Tuesday 22 June 2010

Am I just too fussy?

A FEW friends have said it. Mr GG has definitely said it. And I impart the description on my daughter all the time. Am I too fussy?
After a weekend of fun and frolics in Middle England, I’ve come away feeling a little bit ashamed of my foodie behaviour – perhaps I just expect too much?
It all began on a blustery Saturday morning, when we packed our clan into the car and hitched-off on a jolly to the NEC for the BBC Good Food Show – truly amazing.
I ate my way from A to not quite Z. Artisan cheeses, cardamom and black pepper scented single estate oil, chocolate pizza, crepes, chutneys, pickles – the list goes on. Mr GG was especially pleased with his purchase of a posh-looking bottle of toffee-flavoured vodka, which even I (a non-drinker) enjoyed.
Then we arrived at a fudge stall. There were several, and being a connoisseur of this confection I made it my mission to try them all – well, someone’s got to do it.
At this particular stall I tried a smidgen of chocolate fudge and happened to mutter under my breath and out of earshot to Mr GG that it ‘wasn’t very chocolatey’.
Unfortunately my bad review was overheard by the fudge maker who spent the best part of five minutes trying to convince me that hers was the best fudge in the UK. Let’s just say, she didn’t win.
Hands-down the best on the day came from the Fudge Kitchen. I know it’s a chain (albeit a small one), but the fudge from the stand was creamy, gooey and divinely chocolatey. Mmm mmm.
Other purchases on the day included a special plate that grates/purees garlic, a teriyaki and chilli rub (ideal for the BBQ), a jar of Anila’s Spicy Korma Curry Sauce, a bottle of garlic-infused Balsamic glaze, and a gourmet chocolate pizza – to name but a few.
My next gripe came at our ‘four star’ hotel, where the restaurant menu (which was trying to be pretentious by mixing all sorts of weird and wonderful ingredients together) rang alarm bells.
We decided instead to try out the bar. But, having seen the micro-kitchen complete with several microwaves and hygiene that could at best be described as basic, I made Mr GG and the kids retreat and we made our way back to the equal uncertainty of the main restaurant.
“You’re too fussy,” Mr GG taunted. “But I wouldn’t bloody eat there either,” he added.
After an agonising  '15 minute’ wait, which actually turned into 40 minutes, resulting in bedraggled and over-hungry toddlers, we were shown to our table in the not-too-bad restaurant.
The little ones started with a nice tomato soup, sploshing it with bread and covering their faces in red gloop.
I had a melon trio – cantaloupe puree, watermelon sorbet and a few slivers of honeydew. Apart from the underripe honeydew, it wasn’t too bad.
Mr GG started with gravadlax, which he enjoyed, despite its rather unsavoury white sauce coating – we still don’t know what it was.
For mains, the children tucked into dry-looking pizza, cardboard chips and beans, which, of course, they loved.
I had belly of pork, which was described as coming with a duo of bean jus. I asked the waitress what this meant, as a jus is a sauce. Was it going to be a bean puree?
After enquiring with the kitchen it transpired that the pork just came with peas and broad beans. I suppose the menu author didn’t really know what a jus was?
It wasn’t too bad. The top of the pork was lightly crackled and moist, while the bottom part was unfortunately frazzled beyond chewing. The beans weren’t cooked enough, and the sauce was unplaceable, with no real flavour.
Mr GG however, was quite happy with his chicken supreme, accompanied by a cream sauce and slightly undercooked black pudding tortellini.
It was after 9pm when dessert time came around so, not wanting to subject the other diners to the wailing of our kids any longer, I asked to take my pudding (a cheese board) up to my room.
“No problem,” they said. “We’ll bring it up to you.”
A whole 40 minutes later and it arrived – I wish I’d waited.
On my plate were oat cakes (not the Bath Olivers stated on the menu), an OK chutney, no bread (again, as promised) and three waxy loafs of cheese, all looking rather limp and sad. Two of them, a double washed rinded red, and a local cheese, I had chosen, but there was a quite smelly and ominously liquid brie-type cheese I hadn’t expected on the plate. Where was the Shropshire Blue I’d craved, and paid for?
I called reception who assured me that it would arrive soon. Ten minutes later (at past 10pm) I was called and told that the kitchen had run out of Shropshire Blue and had put a substitute on the plate.
“But there was another blue on the menu, why didn’t they give me that?” I asked, now getting slightly irate.
“I’m sorry, we’ll bring that right up to you,” was the answer.
I never did see my blue cheese, and fell asleep hot and bothered at 10.30pm.
I did feel slightly bad, even though I’d been polite to all involved. But when you pay for something, shouldn’t you get what you pay for?
My question was answered at breakfast when the meal (included in our bargainous £88 last minute room rate) involved us having to sit next to a partition wall coated in chocolate, strawberry jam and other undistinguishable stains.
It seems you really do get what you pay for!

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