Hungry on Holiday

So, after that initial flurry of activity some months ago I confess my enthusiasm for recording the minutiae of my daily lunchtime ramblings wained somewhat... hence the rather elongated gap between my last post and this, the latest missive from the bleeding edge of gastro-journalism. So, what culinary spark has ignited this new fire? Well, if truth be known, it was the removal from my daily routine of that which inspired this diary in the first instance: The thoroughfare from which it takes its name. Three weeks away from Chapel Street has given new grist for my critical mill, so to speak. And where did I chance upon this fresh fodder? Where else than in Englands pleasant pastures of course!


England


So, enough of this ghastly freshness and goodliness that permeates to the core of oz-food. I don't want my fruit fresh, I want my fruit stewed with sugar and smothered in cream! I want a Cornish Pasty, the size of a padded A4 envelope, glowing gold with buttery pastry and bursting with steaming meaty goodness. I want my beer dark and frothy and not-too-cold, in a PINT GLASS for goodness sakes, non of these namby-pamby little half's, optimistically called pots. Whoever heard of serving beer in a pot eh? Sheer stupidity. I want hearty pub meals; pies and mash and carrots glazed with sugar. I want enormous apple crumbles with custard, trifle, Lancashire Hot Pot, Yorkshire Pudding, Cottage Pie, Sausages made with PORK for the love of god!

Essentially what I want is Christmas Dinner, with all the trimmings, cooked by my mum.


But before I get my Christmas Dinner, I must also have a sandwich from Pret a Manger which will cost me the equivelant of 10 dollars. I must also have one of the baffling variety of cornish pasty's at Paddington train station while waiting for the First Great Western express to Stroud. I must, sadly, also have a bucket-sized cup of weak coffee from one of the 79 identical pseudo-Italian coffee chains which cover Londons beautiful face like a pox. On boarding the train, for the privilege of which I have paid almost 100 Australian dollars, I will have access to a variety of treats from the euphemistically-titled buffet bar, located roughly 175 miles from my carriage in coach 96 A. There, I will pay an additional four pounds for a small, dry roll filled with processed ham and wet lettuce and another scalding flagon of bitter, burnt, insipid coffee. Do you sense a growing rage, readers? Does the tone of my prose point toward a resentment fuelled by years of quiet subjugation at the hands of these fuckwits who have flooded our train stations, our trains, our airports, our motorway service stations, with a tide of abysmal, overpriced junk food? Its nothing short of an atrocity, shaped by a shameful combination of greed, complacency and neglect. Why can we not, when travelling around this marvellous country, enjoy a cup of decent coffee and a simple sandwich made with good bread and cheese? If this nationwide scandal happened in France or Italy, there would be mass riots, and justifiably so.

The problem is that in these busy times, the good people of England travel more often, and eat more and more on the run and in the process of this they are being fed rubbish; and this leads to a kind of a gradual degradation of basic culinary values, where people think that its perfectly acceptable to pay five quid for a stale ham sandwich made with barely-edible ingredients. Furthermore, the bandits that hawk this miserable fare have the insouciance to dress it up with all manner of fancy names, hoping that by speaking the new-found language of the TV Chef, they can somehow cover up the food-crimes they are committing. Thus, one might find oneself tucking in to some concoction of sun-dried tomato bread with shaved leg ham; never mind that the ham is the kind that sweats in small plastic packets on supermarket shelves, or that the bread was baked last week. To be fare, not all chain cafes and sandwich shops are guilty... Pret a Manger for example, do a great sandwich. The really guilty parties are the pirates that set up shop in service stations and on trains, places where people really have no choice. They have you backed into a corner; either pay a small fortune for their grim produce, or starve. Most people choose the former option.

Of course, this issue is just one symptom of a much broader malaise that is effecting the nation, and much of the world. The rise and rise of the chain store is gradually normalising and standardising our high streets, edging out local business's, which in turn support local producers - be it farmers, cheese makers, brewers etc - and replacing them with the bland homogeneity of Starbucks, Cafe Nero, Tesco Metro etc etc. Even the pubs aren't safe, as the Wetherspoons and Pitcher and Pianos move in with there stripped-pine decor, tedious selection of standard Euro-lagers and generic mod-pub-grub menu's. I could go on... in fact, I think I've gone on quite a lot, so I'll shut up now.


Thank God then, that my hometown of Stroud is, with a few minor exceptions, a shining example of How It Should Be Done. The town planners have, by and large, resisted the temptation to sell the soul of town to the corporates. Local businesses still dominate the high street and the weekly farmers market is a fabulous opportunity to buy the best of local meats, cheeses, jams, condiments etc. Then there are the pubs. My local, The Woolpack in Slad, would have to to be the best of the bunch and no trip home is complete without at least one visit for a pint or two of Old Spot - a local brew named after the venerable breed of Gloucester Old Spot pigs. Old Rosie cider is another option, but best avoided if you have to operate heavy machinery, drive or even hold a sensible conversation at any time in the next 24 hours. Essentially, The Woolpack represents everything that is great about the Great British Country Pub; good local beer and cider, decent pub grub, a beer garden with a stunning view and a general air of conviviality. In fact, the antithesis of the generic chain-boozers taking over our towns.

Stroud has not wholly escaped the creeping corporatisation that blights Englands pleasant pastures; after years of knock-backs from the town council and in spite of protests from enraged locals, our old friend Ronald McDonald has finally bribed his way in to town. Given the prevailing mood of the community, I suspect someone may burn him down before long.