Tag: breakfast

A Roaring Start

Never underestimate the power of a rest day when you’re travelling.

Yes ok, a rest day on the first day of our holiday may seem a bit much, but I planned this knowing we needed to recover from our gruelling flight schedule from Australia. Let us never forget The Zombies of San Francisco or Hours of Entertainment. Besides, Don is older than he was the first time we went to India.

We left Brisbane at 10:30am yesterday, and arrived in Delhi at 2:30am this morning. Knowing we’ll be back on an early morning flight again tomorrow, I scheduled only two things for today’s itinerary – rest and buffet breakfast.

Still, it hasn’t been easy.

We had to set an alarm so as not to miss said breakfast after falling into bed at 3:30am. Having eaten at least one of everything the buffet had to offer, we then went on a post breakfast walk to check out the neighbourhood. We followed this up with a well needed nap, which was followed by a post nap walk to check out the neighbourhood again when things were actually open.

We rested some more in a local cafe over coffee and salted Ajwain cookies. Then Don had another nap while I had a massage at the hotel spa where a small woman tortured the bejesus out of any deep vein thrombosis in my calves and anywhere else thrombosis might lurk, including apparently my eyeballs.

We’re now in the midst of afternoon rest time, before deciding on where we’ll go for dinner.

We certainly are off to a roaring start.

Germany, world of food

Cologne

I thought we had come to Cologne to see the cathedral and wander the Christmas markets, but apparently we have come to Cologne to eat.

This shouldn’t be a surprise to me – before we’d even left the UK I prepared for our first day in Cologne by googling ‘where can we find enormous pork knuckle, mountains of mashed potato and sauerkraut close to our hotel?’

We found exactly this just around the corner. We were ushered to our table by a very enthusiastic host, gesturing impatiently for us to follow, follow. We sat interpreting the German menus until a waitress materialised next to us, took the menus straight out of our hands and replaced them with the English versions.

‘Two beers?’ she asked.

‘Just one beer please,’ I answered.

‘Two beers,’ she nodded, writing two on my coaster.

‘Ok, two beers.’ I was not going to argue.

I’m not a beer drinker, but I did have some of that beer, and then quietly swapped it for Don’s empty glass. At which point the waitress suddenly re-appeared by my side.

‘Another beer?’

‘Ok, another beer.’ I was not going to argue, Don could drink it.

We got what we came for – enormous pork knuckle and mountains of mashed potato and sauerkraut for Don, enormous German sausage, cabbage and bacon and fried potatoes for me. It was a glorious feast that started with moans of delight and sampling of each other’s dishes, and ended with unfinished plates and very full stomachs.

‘Add a tip?’ our waitress asked as we paid, her finger hovering ready to add.

‘Of course.’ Again, not going to argue. It was worth it – that meal lasted us the entire day.

Today has been no better. Breakfast this morning came with four fried eggs each. Four. Morning tea a slab of cheesecake shared between two.

Thankfully this lasted us through to the evening Christmas markets. We started there sharing one potato fritter the size of my hand.

Ok it would have been one potato fritter, except they only sold them in threes.

‘One serve, ja?’

‘Ja,’ I agreed, taking the three fat potato fritters with their dollop of apple sauce.

After potatoes we had some glühwein (red and rosé), then some chocolate covered gingerbread. We went to another Christmas market and had a bucket tonne of fresh smoked salmon smothered in mayonnaise and stuffed into a crusty bread roll. A little further on we couldn’t resist a skewer of chocolate covered strawberries, nor a free taste test of the fresh baked speculaas. Nor the chocolate eggnog. Nor the orange eggnog.

We rolled around the market for a while longer, contemplating sausages, nougat and sugared nuts but we were way too full for even a sample. It was that dire.

In any case, all of this mega-eating should calm down soon as we’re off to Belgium tomorrow. Home of chocolate, waffles and pommes frites.

Up, down, shake it all around

Italy

Indulge me for a moment while I focus on the selfie stick.

The selfie stick is one of those items that are at the same time dreadfully touristy and incredibly useful. The benefits are obvious – not all friendly tourists will take a nice pic of you – and yet we still hesitate to buy one, not wanting to join the throngs wandering about, sticks in the air, heads bobbing about.

Our friend Ruth has a selfie stick; she brought it with her on our trip to Italy.

Our friend Ruth is an intelligent, funny and capable woman, however mastering the selfie stick seems to be a skill that has totally bypassed her. And nothing – nothing – on this trip to Italy has made us laugh so hard, so loud, so tears streaming down our face shrieking, as Ruth taking our photo using the selfie stick.

We don’t get it out much because it takes a short discussion on appropriateness and importance of the proposed site followed by around 45 minutes of assembly. In fact until today we’d only used it three times: for a photo at the Roman forum with Ruth’s head chopped off, a photo at the Spanish Steps without the Spanish Steps in it and a photo of our black shapeless head silhouettes in front of some blurry backlit columns somewhere in Rome.

The thing is, I really don’t know how it always goes so wrong what with all of the instructions the rest of us provide for Ruth to follow. Particularly Tim. Because wives love it when their husbands shout a string of conflicting instructions at them. Take this morning when we went for our fourth attempt with the selfie stick on a cute little canal bridge in Venice. After the assembly process, Ruth lifted the stick, and it was on.

“Tilt it back!”

“Straighten it up!”

“Lift it higher!”

“Move your head!”

“You move your head!”

“Lower!”

“Higher!”

“Sideways!”

“The other sideways!”

“Wait, I need my sunglasses!”

“Don’s not in!”

“I said straighten it up!”

“Tim’s too tall!”

“I can’t hold this pose much longer!”

“Tilt it 80 degrees left!”

“Sure, let me get my protractor out!”

“Wait, I’ll take my hat off.”

“I can’t find the button!”

“It’s on the bottom!”

“It’s on the side!”

“Now!”

Click.

And so we have added to our collection a photo on a Venice bridge, three smiling faces and Don sliced perfectly down the middle.

Retired hurt

San Francisco

We’ve been in San Francisco for three days now, and I’m yet to finish a meal.

Our first breakfast was at Sears Fine Food, where breakfast comes with hash browns. That’s at least three potatoes right there. Plus Southern corned beef hash, made with an additional two potatoes. Needless to say, I could not finish.

Dinner, Tad’s steakhouse, and one magnificent steak the size of my face, plus a baked potato the size of my head. Needless to say, I could not finish.

My plan for yesterday’s breakfast at Pinecrest Diner was just oatmeal. “Or perhaps cereal,” I said to Don, “but no more potatoes.”

“Scrambled eggs,” I said to the waitress after Don had ordered.

“Do you want bacon as well?” she asked.

“Oh, go on then.” Wisely Don said nothing. And of course the whole lot was served on the biggest hash brown I’ve ever seen.

Needless to say, I didn’t even come close to finishing.

I must say though, a big breakfast certainly keeps you going for most of the day. Yesterday morning’s potato mountain held us through until 3pm, at which point we embarked on a walking food tour of North Beach with Avital tours.

Oh. My. God.

Four courses at four fabulous Italian restaurant institutions. Rich tomato seafood stew, arancini balls, woodfired pizza, fresh ricotta filled cannoli. Sourdough bread. Red wine. Thank goodness we were at the top of the hill at the last stop and could just roll back to the hotel. With the leftover pizza and cannoli.

Because we couldn’t finish it.