Us Aussies, we LOVE an included breakfast. When there isn’t one, you kind of feel like the hotel has something to hide, or is ripping you off. My mother, being European, always says things like, “Oh, you can just pick up a roll later…” But we Bogans know that a proper package deal bloody well includes brekkie. Buffet preferably.
The Thai people must love Aussies. And yanks. And Poms. And Japanese. And Italians. Good grief… the budgie smugglers! Each day squillions of Bogans from around the world roll off the plane expecting all-you-can eat, knock-off handbags and PLENTY of alcohol. And the Thai… well, they love us LONG TIME. Slap those Baht down and you can get whatever you want here.
Being so small, I doubt Thai people eat or drink anything actually. They exist on humidity alone. So I think they’ve done a bloody good job figuring out what to serve for breakfast. Yep, they serve everything they can find.
Not content with actual breakfast foods, here at our Bogan package deal brekkie, it looks like a food hall. Sure, there’s the obligatory egg man, pancake flopper, the fruit, the salad (although, I mean.. really… I’m on holidays, am I going to make myself a salad first thing in the morning?) There’s the seventeen types of bacon and toast. Yeah, ok, there’s the sushi and Japanese weird shit station. And I’ve even come to tolerate the European cheese, danish and cold meats station. But really… naan bread and curry? Teriyaki Pork? For breakfast? And here’s the kicker that I haven’t seen at a Bogan holiday breakfast buffet before… self-serve gin and vodka. Uhuh. BtT went running to find orange juice whilst I figured out if I could soak my French toast in it somehow. Yes, because after those 99 baht cocktails each night, what you want for breakfast is a good slurp of white spirits. Thinking we may be setting a poor drug education example for BHG, I elbow BtT, who splutters, “Oh, you… ummm… only drink at breakfast when umm… it’s free, and only when you’re on holidays. And obviously not driving. And it’s VERY weak. Hardly touches the sides.” To which the adolescent answers, “Yeah, it’s called a Screwdriver. I saw Charlie make it on Two and a Half Men”. Naturally. Scull up buttercup.
And you know you’re on a good thing when there’s a basket of Vegemite sachets yeah? Saves packing a travel tube. Although, the Aussie way of course, is that whenever Vegemite’s available, you just… well, don’t really feel like any. It’s only in far-off destinations that I really crave vegemite on toast. Like in Alaska at 4pm. Like I’m going to have it here when I can dip my rambutan in laksa and stir fry everything except elephant.
We have ‘food rules’ when we travel.
A bit anal, but I reckon there’s probably a support group for it somewhere. We can’t be the only ones.
Rule 1. Buffet breakfast = flog stuff for later. I’m the one who announces loudly, “Well don’t think you’re havin’ lunch while we’re here!” BtT and BHG have become experts at stuffing the ‘green bag’ full of ‘stuff for later’. Yep, they can get three plates of custard donuts, seven baby yoghurts… Just in case the seven thousand calories we ate for brekkie wears off by noon.
Rule 2. Try the weird shit. Weird shit is defined as anything we wouldn’t ordinarily eat at home. So yeah, we’ve even all manner of crap around the world, with the ultimate conclusion that not every country is as lucky as Oz with their harvest. I’m not into scorpion on a stick, and there’s a reason why we don’t import them and sell scorpions at Woolies. But, yeah, I had Indian for brekkie today, and a bit of Thai soup slop. BtT had some prawn stirfry. The BHG is really adventurous. She had one of those posh ‘crewsonts’. How dreadfully European dahhhling. I loved an interaction this morning between an Aussie Boganette (not I, for I don’t wear lime green sundresses to breakfast no matter where I am in the world) and the Thai omelette man.
Him: Yes Maam.
Her: Ummmm… an omelette thanks mate.
Him: Yes Maam.
Her: 2 eggs. None of that brown muck.
Him: Yes Maam???
Her (leans over the bench and pokes her finger in the bowl of brown muck): That stuff. None of that in me omelette thanks.
Him: Yes Maam.
Oh, and it goes without saying that I’m not eating guts or brains. Those sweet breads could be coasted in gold leaf. I’m not going near them. Ever. Kind of like needing to use a public squat pan. Just isn’t going to happen.
Rule 3. If there’s free grog, then it has to be drunk. Regardless of the time of day. I mean really, that’s just a given. One must also gatecrash any function where there is free grog. Or finger food. Both preferably.
Rule 4. You don’t put on weight when on holidays. It’s like that rule where all the calories fall out of Easter Eggs when you crack them. You just don’t put on weight when on hols. Because you don’t weigh yourself obviously.
So, the unthinkable has happened at our Breakfast at Sweetbreads. We’re, well… a bit over it. I’ve eaten all the dragonfruit I can. I’ve tried all the weird shit. BtT’s eaten eight custard donuts each morning after his perfectly cooked bacon and eggs. Now what?
It’s obvious really. Vegemite on toast tomorrow. And maybe a Vodka.
Breakfast at Sweethearts, Cold Chisel, 1979.
No comments:
Post a Comment