I've been lounging it up in a hotel in darkest Bucks, celebrating my grandparents frankly astonishing feat of reaching a fiftieth wedding anniversary. All well and good, nice to see family, even nicer to have a weekend away with Mrs Coastaltown. Less nice to pay southern hotel drinks prices (A tenner for two drinks? Thank christ I'm back in the north) but the hotel was paid for us so win some, lose some.
I did, however, get slightly exercised about the breakfast. Now, I am a man who is fond of the british breakfast, one of this sceptered isle's most laudable contributions to world cuisine. Done well, it is a things of joy (remind me to bang on at length about the quality of scran avbailable at Lancaster's estimable Sun Hotel one of these days). On those rare occasions that I have enough time to cook one before dragging my sorry carcass back into work I will endeavour to do so. Sausages, bacon, beans and black pudding are all dear friends of mine, devilled kidneys, roasted mushrooms, grilled tomatoes all occupy a place in my heart. Kippers and kedgeree have me singing hosannas. A well cooked breakfast is balm to the soul.
There is, of course, a place for the potato at this feast. Indeed, one of the fixtures of the correct full english is refried mash, or bubble and squeak. The scots (and some of the more enlightened northerners) enjoy the fragile bauty of the tattie scone. My father swears by refried spuds from the sunday roast, saved as a breakfast treat for a weekday morning.
The rest of this beknighted, budweiser-swigging nation of morons digs into the hash brown.
Hash browns, how many ways do I hate you? They stand for corporate mass catering at its very worst: box after box of processed garbage which at no point has been even on nodding terms with a potato, slung in a deepfat fryer and left to congeal under heatlamps. They are all that is wrong with lazy hotel kitchens, serving up a smorgasbord of short-cuts in place of the real deal.
This could easily become a rant levelled at the poor standard of breakfast catering nationwide that I've endured over the years, scrambled egg from powder, fried eggs cooked to rubber, sausages barely cooked at all, tomatoes that have never known the touch of the griddle, mushrooms sauteed in vegetable oil (if ever an ingredient cried out for butter): the whole Brake Brothers/3663 hellstorm of unit cost percentage, wave after wave of mediocrity. But I choose to level my criticism as hash browns because, well, they're not even british, they're an american interloper on the saxon plate. They have no place in a full english, full scottish or welsh. They have no place in Ulster fry. They are an abomination unto the very idea of the glorious fry-up. An indictment of Britain, one of our national dishes and we can't get it right (don't even get me started on carverys).
So please, next time you find yourself at some middling salesman's rest, the sort of place with a motorway juntion number for a name, strike a blow for the noble breakfast. Poke dubiously at your hash brown, ask them if they've leftover mash, ask if they can make potato scones. Point out that they're shit. For as long as you keep taking this crap is as long as they'll dish it out.
I did, however, get slightly exercised about the breakfast. Now, I am a man who is fond of the british breakfast, one of this sceptered isle's most laudable contributions to world cuisine. Done well, it is a things of joy (remind me to bang on at length about the quality of scran avbailable at Lancaster's estimable Sun Hotel one of these days). On those rare occasions that I have enough time to cook one before dragging my sorry carcass back into work I will endeavour to do so. Sausages, bacon, beans and black pudding are all dear friends of mine, devilled kidneys, roasted mushrooms, grilled tomatoes all occupy a place in my heart. Kippers and kedgeree have me singing hosannas. A well cooked breakfast is balm to the soul.
There is, of course, a place for the potato at this feast. Indeed, one of the fixtures of the correct full english is refried mash, or bubble and squeak. The scots (and some of the more enlightened northerners) enjoy the fragile bauty of the tattie scone. My father swears by refried spuds from the sunday roast, saved as a breakfast treat for a weekday morning.
The rest of this beknighted, budweiser-swigging nation of morons digs into the hash brown.
Hash browns, how many ways do I hate you? They stand for corporate mass catering at its very worst: box after box of processed garbage which at no point has been even on nodding terms with a potato, slung in a deepfat fryer and left to congeal under heatlamps. They are all that is wrong with lazy hotel kitchens, serving up a smorgasbord of short-cuts in place of the real deal.
This could easily become a rant levelled at the poor standard of breakfast catering nationwide that I've endured over the years, scrambled egg from powder, fried eggs cooked to rubber, sausages barely cooked at all, tomatoes that have never known the touch of the griddle, mushrooms sauteed in vegetable oil (if ever an ingredient cried out for butter): the whole Brake Brothers/3663 hellstorm of unit cost percentage, wave after wave of mediocrity. But I choose to level my criticism as hash browns because, well, they're not even british, they're an american interloper on the saxon plate. They have no place in a full english, full scottish or welsh. They have no place in Ulster fry. They are an abomination unto the very idea of the glorious fry-up. An indictment of Britain, one of our national dishes and we can't get it right (don't even get me started on carverys).
So please, next time you find yourself at some middling salesman's rest, the sort of place with a motorway juntion number for a name, strike a blow for the noble breakfast. Poke dubiously at your hash brown, ask them if they've leftover mash, ask if they can make potato scones. Point out that they're shit. For as long as you keep taking this crap is as long as they'll dish it out.
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