It’s probably my age but I’m sick and fed up with seeing on pub and restaurant menus home made burgers in a brioche bun.
When did that become a thing? A burger in a sweet bun? What’s that all about?
Call me a pleb but give me a burger in a bap any day, with lashings of fried onions and tomato sauce, like the ones you used to get at the funfair. Back in the days when brioche had never been heard of this side of the Channel.
Honestly, some of the descriptions on menus are so pretentious, with a price tag to match. And don’t get me started on places that make you pay extra for vegetables. It’s an instant boycott from me.
The reason I’m telling you this is that we’ve just come back from a night away in West Somerset. Dinner, accommodation and service at the hotel was great, particularly as it was part of a fabulous Travel Zoo deal booked to coincide with my Masters result.
It was either going to be a celebration or commiseration. Two years’ studying creative writing with The Open University deserved to be marked, whatever the result. As it was, I passed with a merit. I was happy about this but cross I hadn’t matched the distinction I achieved in the first year.
Still, I now have a collection of short stories just sitting there, ready to be honed.
The burger in the brioche bun thing came about while we were in a cafe-cum-gift shop in the seaside town of Watchet. Sitting at a table, surrounded by peg boards and feeling like I’d gone back in time to the 1970s, the man at the shop till popped around to the kitchen to cook all-day breakfasts to order.
We’d only come in for a coffee but we perused the laminated single sheet of A4 menu in any case. Everything on it was ordinary, wholesome and incredibly reasonably priced.
And not a burger in a brioche bun in sight.
Later, we walked along the harbourside, soaking up the history of this little port, where Samuel Taylor Coleridge was inspired to write The Ancient Mariner. We gazed out across the grey water to the Welsh coast and the islands of Flat Holm and Steep Holm in the Bristol Channel.
And then we strolled down to the beach to let Ruby run wild and free.
I was very taken with the place. It’s big enough to be a town but small enough to be a community.
And then, the next day, we went down to Kilve Beach, which I had last visited in 1978 on a geology field trip. Beautiful, wild, very special and full of ammonites. No sign of burgers in brioche buns, ice cream kiosks or amusement arcades. Just bottles of fresh apple juice by a kissing gate and an honesty box for your money.
Driving back across the Quantocks, the trees still in their autumn coats but not for long, I began to think ‘Ooh, I could live here.’ Which is always fatal.
The last time I did that we ended up living in Corfu for a year.
That’s about it.
Love, Maddie x