South from Monetier
The past few days’ rain turned to snow about 5pm yesterday and must have fallen consistently through the night as I was awakened by the sound of snow sliding off corrugated iron roofs and crashing to the ground.
Monetier still has many roofs like this, despite an edict saying they should all now be fitted with snow-stoppers, unless the fall is into private property.
It’s also a glorious day, and about to get better as I have inherited some bacon with which I’m going to make butties – it’s a shame I haven’t got a loaf of serious white sliced, but I’m sure I can cobble something together.
It’s a reminiscence moment, aah full English, if I could have one it would be at Benjy’s on the Earl’s Court Rd, they do rather let themselves down with their “generic” ketchup, but if you order the “builder’s breakfast” you’re set for the day. Last time I was there it was three quid, so you can put a price on happiness.
Actually now I start going all misty eyed I reckon the breakfast plate at Carnegie’s in Hong Kong is just as good, it’s large enough for me to share with a friend and I’m a greedy bastard and they let you swap the bits you don’t want for more of the stuff you do.
That’s one thing Serre Chevalier lacks is a greasy spoon, sausages are in short supply, it’s not that I’d want it even every week, but when I gots that tingle I gots to feed it. It would be nice if visitors could bring us care packages. I can never work out if the English have become used to crap bangers or, when it comes to taste, lips, lung and ring just taste better.
On that note – to the frying pan.
Tags: Serre Chevalier, french alps france, glorious day, greedy bastard, greasy spoonNo related posts.
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In the winter both La Grotte and The Station do superb English Breakfast. However ‘northern types’ are some dissatisfied by the lack of black pudding. Speaking as a ‘pseudo southerner’, I think the lack of black pudding is OK. Oh and BTW IMHO: best breakie in the World? Crossroads Cafe, West Watford.
Talking of black pudding – and this almost deserved a blog on its own – yesterday we managed to wean our son off one of his favourite meals by explaining what and how the boudin sausage he was eating was made of.
Boudin is a blood pudding and it was amazing to see the shine drop off his face as he was told about the big, blood-filled cualdron that was stirred to reduce the blood to the almost grainy, flakey consistency that was then stuffed into innards and then fried and served to hungry children.
It was possible to see it literally start catching in his throat as the cruel reality dawned on him.
Sometimes ignorance is bliss.