The town where food goes to die

On Friday night me and my mate Lisa took a roadtrip to see a friend play a gig in an East Anglian town (which shall remain nameless).


We had loads of time to kill and planned to grab a bite enroute. On the way, basking in the glorious spring sunshine we must have passed about 10 fab pubs or restaurants but it was way too early to eat so we soldiered on.

Thirty minutes away from the venue and we seemed hit a culinary black hole – an area where food comes to die (or be battered, fried and served with ketchup) . Travelling somewhere across the Suffolk/Norfolk border we found ourselves in a world of fast food, convenience shops and pubs that seemed more interested in touting their Sky Sports facilities than laying on a good meal.

What had we done!

Eventually we arrived at our destination town – what a dump!

A ramshackled old spot with grey, soulless architecture, run-down businesses and a lingering dark sky.

Our first port of call for supper was a quaint 50s style tearoom which looked innocent enough. Having sat down and seen the list of around 80 dishes though, it was quite obvious that ‘homemade’ food was not going to be the order of the day.

Five minutes later a waitress came over and took my order for a drink before vanishing into the back, perhaps to drown her sorrows in a bottle of vodka?

My poor friend was left dumbfounded at not being offered a bevvy. She even asked me to pinch her to see if she was really there.

One pinch and one ‘ouch!’ later it was confirmed and with my drink taking about a hundred years to be poured somewhere in the depths of the building we scarpered.

Our only hope of dinner was a local hotel, apparently situated on a fine and sandy beach with glorious views, but to our eyes situated on a muddy estuary overlooking plumes of smoke and pillars of concrete from a nearby industrial area.

The menu looked OK, most of it probably brought in to be honest, but we were so incredibly hungry that we didn’t care what we ate as long as it contained a modicum of calories.

We both plumped for a roast dinner. Service wasn’t great – it’s not many times I’ve been to a restaurant to have the waiter practically throw my dinner onto the table in a huff. But the food was OK – lots of turkey, lots of gravy, lots of potatoes. It was let down by a melange of vegetables that all tasted the same, but hey-ho.

I think next time we will make sure our pitstop is taken in our beloved Suffolk, where you’re never too far from a friendly country pub or restaurant.

Although if anyone can recommend a decent eatery up in Norfolk we’d be more than willing to give it a go so long as we both get offered drinks and there’s a guarantee that dinner’s served with a smile.

Saturday was a good day for food – perhaps because (and I say this rather smugly and annoyingly) I made a lot of it myself.

Recovering from the culinary atrocities of Friday evening and having stayed the night at a friend’s house, me and my travelling companion Lisa were more than happy to receive freshly bake croissants in bed, lovingly cooked by hostess Jess.

I felt like quite a piggy after munching through two pain au chocolate in, oh, about one minute, but I think I deserved it after having traipsed around scavenging for food the night before.

An hour and a half late and looking considerably bed-ragged, my hubby eventually found his way to Jess’s house with our two tots in tow and we headed off for nearby Dinosaur Adventure, with the picnic I’d made the day before all packed and ready to go in the boot.

Don’t get me wrong, I am a sucker for those pre-packed, pre-prepared salads and pasta dishes that you find in shops such as M&S and Waitrose, but when it comes to picnics there is something quite wonderful about knowing you’ve made everything yourself.

Usually I am the doyenne of the picnic, and friends often joke about and look for the kitchen sink in my hamper. But this time I kept it light and only made a few things, all of which were scrumdiddlyumptious I might add.

There was a spicy cheese and chilli cornbread and a sausage and onion plait carrot sticks, slices of cucumber, ripe Spanish strawberries (naughty but I couldn’t resist) and the sickly, rich but utterly divine quadruple chocolate loaf cake from Nigella Lawson’s Feast cookbook. Let me tell you that if you haven’t tried this sticky and dark creation and you are a self-confessed chocoholic – YOU MUST COOK IT!!

I ended my Greedy Glut day (and let me just say I walked for four hours so I think I earned it) with drinks and nibbles at Debs’ house on Saturday night, where several bottles of wine were drunk (not by me) along with a mountain of Hula Hoops, Wotsits, Mini Cheddars, Gordon Ramsey chocolates, gianduja…oh, and grapes and nuts too!

At around 1.30am Debs had the bright idea that we should measure each other against the wall to see who was the tallest and mark it with a pen!

This only goes to show that wine and junk food are a dangerous, dangerous combination. I only hope that her hubby doesn’t ban us from having any more girly nights. Or god forbid he only lets us consume water and rice crackers!