because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Wednesday, 2 May 2012

Brunch, man. Fucking brunch.



My favourite thing in the world is breakfast. Specifically, my favourite thing in the world is hotel breakfast.

In a hotel, the options are endless. Pastries, cakes, full English spreads, omelettes, toast, orange juice, fruit salads… Everything a Fat Bitch could possibly want to choose from. Or, you know. Not choose from, because Fat Bitches often just try ALL THE THINGS.

In a hotel, the night staff who just have to get through to 9 a.m. before they can go home are sleeping whilst standing, and the guests haven’t yet shaken off their forty winks, so I- she who has been up since 6 a.m. planning what exactly she will lead with first, and phoning reception to make sure there are indeed both cream- and nutella-filled brioche- am free to hop from buffet stand to buffet stand without fear of judgement or retribution, since everyone is too tired to notice I’m on plate number six.

See also, then: American-style brunch.

A visiting friend had heard all kinds of awesome things about a particular brunch place here in Rome, and I was absolutely up for it because a hotel breakfast without staying in a hotel? HOW HAVE I GONE 26 YEARS WITHOUT KNOWING THIS EXISTED?

‘It’s €25 all-you-can eat,’ he said to me as we sat at our reserved table.
I inhaled sharply. ‘€25? For breakfast?
‘And that isn’t including drinks.’

Maybe I should’ve just stayed in a hotel.

Since I was already dressed and in the restaurant, I made a quick decision. If breakfast was going to cost €25, I had to eat more than €25 worth of food to make it worth my while. I looked at the food around me. There was a man making omelettes to order, I’d already spied somebody with mac n’ cheese, there were 20 iced cakes one could slice oneself i.e. portion control wasn’t monitored, and PANCAKES. ALL THE PANCAKES.

‘The plan is this, ‘ I announced to the table, after my favourite videographer friends joined us. ‘Alternate sweet and savoury plates. Don’t go more than 15 minutes between helpings, otherwise your stomach will realise it is full. Drink as little as possible. Steal cake in a napkin to take home later.’
The table looked puzzled.
Then my equally sweet-toothed friend said to me gratefully, ‘I’m so glad that you are here.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
She shifted her gaze uncomfortably. ‘Well. You know. That you appreciate food and aren’t embarrassed to, urm, eat what you want, and urm…’ she trailed off.
‘I GET THE SUB-TEXT OF WHAT YOU ARE SAYING.’
She shrugged as if to say, you’re a Fat Bitch. What else is there to apologise for?

Yes. I am a Fat Bitch. This is not new information. She had a point.

In our final year of university, Calum and I would go to Tesco in preparation for Saturday Night Bollocks and buy pic n’ mix. They had this deal whereby you could either pay by the weight of your bag, or fill a cup as much as you wanted and pay a flat rate of £4.

Calum and I would carefully wind yellow-belly snakes around the base of the pic n’ mix cups, and squish jelly babies into the spaces between the flattened marshmallows, and we’d pay the flat £4. Then, at home, we’d empty the boxes out onto an opened-magazine and count up the value of what we had stuffed in. A good day was when we had paid £4 for £4.50 worth of sugared candy. A bad day was when we realised we could have fit in another 10p’s worth.

Brunch was exactly the same.

I started out with pancakes, chocolate sauce, strawberries and bananas.
‘About €8, I reckon,’ I said.

Then I had a Gorgonzola and red pepper omelette made up for me.
‘€6.50,’ my friend estimated.
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Factor in the fact that as a single girl I just had my breakfast made for me by the cutest guy in the room,’ I said.
‘€7,’ she replied.

‘Shall we hit up the cake stand?’ I asked, and for red velvet delight, carrot cake, apple strudel and a no-bake cheesecake that was disappointingly cheesy and not nearly sweet enough I totted up, ‘Four slices at €3 a pop in a cafĂ©? That’s €12.’
‘I feel like we are totally getting our money’s worth,’ my friend said.
‘I WANT MORE,’ I replied. ‘MORE.’

Plate of chunky fries with a disgusting amount of Caesar dressing for dipping? €4.

Fruit to cleanse the palette? €5.

Couple of coffees? €5.

All in all, I suppose I consumed way over my €25, AND most probably I won’t ever have to eat ever again so yeah. Brunch. Fucking brunch, man.

It was a Fat Bitch revelation. 



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