Turns Out I'm the Weirdo: A Brown Sauce Confession

Every British expat in Canada has that moment. You know the one. You’re somewhere unfamiliar, craving something painfully familiar and you see it, HP Sauce, that familiar blue label glinting from the supermarket shelf. It’s like spotting a mate across a crowded airport. You rush toward it with joy, hope in your chest… and then, your stomach drops.

Steak sauce?

That was my moment. I was new to Canada, wandering through aisles that looked like a parallel universe, slightly off, slightly odd and there it was. Nestled right next to A1 and Bullseye, like it belonged there. A traitor among marinades. I took it home anyway. Gave it a hopeful squirt. It came out watery. Weird. And then I turned the bottle over: Great for marinating steak.

Back home, HP Sauce wasn’t a steak sauce. It was a lifestyle. It sat proudly on the breakfast table, next to the tea, beans and whatever else your hangover could tolerate. It’s called brown sauce for a reason, because in the UK, we don’t ask for brands, we ask for colours. “Red or brown?” is practically a national greeting. No one asks if you want ketchup. You ask if they’ve got red sauce. If you’re in a proper greasy spoon, it’ll be in a crusty old squeezy bottle that’s had the label worn off for 10 years, and still taste like home.

In Canada, though? You walk into a breakfast place and get asked if you want ketchup. That’s it. No brown sauce. No options. And most of these joints are only open ‘til lunch. They don’t even serve steak. So why would they carry steak sauce?

But let’s go back further, to the beginning. My first real memory of HP Sauce wasn’t at a greasy spoon and it definitely wasn’t on steak. It was on French toast. I was at my gran and papa's in Scotland. My gran made a crispy slice, folded it in half and dolloped HP right in the middle. Folded like a sandwich. Elite. I remember thinking it was a bit spicy, too peppery for my young palate, but the flavour stuck. That’s where my love story with HP began. Our French Toast is a little different back home, or at least my experiences of it, it was thin and crispy, fried on a hot, oily or buttery pan with just egg and maybe a splash of milk. Here in Canada, it’s thick, soft and sweet, flavoured with vanilla and cinnamon, piled high with whipped cream, syrup and berries. It’s dessert for breakfast. Still French toast, sure. Just not my French toast. I want brown sauce.

So, with all that in mind, I confidently began writing this blog post, a noble mission to educate Canadians about the correct use of HP Sauce. A crusade, if you will. I expected a few nods of agreement from fellow Brits. Maybe a polite “hear hear.” But then I made the mistake (or maybe the stroke of genius) of asking for input on Facebook.

100 plus comments rolled in.

Eggs, sausages, bacon sarnies. Sure. All fine. Some mentioned fish and chips, meatloaf, even mac & cheese. One even dipped cheese in it. Another legend used it in ramen. But not a single mention of French toast... until Sharon and Ed swooped in, bless their brown-sauce-loving souls. That’s when I realized: maybe I’m not the authority here. Maybe… I’m the weird one.

I’ve never skipped a breakfast spot just because they didn’t have HP, but I’ve made some serious compromises. More BLTs than I care to admit. There was even a time I carried a bottle of HP Sauce in my bag, just in case. I wasn’t sure if that made me a genius or someone in desperate need of help. (Still not sure.)

My kids have tried it. My daughter? Looked at me like I’d just offered her a roasted unicorn. My son? He’d eat the unicorn, the napkin and the plate. He loves HP on French Toast. Mint sauce on roasties. He’s fearless when it comes to food.

And while we’re here, let me tell you about A1. The first time I asked for HP Sauce in North America, I was somewhere in Kentucky, about 15 hours into a drive to Florida and 24 hours into being awake. We stopped at a tiny diner straight out of a horror film. I asked the waitress if they had HP Sauce. She blinked at me, sweet as pie and said, “I’ve got A1.” Like she was offering me a warm hug.

I didn’t know better. I thought, “Sure, it’s the same thing, right?”

It was not.

It was smoky. Sharp. Confusing. It was wrong. That meal was saved only by Southern charm and a bottomless cup of coffee.

But now that I’ve been here a while, I’ve come to terms with a few things. First: Canadians love HP. They just love it differently. Second: it does go on steak, if you want it to. And third: there is a beautiful chaos to how expats like us carry our food habits into new worlds.

Because here’s the thing. Every one of us came to Canada from somewhere different. Some of us landed in Toronto, others tucked into tiny corners of Nova Scotia. We came in the ‘70s, the 2000s, or last week. But nearly all of us have had that exact same moment: staring at a bottle of HP Sauce in a Canadian grocery store, whispering, “What are you doing here?”

And that’s the joy of it. We’re all different, but HP Sauce confusion? That’s universal.

So, whether you’re dunking deep-fried pepperoni in it or sneaking it into your empanadas, whether you call it brown sauce, or steak sauce, or “mum’s favourite,” you’re part of the tribe. But if you haven’t tried it on a crispy slice of French toast yet, go on. Do it. Fold it over. Take a bite. Join the weirdos.

You’re welcome.

Disclaimer: This blog post began as a spirited defence of brown sauce and quickly spiralled into a personal reckoning. I thought I was normal. Turns out I’m the weirdo. Thankfully, Sharon and Ed helped confirm I’m not alone. So if you see someone folding HP Sauce into their French toast like a sandwich, it’s probably me.

—Aaron