Is there anything better at around four in the afternoon than a warm little scone with a bit of cold clotted cream and a dot of jam? No, there isn't. As an American baker working in London, I fell in love with the teatime ritual the day I landed here. After the fog of jet lag, I threw myself into studying the world of British pastries. I was familiar with scones from America, the big triangular doorstop-sized kind my mom used to make in California, shot through with chocolate chips or dried fruit or even wisps of cheese—more cake-like than biscuit-like, really—but what I found in Britain was something altogether different, altogether more refined and intriguing: smaller rounds, not too rich, not too sweet, with a smattering of raisins perhaps but usually plain, each bite flaking off pleasantly in the mouth with a little heft before disintegrating on the tongue.