One of the most striking things about visiting the United States these days is noticing for the first time how much of the world’s most powerful nation, this glorious frontier land lodged between two shining seas, is coated in breadcrumbs. Basically they breadcrumb everything now. It’s not just breadcrumbed meat, breadcrumbed vegetables, breadcrumbed pizza, or even, in the absence of visible crumb, that chemical glaze the US seems to apply to everything from breakfast cereals to yoghurt to the hair, skin and teeth of its presidential candidates.

At one point during my holiday there this summer, which was, in fairness, in Florida, the country’s great scented armpit, I bought a sandwich containing breadcrumbed chicken and breadcrumbed aubergine crammed between two slices of bread that were, in a rare case of missed opportunity, not breadcrumbed.

The nightmare of American food – so much food, but somehow always the wrong food – is nothing new, just as the rise of Total Breadcrumb is a logical step for a nation that has always taken patriotic pride in its powers of mass production. “All the Cokes are the same and all the Cokes are good,” Andy Warhol famously said, and there is something triumphantly star-spangled about this impulse to sand down and homogenise, the artful sterility of the breadcrumbed life.

All of which is a roundabout way of offering up some praise for the Premier League, which is having a moment of its own in the US right now. Chelsea and Swansea’s 2-2 draw at Stamford Bridge was broadcast live in the US two weeks ago. Nothing new in that, except this time they weren’t on a dedicated sports channel but on mainstream NBC, the mother ship, home to Friends and Cheers and ER, and now bringing Jonjo Shelvey and men in the crowd doing wanker signs at corners into the lives of 250 million unwitting Americans.

There are a couple of things worth saying about this. First, for all the usual bluster it is undeniably a step forward for the Premier League’s dreams of global sporting dominance. The US remains the grail here, a nation of wealthy, English-speaking sports obsessives still waiting to be decisively cashed in. Amazingly enough, this may finally be happening, or at least happening to a degree you may actually notice. Not only will NBC be showing a live Premier League fixture coast to coast every Saturday, the network has just closed a £2bn rights deal, bringing English football tantalisingly close to the status of minor TV staple.

Beyond this, watching English football in the US was an unexpected reminder of how good it actually is. We can perhaps lose sight of this at home, dulled by the familiar marketing gush. But the fact remains, compared to most sport, and indeed to most things on television around the world, the Premier League is a brilliant spectacle.

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Not only is it a reliable product in the American sense – all the Cokes are good; all the teams run around a lot – it is also agreeably distinct. If the dominant tone of US TV is a kind of breadcrumbing of the senses, the feeling of being shouted at for hours on end by a wrestling commentator who, in between saying “oh what wow gee gosh” in a growly, disbelieving voice is also trying to sell you a mail-order food processor, then by comparison the Premier League seems startlingly real. Look at the faces of the players! Contorted with rage, smeared with snot, guts, bile: this is a league that, even through the satellite lens, still seems to taste of sea water and celery and brown sauce.

The best European clubs may be a cut above right now in technical and tactical terms. But the Premier League understands the secret to a brilliantly absorbing drama is simply to keep moving forward, to make sure something is always happening. And so as Everton played Southampton, or Manchester United edged out Aston Villa, the players ran one way, then they ran another way, driven on by the unfeigned emotion of the crowd, those old tribal fires that are still English football’s most tangible, galvanising presence.

This is what we’re selling now: just the right level of real. Not too messy or wild or homemade. But still something that seems to leap out of the screen compared to most sport, which, in the US, tends to be staged around endless staccato segments. Baseball on TV is basically bulky, anxious men wandering around spitting and frowning while suddenly every four minutes someone’s shouting about a pizza.

NBC does a good job with it too, using sell-grooved English broadcasting voices and assembling a classy studio. Rebecca Lowe is a fine and knowledgeable anchor, albeit her role here is often shaved down into being really good at talking fast without stuttering and remembering to call Romelu Lukaku “the 56 million-dollar Belgian”. Robbie Earle still looks like a nice friendly saggy old embroidered cat propped up in the shop window and encouraged to talk about set-piece opportunities and overlapping runs and how “they’ve got to move the ball quicker for me”.

Robbie Mustoe proves it is possible after all to cram fact-based, cliche-free critical opinion into a 30-second analysis spot. The only slightly “soccerball” note is the retired American player Kyle Martino, who looks at first glance like the kind of man who might walk into a crowded room at a cocktail party and do a double-handed pistol shot with his finger and thumb, but who turns out to be very watchable in the grand American sportscasting tradition where things like research and preparation are still non-negotiable assets even for ex professional players.

What happens from here is anyone’s guess. The Premier League has made some unarguable gains in the foothills, to the extent that its TV revenue is split pretty evenly between domestic and global markets, a balance that is likely to tilt only one way in future. If this is a slightly alarming prospect for the domestic football fan, already alienated, priced out, rescheduled and generally encouraged to sit down and shut up, then it is worth remembering where all this syndicated wealth actually comes from.

It is still English football’s jaded old soul, its unbreadcrumbed heart, that makes the product such a brilliantly unvarnished spectacle in the first place. And paradoxically it is this, the sense of connection, the culture of fans and stadiums and clubs, English football’s golden televisual USP, that should be nurtured more than ever by those in charge, even as the product itself is more distantly consumed.