Now I’m a great fan of medical documentaries on television.
Michael Mosley’s self-sacrificing human body documentaries are worth the licence fee alone.
Never mind 24 Hours In A&E, just give me a constant live feed from St Georges or any other A&E and be done with it.
However there is one medical “fly on the wall” documentary which invariably has me wincing and I’m not referring to the blood and gore, or even the pun ridden commentary. The program in question is Costa Del Casualty: Benidorm ER and what annoys me is the place itself and most of those who seem to visit it.
Now I’m a believer that when you die you die that’s it, finito. Others believe in the concept of heaven and hell and if that makes them feel happier, then good luck to them – just don’t come knocking at my front door trying to “convert” me.
Now it could well be they are right and I am wrong, I don’t think that’s the case but who knows?
If by some mystical quirk they are correct then my idea of hell, which as a non-believer is surely where I will end up, would not be caves full of fire and brimstone along with a chap walking round with a trident – my idea of hell would be Benidorm, or somewhere similar.
(lest I be accused of some anti-Benidorm bias, let me say you could easily substitute Benidorm with Malaga, Magaluf, Ibiza, Aya Napa, Malia or any one of numerous similar resorts)
These resorts seem to be full of British / Irish pubs and “restaurants” selling fish and chips, burgers and other English delights. Where Brits go to get drunk and laid, quite frequently at the same time.
Why bother going abroad – they can, and already, do exactly the same most nights back home. The only difference is the sunshine but even that excuse doesn’t really hold water as they spend most of the daylight hours sleeping off the excesses of the night before anyway.
Why go on holiday to do what you would normally do at home anyway.
Why eat in establishments which invariably sell inferior versions of the rubbish they already eat at home normally?
I travel a lot and for me the joy of travel is seeing other cultures, exploring off the beaten track as well as the main attractions. I relish trying new local dishes I’ve never seen before, yes sometimes the meals fail spectacularly (more on that later) but if you don’t try you don’t know what you’re missing and for every dud experimental meal I can say I’ve had dozens of hidden delights.
I don’t want to go on holiday to be confronted with what I go out of my way to avoid when I at home.
I have to confess that whenever I do a trip to a popular holiday destination I do lots of homework. I check websites for recommendations from British travellers. I get holiday brochures from travel agents to find out where the package holidays are heading for.
After the hours of research, compiling lists I then know where to avoid.
Majorca is a popular holiday destination but probably 95% of Brits going there will never leave the resorts on the south coast of the island. Travel east or north and you find a contrasting world, quaint villages, fantastic scenery, divine restaurants and not a single British bar or fast food outlet in sight.
I remember one trip I made to France. It was in the Loir Valley region but I made sure I stayed off the beaten track. One night I stopped in a lovely local restaurant, away from the tourist trail. The menu wasn’t huge and was just in French, no poor touristy translations, my kind of place.
I had just settled down at my table and Mr and Mrs Brit walked in. Straight away they complained the menu wasn’t in English and their lack of French meant they just shouted louder and louder at the waiter.
Just to get some peace and quiet I translated the menu for them. After moaning about the choice (which was excellent, full of local dishes – but no burgers, fish or chips) they decided to order.
She ordered the salmon starter.
When it came out it was a lovely plate of locally smoked salmon – it looked beautiful. Not for Mrs Brit though – she was clearly expecting some John West pink salmon as she went into one about the salmon being raw.
Meanwhile my starter, téte de veau, had come out. One of my experimental orders as it is something I had not tried before.
Mr Brit asked what I had ordered and I told him téte de veau, “yeah but what is it?” he asked.
So I said, “well that is calves cheek, that is calves tongue, that is calves ear and that is calves brain.”
I have to be honest and say I didn’t particularly relish the brain and I would normally have not touched it but I cut a slice and ate it just to freak out Mrs Brit – it worked.
I’m reminded of another trip to France, my honeymoon in fact. We rented a friend’s house in the Dordogne for a couple of weeks. In the house was a book they had left recommending places to eat.
The biggest recommendation was for “the best place to eat in the area” – it was 20 miles away but one evening we decided to give it a go. After the 20 mile drive down narrow country lanes we arrived at the destination.
We walked in the door, took one look, turned round and walked straight out. Basically the place was packed out with Brits and it was effectively a British pub, with a pub menu, dropped in the middle of France.
What was all the more galling was the fact that just 200m away from the cottage the local farmer’s wife had a small restaurant in her kitchen. The meat and produce was from the farm, the quality was such it would not have been out of place in a 3* Michelin restaurant and it was grossly under-priced. She could have tripled her prices and it would still have been good value.
Indeed we were so smitten with the meal we left a 150% tip, well the next time we visited we were treated like family.
And do you know what, this culinary gem on their doorstep wasn’t even mentioned in the “where to eat” guide left in the cottage.
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