All my life my ideal breakfast has been the full English, the “hot” or “cooked”; bacon, eggs and sausages, with mushrooms and tomatoes on the side. Toast. Juice, tea and coffee. So, to be in England, being served this day after day, morning after morning, for close on three weeks, should have been the fulfilment of a dream.
Well, it was. We started in Gerrards Cross in a Crowne Plaza, a chain hotel with a vast buffet breakfast. Among the rest of the fruit and cereal and cold cuts and cheese were all the requisites of the full English. Baked beans, grilled mushrooms, tomatoes, hash browns — though aren’t they an American invention? Two kinds each of sausages and bacon: Cumberland and pork, and streaky and back. Eggs could be made to order, but the buffet already had scrambled eggs so good that I was impressed. Yellow, creamy, fluffy, buttery… I’ve never had them so good. At home I’ve asked around, checked on YouTube, and tried every method: slow cooking, cooking in a double boiler, quick cooking, stirring in milk, stirring in cream. And nothing achieves this effect. Scrambling perfect eggs is difficult enough, but making sure they’re perfect in a buffet, not straight out of the pan, is a feat.
For two days I enjoyed this breakfast, and then my son’s prediction started coming true. Before the trip he had said, with a knowing smile, Amma you’ll eat it for two or three days and then you’ll revert to fruit. I tried my best to continue and it became easier when we reached Bath four days later.
High on flavour
The Roseate Villa, a boutique hotel, Victorian design in the midst of a city full of Georgian architecture, whose reviews had lauded the breakfast, more than met expectations. Apart from the fruit and cereal, there were smoothies and juice, tea and coffee; all laid out in the charming breakfast room overlooking a garden. The hot, cooked breakfast was made to order. They had a few more options, but in my two days I got a chance to have just two. The first morning I asked for sliced avocado on spelt toast. The avocado was ripe and just right — firm and soft at the same time — and generous. A large mound of wedges was piled on the toast. It was the first time I was eating spelt, Triticum spelta, which is a type of grain strongly akin to wheat. Under the toast was a bunch of tomatoes on the vine, grilled and with their skins bursting. That breakfast was a stylish combination of crisp, full toast, soft, creamy green avocado and hot red tomatoes that had more flavour than most tomatoes anyone could ever have eaten.
A mound of avocado wedges piled on toast at Roseate Villa.
The next day, I asked for a poached egg, bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes. A poached egg because at home I do a faux one, microwaved in a plastic contraption, and in my parents’ home they’re made in a double boiler type of pan. Delicious, but I wanted the real thing. Again, the tomatoes were flavour-rich and so hot that they were difficult to eat for a while. The bacon was sliced not too thin, not too thick, and sizzling. And the egg. It was shaped neatly white, and as soon as my knife touched it with a gentle poke, it struck gold. The white was firmish, but the yolk was molten. It ran into a little puddle in my plate, which I mopped up with the toast. Writing about it is taking me back.
In Bath, we dined at two restaurants, one Thai and one Italian, Koh Thai Tapas and Joya.
We had been warned that Thai food in England was a bit sweet, so we requested the waiter to make sure that that didn’t happen. He was good, and the food wasn’t sweet. It was so chilli hot that even my Indian palate was satisfied. Joya was highly recommended by the manager at Roseate Villa, who said that his colleague always ate there and always ordered the lamb, of which there was only one option on the menu. I’m nervous about the natural smell of lamb, but decided to brave it. A rack arrived, done medium, and accompanied with diced, sautéed Mediterranean vegetables like aubergines and zucchini. At first I thought the rack was too large, but it was so juicy, tender and bursting with flavour that I wiped my plate clean.
From Bath to Brook
From Bath, we drove to Windermere in the Lake District, where we stayed in a bed-and-breakfast called Rocklea. There was a brook running beside it, making such a gurgling sound that it seemed as if a kettle was continuously boiling. Everything nearby was called Brook-something, including a pub across the street called Brookside Windermere. The menu here exemplified something I’d been noticing: the fare was no longer just traditional pub fare of fish and chips, sausages and mash, boards of cheese or cold meats. Coconut, panko, chorizo, paté and Niçoise salad all featured. In another pub we’d visited in Rickmansworth, tapas, tacos, “vegetarian kedgeree with Basmati rice, fragrant spices and spring vegetables” had figured on the menu. Hummus and pita bread were everywhere.
In our four days in Windermere, we ate once at a tapas place, once at an Italian, and twice, partly because it was so convenient, at Brookside. The main reason, though, for frequenting Brookside was the buzz it had. It was large and full of locals, including dogs. One evening there was a party of men celebrating the last match of the cricket season that day. The next was “quiz night”, which started at 9, but from 5 in the evening the place filled up. Two brothers-in-law ran the place, and the father of one of them was the chef. And the food was good.
Once we had a superb pizza generously topped with chorizo, and a smoked haddock and spring onion panko-coated fishcake with horseradish and chive dip. The fishcake was very large, golden and crisp, with a filling of potatoes and flaky fish. Both dishes were so delicious that we were tempted to repeat them the next time, but opted instead for something else.
The first time I visited England almost the only foods I wanted to try were scones with clotted cream and fish and chips. That time we must have picked the worst chip shop, because everything was soggy and smelly. On this trip, though, we had fish and chips several times, and each time they were perfect: the fish fillet — usually cod — was huge, golden and crisp with a thin, crunchy batter, the flesh inside flaky and fragrant. The chips were always well fried, hot and barely salted.
Apart from pubs, we went to a few restaurants. In London, one was called Pollen Street Social and another Zédel. But of them another time.
From the once-forbidden joy of eating eggs to the ingratitude of dinner guests, Vasundhara Chauhan reflects about every association with food.
vasundharachauhan9@gmail.com
