As you may know I'm quite partial to a pie. My
affection for such matters has left me concerned about the standards of
roadside replenishment. Look how quickly things are progressing these days
- the internet, pizza delivery, cable TV, home shopping, little plastic
trays with mange-tout and baby sweetcorn. The world is moving on and
generally making scoffing an easier and more pleasant experience. Except
that is on the roads of Britain. Try to get some nosebag mid-journey these
days and you're presented with some stark choices.
The motorway service stations have improved of late. Now they boast
large menus of healthy interesting food. Sadly when you get to the
brightly lit counters, all that's ever left is one anaemic sausage and a
boiled potato. Still, by browsing the numerous counters you can compose a
balanced meal. Unfortunately that sausage and cappucino delicacy will set
you back £8.75.
The service stations have had the good sense to offer some alternatives
though. Just to instill the good sense of taking a well earned break from
your long journey and to take a few minutes out to recharge your
batteries, they've given us fast food restaurants! For god's sake, why not
a nice little tea shop selling tea and scones? Oh no, running into the
service station (why is it always raining at those places?), you pause for
breath and to enjoy the calm and relaxing atmosphere. What are you
confronted with? That offensively clean stainless steel counter straight
out of a mortuary, keeping you at a safe distance from the unfeasibly
young staff in their corporate pajamas. Luckily I spot the fifteen year
old manager with his five gold stars and know I'm in good hands. The skill
with which he can skid across the tiled floor in his slip on shoes is
nothing but a comfort to the weary motorist.
Please wait to be seated...
Motorways are of course a desperate measure. With a bit of forward
planning there are many great roads still to be enjoyed between here and
there. When hurtling along Britain's A roads at offensive speeds, you can
be sure that every few miles there'll be the regular pie-eater's pitstop.
Stuck in a time warp from the 1970's, you know what you're getting as you
enter the invariably red school-like buildings. The humble little sign
asks you to wait a month to be seated. A chirpy waitress will ask how many
people are standing in front of her, then show you to your table. It's all
so idyllic, but don't be misled.
Squeezing into the fixed tables and chairs in a swift manouvre
distinguishes the veteran gutbuckets from the cress eaters. There's almost
no need to pick up the laminated menu, still damp from the last punter's
eager salivations. Any serious traveller will know the contents of those
pages off by heart. Order away and marvel at how the skilled chef will
transform frozen ingredients into perfectly formed, tasteless meals, all
the while balancing a ludicrous paper hat on the top of his greasy head in
a noble gesture towards hygiene.
Whilst waiting for this culinary miracle you are left at will to enjoy
a number of pursuits. Generally the first item on the agenda is the
important question of where did they find so many incredibly unattractive
staff? I can reveal here for the first time that there's a small Scottish
island where they're inbred, then distributed around the country and sent
to Bulgaria to appear at the circus.
Next it's important to work out if the horrendous multi-coloured
blouses show any sort of hierarchy amongst the inmates. When spotting
chief big-blouse you can congratulate yourself that however badly you did
at school, worse was possible. After doing the crossword, your tax return
and reading War and Peace, it's grub time. You shovel it in, you shuffle
out and you sod off.
The lowest form of the roadside food chain is of course the greasy
spoon. Once held in high regard it's now almost extinct it's and has been
replaced by caravans and incredibly run-down shacks in laybys. Order a
bacon sandwich and see it cooked live in front of you in the grease on
your table. Bleached white bread and the manky entrails of a pig's
backside yours for a pound. A huge urn of tea constantly boils away in the
corner, occasionally topped up with Castrol GTX and the squeezed out
dishcloth. It's good home cooking, which will line your stomach well for
the journey ahead.
Pass the cress... I'm taking a pack lunch.