I was not going to rant on Blipfoto, I have other blog spaces for ranting, but this so incensed me that I felt compelled to take photographic evidence.
When I was a relatively small child, my parents used to wait until the school holidays, and pack like mad. We would load up the car, rarely finishing before 10pm, and then dad would drag us all from bed at about 2 am to head down to Dover and catch the first ferry to France.
Believe me there is something magical about this. Being down at the docks, up in the car line to board the car ferry to Calais, as dawn is breaking over the White Cliffs. Nothing beats it.
We would arrive on the other side, find a layby and catch a couple more hours sleep. Dad was a master of timing. Then we would head south. Sure most people would hit the toll roads, but my parents preferred the back roads, and since I saw a lot more of France than most, I would have to agree with them.
We would lunch in little cafes in tiny towns all over Central and Southern France. It was here that I fell in love with omelette. Its creamy taste, its soft, velvety, luxurious texture. Simple, fresh, wholesome. I think my mother thought I had taken leave of my senses one holiday because all I wanted for lunch and dinner was omelette. Every lunch and dinner.
As far as I was concerned it was the nearest thing to Ambrosia that you were likely to find outside of Mythology.
I have had a passion for omelette ever since. As far as I am concerned if a chef cannot produce an omelette properly he or she is not a chef.
Today, I had to go into Kingston and sort out an issue, which my business partner very kindly fixed for me. Bless you, Jase.
It was lunch time, so I stopped for a bite, to sit down with possibly the largest double espresso I have ever seen and I decided to have an omelette.
I don't know what that was that was placed in front of me, but trust me, that piece of recycled lorry tyre, hard, chewy, tasting sickly, that was NOT omelette. Ewwww. I have been trying to replicate that wonderful childhood experience, of delicious, fresh-tasting, creamy, velvety omelette for years. In this country. Not a chance. Dried up, oily, hockey puck is all that anyone seems able to produce. They taste disgusting, and look worse.
I seem doomed to disappointment. But I will keep trying!
- Apple iPhone 3GS