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Anyway................
On breakfasts.
Staying at the Novatel on Southwark bridge Road and having stayed at the Novatel near the Tower of London and experienced their dreadful (and expensive!) breakfasts, I had a cunning plan; you know, one from the university of cunning, developed by a group of final year weasels and stoats.
I repaired, as they used to say, to Fenchurch Street Station and just to the left of the concourse entrance from the front, there are a set of steps leading down to a parade of small shops; well there used to be ;'cos like so much and very sadly it's all being redeveloped; which is Cityspeak for demolishing yet more of the City's heritage and replacing it with souless concrete monoliths. I digress.
Down the steps used to be an Italian sandwhich bar with about four small tables. I first used to go there on Saturday mornings; (In the bad old days, we had to work alternate Saturdays from 9-12, but with the concession of not having to wear a suit!) and my chum and I used to go to this little trat and scoff wonderfully Italian flat sticky buns full of fruit and peel and spice! And glug large cups of real coffee.
Wondrous!
Breakfast last time a few years back, was a proper fried plate of real food: real sausage, two decent rashers, two eggs, mushrooms and grilled tomatoes, washed down with a bowl of really good coffee for the princely sum of about £4.
I used to chat to the pleasant young Italian who then owned it and he was really amused to learn that I had been going there since, well many years ago!
It was then owned by his uncle.
Perhaps the worst breakfast in living memory was at an hotel in Sherborne, Dorset.
Mrs G was deeply concerned about her remaining aunt (the last of her late Mum's sisters), so we chucked a few things in the car and drove there for a rapid overnight stay. Sadly, she died shortly afterwards, which was expected.
For ease and convenience, I picked, from the web, what looked like a reasonable place to stay: bad choice!
It had degraded into accommodating hosts of coach parties from the North, touring the sites of the West Country.
Perhaps our apperos presaged what was to come: the bar was unable to supply any nibbles; no crisps, no nuts nuffink! Strange........
Mrs G's cousin most kindly bought us dinner at a favoured pub and kindly drove, too, so I was able to take full advantage of the excellent wine list!
With a dining room full of hungry travellers, both the kitchen and the waiting staff were a total unmitigated disaster!
"Grilled Bacon" rashers were still stuck together and either raw or badly burnt. The eggs were mainly a sticky mess of yellow wallpaper paste masqerading as scrambled: or an oligenous blob of white goo and raw yolk pretending to be fried: I dared not even look at the poached eggs!
The tomatoes, like the bacon were either raw or black: and the mushrooms, swimming in some form of glutionous fat, probably spare axle grease from the coaches and scooped up from the carpark, frankly disgusting.
There were many demands for toast: hard to ruin Mother's pride really! However, apparently the grill was giving trouble.
Er..........wrong. Each slice, like it's companion the bacon, was both raw and burnt on the same slice!
I decided to try and reason with the young man nominally in charge of the dining room. As I approached him, I was somewhat put off by his apparel.
His trousers looked as if they could stand up all by themselves! His shirt and silly attempt at a waistcoat were no better. Probably stewed for a halfhour, the trousers would have produced a rather nourishing broth: to be followed by the entré made by lightly grilling his waistcoat and shirt.
I rather gave up at this point, paid the bill and we tarried at a Happy Eater or Little Chef en route for home.
What are your food horror stories?
"Yes, but that apart, Mrs Lincoln, did you enjoy the play?"
Gluestick
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