Breakfast Under A Cornish Sun: The perfect romantic comedy for summer. Samantha TongeЧитать онлайн книгу.
game, as long as he smouldered and made Saffron realise I was no longer the girl in the corner.
‘Right, let’s go. I’m starving,’ she said. ‘And itching to try that all-day breakfast.’
‘Apart from the kippers …’ I pulled a face.
Izzy grinned. ‘We are in Cornwall. A coastal county. It’s time you tried some delicacies from the sea.’
‘You’re not getting me to try anything that lives in a shell or breathes through gills,’ I protested. ‘Unless it is covered in batter and served with chips or in a yummy sauce, like the pie I tried with Marcus.’
The two of us strolled towards the restaurant, Fisherman’s Delight, and, as we approached, my stomach rumbled again. That was the other thing about sea air—it gave you a great appetite. In fact, in Guvnah’s last letter she’d talked of having put on a few kilos. My chest glowed. I’d arranged to visit her tomorrow. Her village wasn’t far from Port Penny and Izzy said she’d drop me there in the afternoon, following us having lunch out at a café she’d found that had a great reputation for Cornish fare—she was hoping to be inspired. Guvnah had a bicycle I could borrow if I fancied cycling back to White Rocks.
We headed into the reception building and the restaurant to the left. It had a long bar, stretching across the back. At the rear, on the right, was the kitchen with an open serving hatch. Fisherman’s Delight boasted a classy decor, albeit a little worn—think uncluttered magnolia tables and walls covered with arty black and white photos of local beauty spots. Yet the clientele—a couple of families—were your average holiday crowd, in shorts and T-shirts, with wet, chlorine-fragranced hair. Kids sat eating chips and playing on their Nintendos. In one corner, a baby in a high chair screamed, its face covered in bright orange purée. Talk about a mismatch. Two waiters were dressed in formal black trousers and a waistcoat.
‘Ooh, he’s nice,’ said Izzy and gazed at the younger waiter, who had baby-smooth skin and highlighted, gelled back hair. She gazed at his name badge. ‘And his name is Greg!’
I grinned. Izzy was obsessed with the presenter Gregg Wallace from the programme MasterChef.
‘Nah. He’s too well groomed for me. I wouldn’t dare forget to wax or floss my teeth if he and I went out.’
‘I bet his chest is as smooth as a baby’s bottom,’ she said and pulled a face. ‘I really do not get the modern woman’s obsession with Poldark and his chest hair. I mean, imagine licking whipped cream off it. Ew. You’d probably get your teeth caught.’
‘Izzy!’
We giggled.
‘So full-paying families arrive next week?’ I said in a low voice.
‘Yes. These competition winners leave tomorrow, which gives Kensa and Tremain five days to do some last-minute thinking before the proper launch next Monday. The resort will effectively be shut down apart from a few guests like us who booked, regardless of the rebranding phase.’ She blushed. ‘Or rather idiots like me who didn’t read the small print. It does warn that only a skeleton staff will be working over the next few days. This restaurant, for example, will be open but only in a casual way, while the staff do last-minute retraining for next week.’
I shrugged. ‘Idiot or rather genius—means you got a cheap booking and who wants to eat in all the time anyway? We’ll be out and about.’
The older waiter, George, came over and showed us to seats, a couple of tables away from the screaming baby.
‘Should be a bit quieter for you here, ladies,’ he said and jerked his head towards the young guests before wrinkling his nose.
‘He’ll have to change that attitude before next week,’ I said to Izzy, once we’d ordered two beers and all-day breakfasts. I covered my eyes with my hands and then suddenly pulled them away—cue a minute or so of playing peekaboo with the baby. And cue silence. The mum shot me a grateful glance, as her small one returned to playing with his spoon.
I squinted into the kitchen. Raven curls flashed by now and again. I wondered how many chefs they had. The more I saw of the place it was obviously run on a tight budget. Not that that seemed to affect the quality of the food. All I can say is, wow, when our breakfasts finally arrived. An invitingly brown sausage lay glistening, next to a buttercup yellow egg, its plump yolk just waiting to be burst. I eyed a crispy rasher of bacon and aromatic fried mushrooms. I forked up a mouthful of shiny baked beans and couldn’t wait to cut into the square hash browns, which promised a satisfying carb kick. Plus on the side was fried bread—I hadn’t enjoyed that since my childhood. Two thirds of the way through, I felt Christmas-dinner-full, but kept on eating—it would have been a travesty not to, with all the different flavours and textures satisfying my taste buds.
The baby screeched as loudly as a fishing boat’s horn, because his beaker fell on the floor. A tut headed its way from the waiter called George.
‘Is there a problem?’ said the mum and straightened her halter-neck floral top, as he shot her a disdainful look.
I tried peekaboo faces again, but this time they didn’t work. George pursed his lips, while shouting came from the kitchen. Black curls flashed again across the back of the hatch.
Izzy studied the menu and shook her head. ‘I can’t see any evidence of rebranding so far. How on earth is this menu going to appeal to kids?’
I glanced down my menu and looked at the breakfast section—eggs Benedict, granola with yogurt, fried kippers, Welsh rarebit … Where were the cereals, toast, muffins and chocolate croissants? Breakfast. Mmm. Best meal of the day. Particularly in those budget hotels that served a morning buffet for ten quid. I’d have a bowl of fresh fruit, followed by a full English fry-up, then help myself to bottomless cups of coffee and anything baked. Muffins were the best—so soft and crumbly—although flaky croissants always hit the spot.
As if she had heard us talking, the mother of the baby called the waiter over. ‘Eggs Benedict,’ she said, brow furrowing, ‘is that hard-boiled ones covered with Hollandaise sauce?’
The waiter wrinkled his nose again as if he’d never been asked that question before.
‘We’d be grateful if the kitchen just did us scrambled eggs instead, mate, if we come here tomorrow morning after a swim, just before we leave,’ said her husband, who wore a football top to match his son’s.
The waiter straightened up. ‘I don’t believe he would. Chef is quite firm about sticking to the menu.’
The husband glanced sideways at his little boy, who scribbled with crayons on a pad of paper. ‘Surely he’ll bend those rules for a child?’
Lips pursed, George folded his arms.
Shifting awkwardly in her seat, the mother sighed. ‘Leave it, Phil love. Clearly rules is rules here. Come on, darling, this place is a disaster. It won’t be getting a great write-up. We can make do with cheese on toast tonight, back at the lodge.’
I glanced at Izzy, before we both looked at the waiter, expecting him to do his best to make the family happy, like we did when—rare occurrence—a customer complained about a cocktail or doughnut. Instead, he just bowed and stood to the side. Unfortunate position as just at that moment the baby lost control of its spoon. A blob of orange purée flew through the air and landed on George’s left cheek.
‘Can’t you control that child,’ he muttered and threw his hands in the air. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his face, muttering something about too liberal parenting.
Phil stood up. ‘What did you say?’
George put down the napkin, face expressionless. The mum shot me a worried look. The little boy stopped crayoning and his bottom lip wobbled.
I stood up and shook off Izzy’s arm before standing in between them. Being one of many siblings, I was used to breaking up disagreements. Mum always called me the diplomat as I preferred to keep my fists to myself and fight with my tongue. ‘I’m