The Curse of Aunt Bessie
I took my Mum out for Sunday lunch at the Abergavenny Arms today. It’s a nice village pub about six or seven miles from home that traditionally has served a quality roast dinner. Today, they committed a cardinal sin. Brace yourselves people.
They served frozen roast potatoes.
This is a phenomenon I just don’t understand. If I go to a florist, it’s for fresh flowers. I don’t go to florists I buy flowers in Sainsbury’s, but that’s not the point. If I go out for a curry, I don’t expect it to come sealed in a polystyrene container ready for me to pierce the lid and microwave. So why do restaurants think it’s ever acceptable to serve potatoes that last saw earth in 1997 and have been held in a pseudo-cryogenic state of suspension ever since?
They’re not crispy on the outside. They’re not soft in the middle. They go from unnaturally yellow to black in far too small a space of time. To be blunt, they’re just not good enough.
Pubs and restaurants of Britain, sort it out.
Aunt Bessie should be shot
