As has always been the case I update my journal in blocks. Sometimes I go weeks at a time without a single entry, other times I have several in a single day. It would also be fair to say that this is not a diary. Although at time it resembles one as I write what is on my mind, it is not what I strive for it to be.
I came back from holiday several weeks ago and although I have had the physical time to update it, I didn’t have the mental energy. Suffice to say working in the real world is a lot harder than you might expect. Also take into account I have a job which requires me to sit on my arse all day. I still come home shattered. Myself I consider this a tribute to how overworked my poor little grey matter is.
Anyway, to the subject in hand. I decided to take my laptop with me to Austria so I could write down some of the thoughts I had while away in a format I find easier to read. Therefore I present the first that I wrote in mild frustration having just got back from an Austria restaurant.
The French have the best food my arse! Today I type from the reasonably cold country of Austria having spent the last 2 days travelling by road through England, France, Germany and finally Austria. We stayed the night in a French city and as is customary when hungry, ate a meal there that evening. I had like any bloody minded English person would (when presented with a curious and wholly inadequate menu) ordered steak, chips and salad. Armed with the knowledge that the French understanding of “medium” is distinctly not cooked I asked for well done. Perhaps next time I shall just ask for done. It seems for all their culinary prowess they are incapable of just simply cooking something. I don’t want it under cooked, I don’t want it burnt to a cinder (as was the case this time), I just want it cooked through. The chips were passable, but to be quite frank, it’s not like it takes skill to operate a deep fat fryer. Tonight we arrived in Austria, and being a Saturday evening no shops were open, so we went out. We found a stunning little hotel restaurant with a nice waiter who even spoke English to us when was our German was not quite up to scratch. The food we got was something else though, it really was. Myself I do not really eat pork; I normally find it to be tough, dry and tasteless. I could eat what they served me every day without complaint, it was truly very nice. So what I don’t understand is why are the French seen as the culinary masters when their far below the excellent standard set by all but the Germans?