Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Food, Immaturity
I admit I have terrible taste.
I don’t mean in fashion or music, I mean in food.
The food I like is the food foodie people, hate.
It’s so bad, that on the occasions I get to fly business class, I ask for an economy meal. That is unless it’s the Chicken Satay on Singapore Airlines, then I will definitely have that.
Pathetic?
Oh I know …
Which is why I’m about to hit peak ‘first world problems’ with this post.
A few weeks ago I found myself in Melbourne.
I’d just enjoyed an ENOURMOUS Chicken Kiev – or, as it should be known, a Chicken Kyiv – when they offered me the dessert menu.
Among all the poncey, fancy stuff was a trifle.
A TRIFLE.
Trifles for me were a childhood party staple.
Strawberry Jelly. Custard. Sponge Fingers. Cream.
When you served it, it would make a sound like a Wellington Boot being pulled out the mud. It was glorious, gratuitous splodge and I bloody loved it.
So of course I ordered it and waited with glee.
My first clue should have been the dish it was served in.
It was fancy as fuck.
It’s the one at the top of this page.
My second clue was that it looked like a complete trifle rather than the road accident the typical served trifle resembled.
But if that didn’t get me, the taste did.
Instead of being transported to my childhood, I was taken to a place I didn’t belong.
Refined tastes of ingredients that don’t ever belong in a trifle.
Lemon.
Coconut.
Rose water jelly.
And don’t even get me started on the custard.
More insipid than a Tory councillor at election time.
The whole experience was this blend of bland and sour … literally ruining trifles and my childhood for ever.
I’m sure people with a evolved palette would love it.
However for people from Nottingham … it was edible violence.
But then, I do love Angel Delight, butterscotch flavour and Viennetta.