Being vegetarian can make brunches a little bit lacklustre to say the least and I’ve found that a Saturday search in something a little more than avo on toast can be a challenge. Don’t get me wrong, avocado on toast is something that thankfully my taste buds give a big thumbs up to, it’s made its appearance on the ‘gram many times but it doesn’t always hit the spot. Contrary to popular belief, us veggies still work up a sizable appetite and I have to say that a few slices of avocado could pass as a measly snack.
Picture this; it’s the weekend and I’m hungover… wait don’t picture that! When feeling somewhat fragile, shall we say, and in desperate need of a) coffee and b) some subsistence, there’s a cosy corner pub in my town that serves the best brunch. There, I said it. I’ve given the gold medal, first place, prize spot! Why? I’ll tell you. Those my friends are not hash browns, oh no no no, they are heavenly slices of deep fried breaded halloumi. Got your attention? These bad boys are what sets a London brunch apart from a hearty, well Hertfordshire brunch.
Hands up, I too enjoy a British classic, a greasy spoon, the ultimate fry up! London serves up pretty plates of perfectly poached eggs. Fine for a 9.30am Wednesday meeting with the marketing team. But, The Victoria provides me with a Saturday saviour, slapped on a plate, topped off with a double fried egg, served until 3pm to treat that god awful delayed hangover. Sometimes, it’s simply the comfort that I crave. When it comes to food, there’s no messing about. Although, Instagram has changed the way we look at food. We’re too polite with it. Pretty food doesn’t always mean it tastes good. I recall the days, before #FoodPorn became an Insta thang, where I would upload photos of some seriously sloppy dinners. They might not pass for the ‘gram now but boy did they hit the spot. There is something so satisfying about being in a comfortable setting, an unpretentious setting shall we say, somewhere you can rock up in jeans paired with converse and fit right in, slouch into beaten up big brown leather seats, wait for a giant plate of food to arrive, guzzling fresh filter coffee (or an appropriately medicinal hair of the dog, I won’t judge you) reliving last nights antics (a cue to delete the regretful Insta Stories) surrounded by the best company. There’s something about this miracle cure that soaks up the booze and makes you feel human again.
Continuing on with reasons why I love my hometown, as previously blogged about here, I have to admit that I’ll always be a ‘pub grub’ kinda gal.
So my foodie friends, a short but sweet (or savoury, I guess) post. Rather than getting your teeth stuck into this, hop on a train to Herts for the real down. You won’t be disappointed!