As alluded to in my previous blog entry, we spent last weekend in one of our favourite ever cities, York, celebrating Isaac’s 5th birthday.
In truth, this wasn’t exactly Isaac’s idea, and the trip was primarily to meet up with my wife’s uncle and aunt, who were over from Canada (for obvious reasons, we don’t get to see them very often), but we still made the weekend about Isaac whenever we could.
This included transporting a huge ‘5’ balloon in the car without him seeing (well, it was in the boot, he’s not that fucking oblivious), leaving it with the reception staff in our hotel overnight, and then smuggling it into the room while he slept the following evening, so that it was by his bed – along with all of his presents – when he awoke Sunday morning.
Before we had children, my wife and I would always stay at the same delightful little hotel whenever we visited York, because, although it wasn’t ridiculously expensive, it still felt extravagant for our budget, so it was a treat we would always look forward to.
Now that we have kids, however, it didn’t seem appropriate to stay at that same hotel, because not only was it too nice for our boys to stay in (arguably, most crack dens would be too fancy for Isaac), it also wouldn’t have been fair to ruin everyone else’s weekend too. To be honest, I couldn’t be bothered dealing with the judgmental stares of all the childless couples – or, worse, any parents whose kids were actually behaving themselves, and not like escaped zoo animals.
So, on this particular visit to York, we decided to stay at a Premier Inn, because as a chain they are still nicer than a Travelodge or Holiday Inn (which are, in turn, slightly nicer than your average crack den), but not so expensive that I feel the need to steal the cutlery, towels and television set in order to justify the cost.*
*That was, of course, a joke (we have plenty of cutlery already).
The most attractive thing about booking a Premier Inn, however, is the breakfast on offer. If there are three things I absolutely love about a hotel breakfast, they are:
1. The word ‘unlimited’;
2. When they offer black pudding;
3. When kids eat for free.
Now, Premier Inns boast all three of the above, and that places them very high up my list of (budget) hotel chains, and right at the very top when the kids are in tow.
In short, Premier Inns are nice enough that staying in one is still something of a treat (although, admittedly, having an uninterrupted shit would be considered a treat these days), but not so nice that I feel I have to make excuses for Isaac’s behaviour every few minutes – and, according to my wife, ‘he can be a bit of a dick’ isn’t an appropriate excuse to tell appalled onlookers anyway.
Fortunately, Ollie shares my love for a decent hotel breakfast, particularly when it comes to pastries, and he appears to have made it his life’s goal to hunt for the world’s finest croissants (an accolade which, he maintains, currently rests with the Barcelona Airport Hotel, where he loudly exclaimed over breakfast one morning ‘the Spanish make the best croissants in the world!’ – much to the annoyance of some French guests at the next table*).
*Although, in fairness, the French look annoyed most of the time anyway, so it may not have been because of Ollie’s comment.
My eldest son was therefore just as excited as I was heading to breakfast on our first morning, to the extent he was still carefully planning his croissant gluttony as we got in the lift to go down to the restaurant, and this seemed to amuse the elderly chap who got in behind us.
As Ollie explained that he was planning on devouring ‘more croissants than there are trees in the world’ (we checked, and there are apparently 3.4 trillion trees on the planet, so this struck me as slightly ambitious on his part), the old man chuckled and wished Ollie all the best with his challenge.
I, on the other hand, was all about the full cooked breakfast, because I knew there was black pudding on offer, not to mention a generous choice of eggs (note to Travelodge: rubbery and fried, or wet and scrambled – which frankly looks like a cat has vomited in the dish – is not an appealing choice).
In fact, the cooked breakfast menu was particularly impressive:
So much so, when we had been shown to our table, I decided to challenge Ollie with selecting a cooked breakfast containing only five of the above items (this was purely a theoretical challenge, you understand, as I was happy for him to eat as much as he wanted).
As he pondered his decision, I revealed that my personal choice, if restricted to just five items, would be:
2. Poached eggs;
3. Hash browns;
4. Black pudding;
Ollie’s response to that was ‘No, I need my bacon. I’d swap the egg for bacon. And I’d definitely swap the black pudding for…. erm…. more bacon.’
This evidently gave him an idea, because he then disappeared and came back moments later with a bacon sandwich containing so many rashers, I genuinely feared for his health as I watched him devour it.
Still, it kept him quiet, and at least it was a change from stuffing his face with pastries. As it was, he still managed three croissants, four pain au chocolat AND a huge bowl of cereal, so he really got his money’s worth (figuratively speaking, since the boys’ breakfasts were free). I’ve never been prouder of him.
I, on the other hand, am quite particular about my bacon, and although Premier Inn do a better job of it than any Travelodge I have ever stayed in (who appear to train their chefs to cook the rashers for no more than thirty seconds on each side), I still opted to minimise the bacon on my plate to just the one crispy piece I could find in the dish, reserving the remainder of the space for my preferred items – including two poached eggs. Ok, they weren’t as runny as I might have preferred, but, in fairness, this was hardly The Savoy.
The black pudding, in particular, was superb, although Isaac did make some of the staff (and a number of other guests) laugh when he pointed at it on the cooked breakfast counter, before loudly shouting that he wanted a chocolate cookie too. I very nearly put some on his plate, if only for the shits and giggles of watching his expression sink when he took his first bite. I was intrigued to see how he would react, when the ‘chocolate cookie’ was much softer and meatier than he had been expecting.
As Ollie and I were intent on consuming our respective body weights in food, and we can both be slow eaters anyway, Isaac and my wife were finished long before us, and decided to head back to the room (once Isaac had been to the toilet, to once again try for the shit he had been threatening for three days solid*), and I was later told they had – by pure coincidence – bumped into the same elderly man in the lift back up to our floor.
*perhaps a poor choice of word in the circumstances, as when it did eventually ‘arrive’, it damn near cracked the toilet bowl. It was like a fucking paperweight.
Anyway, it transpired the old man recognised them as well, because he asked whether my wife’s ‘son’ (evidently assuming, like so many others, that Isaac is a girl) had ‘managed his 3.4 trillion croissants’.
My wife’s response?
“Where do you think he still is?!”
Thanks for reading x
p.s. – If you have read – and hopefully enjoyed – this week’s entry, feel free to:
- Like and share it on Facebook;
- Comment on my Facebook post with the five items you would select from the cooked breakfast menu above. Don’t explain it, just comment with your five items. It’ll really confuse everyone who follows my page but doesn’t read the blog, which frankly serves them the fuck right.
p.p.s – Travelodges aren’t that bad, I suppose.