twitter followers. The sharp-as-vinegar contrast between the mostly glowing responses and the occasionally snide ones got me thinking: Was it safe to assume Ben, Carl and the other salad-cream-loving sentimentalists had happy childhoods? Were the killjoys who tried to warn me off the stuff products of dysfunctional families?

Such questions intensified my nostalgia for the British past I never had. November 21st marked my 10th anniversary of living in the UK. I decided to celebrate by opening a bottle.

I returned to Twitter seeking recommendations on the proper to way to showcase this icon of the 20th Century British pantry and bring on the zing. A fish finger sandwich struck me as the most infantile and exotic suggestion (back in the USA we only had fish sticks) and I took to it instantly. But the idea left me asking what type of bread, what brand of frozen fish fingers and what cut of sandwich were best fit for purpose.

Most agreed I should use a thickly sliced supermarket white bread like Warburtons and Birds Eye fish fingers. But opinion on the proper way to halve the sandwich was split in two. The debate over landscape rectangles and diagonally cut triangles was fraught with questions of age, gender and class. In the UK your preferred shape of sandwich may be influenced by your roots or your aspirations. Rectangles, I was told, made you look uncouth. Triangles, another warned, were for elderly tea ladies or five year olds.

With no way to escape unfavourable stereotypes I let myself be swayed by practical arguments. If I cut the sandwich into two triangles I might chop off a few fish fingertips that could easily fall out of the sandwich. I opted for the safe symmetry of rectangles.

I didn’t hate Heinz Salad Cream or my fish finger sandwich, if that’s where you assumed I was going with this. I liked how the white bread stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was thrilled by the salad cream’s cool, exceptionally smooth texture and tangy zip.

But my lasting impression was of a glutinous finish and an insistent sweetness. There might be less than half the fat in Heinz Salad Cream as there is in store-bought mayonnaise, as the company boasts, but there’s well over ten times more sugar. Heinz was apparently a pioneer among food giants in hooking consumers on the promise of less fat and more sugar.

I next sampled this pourable sunshine as a dip for McCain Original Straight Cut Home Chips and in a sliced egg sandwich. But try as I might to build an addiction something was not zinging as it should. As my fascination diminished so did my hopes of assimilation.

Patricia Michelson of the fine London cheese shops La Fromagerie was sympathetic. Her solution to this crisis was that I make myself a salad cream sandwich. No fish fingers, no egg, no anything. Just salad cream.

“But it must be Heinz Salad Cream,” she cautioned, “Simply the best!”

My conclusion was inescapable: Either Patricia was very happy as a kid or she had been brainwashed by the Heinz adverts.