“There are only so many London restaurants, we don’t want to run out before our domain registration, www.foodieboys.com, expires.” Tony sighed.
“Too true, perhaps we should go and review some places in Kent. After all, Kent is much like London. They have similar accents, for example.”
“I was thinking the exact same thing.”
And so it was we took the evening train heading East, towards a little place they call Birchington Vale Caravan park.
Friday
To get there we alighted the train, with all our personal belongings, at Westgate-on-Sea.
“Okay Google” shouted Toby at his Android phone, “Westgate-on-Sea foodie locations.”
Next thing you know, we’re standing outside Paul’s, which came complete with a 4.2 Google rating from five reviews. We entered and immediately noticed the delightful outside area.
“It reminds me of a Spanish garden,” Tony mused.
“I knew a girl who had her bum hole licked in a Spanish garden,” Toby shouted slightly too loudly as we pulled the door open.
After explaining ourselves we were granted permission to stay.
“Hi, we’re the FoodieBoys and we’d like to try some of your local, seasonal fare,” we said in unison.
“We’ve got burgers,” the barmaid said.
“That is SO London.We’ll have two.”
“How would you like them cooked?”
“Medium-rare please, we’re foodies from London.”
The burgers arrived, topped with blue cheese and bacon. They were perfectly pleasant, although neither of them were medium-rare. Perhaps to be expected in the sticks.
Not a medium-rare burger.
After devouring our medium-well burgers we asked at the bar for a cab to take us to the caravan park.
“Call for carriages!” Tony shrieked.
“Sorry?” the barmaid responded.
“We need a taxi to take us to the caravan park.”
“Oh.”
And so the taxi driver came, hunched over, into the bar. “TAXI FOR THE FOODIE BOYS!” He was quite the character and even asked if he could work with us on our website. We of course declined.
The Birchington Vale Caravan park came fully equipped with a bar, full to the brim of drunken men and children high on litres and litres of slush puppy.
We perused the menu to see what sort of culinary delights we might enjoy.
Chicago Town pizza or Chicago Town pizza were the options. Washed down with slush puppy.
“We’re going to need that freak taxi driver again,” Toby said with delight.
Saturday
Sure enough Saturday arrived, how predictable.
During the day we ate Hula Hoops, biscuits and Feast ice creams acquired from the shop, as well as some exquisite flapjacks.
When evening arrived we headed to the bustling, seaside town of Margate – FoodieBuoys more like!!
After a pleasant hour chatting to locals on the seafront, we decided we needed to book a table at a local bistro.
“OKAY GOOGLE,” bellowed Toby, much to the bewilderment of the locals.
But before he could complete the sentence, Tony chimed in, “what about this place?”
The website’s mobile site confusingly hid the menu from us so we decided it must be exclusive. We used our influence on Twitter to acquire a table at Giorgios – an Italian/ Greek / Mediterranean restaurant depending on which site you read.
Walking in, we found that a huge stag party had also found their way into the place, but we recognised the commercial imperative that large venues have to get as many people in as possible to make their restaurant economically viable. Plus, we were hungry and didn’t know anywhere else to go. So we snapped up our table.
Cocktails! Personally, we can’t have a meal without having at least one before. That’s because we’re London foodies, you may feel differently. We ordered espresso martinis but received one more than we asked for*! Whether this was a genuine mistake, or an attempt to butter up #FoodInfluencers we can’t be sure.
(*Full disclosure – we did not request this but these “mistakes” are a perk of the job.)
We ordered our food.
Scallops
Mozzarella
Sea Bass
Mista bigboy
Starters: Tone opted for scallops with bacon and asparagus, while Tobes went for a mozzarella and tomato salad.
“It freaks my nut every time I piss after asparagus,” Tony told the owner.
Mains: Sea Bass with lemon and white wine jus and a ‘Grigliata Mista’ – steak, chicken, sausage, aubergine and chips.
“I can see why you call it a Mista!” Toby said to the waitress as it was placed before him.
“Sorry?” she replied.
“I can see why you call it a Mista!”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“You wouldn’t called it a Missus, would you?”
“Erm, no. Can I get you any more drinks?”
“Because it’s too big for a woman isn’t it? Really. Unless she had a particularly large appetite, which is fine, I actually like women who eat more than me. Have you ever been in a Spanish garden?”
“JUST some tap water please!” Tony interrupted.
The food was fine. Look at the pictures and taste it for yourself. Do we really have to explain everything to you?
Although we were stuffed, we thought we’d order dessert. Chocolate fudge cake and a chocolate fondant.
Sadly, when thrusting my spoon through the fondant it did not deliver a gooey ending. If this had happened in London I would have demanded to see the chef, but I presumed the ovens in Kent may not work as effectively, so let them off.
Solid fondant
Sunday
Another day of eating like four year old children left to their own devices for the first time at the caravan park left us hungry for more of Kent’s foodie scene.
So, obviously we went to Broadstairs.
We were busy debating our favourite type of sausage in the back of the taxi when the driver began to talk.
“Charles Dickens used to live here you know.”
“I think the Lincolnshire is better than the Cumberland and you’re never going to be able to persuade me otherwise.” Tony declared.
“Charles Dickens used to eat sausages here.” Said the driver, desperately.
“Bollocks.” Toby said, we threw a tenner at him and jumped out. He shouted, “THIS HAS GOT CHARLES DICKENS ON IT” as he drove away.
We walked around the corner and BAM! The Charles Dickens pub.
“He was right!”
What does Sunday say to you? To some it would say “church,” others would say “The Observer,” but to Tobes it would say “Roast.”
So he ordered the lamb roast but Tony went for the fish and chips, as he’d spent the day looking at the sea and wondering if fish eat potatoes.
We had a top seat, right next to the kitchen. An exclusive spot! We saw our food being plated up which was a real treat.
“HEY! What are you doing to his fish?” Toby yelled.
“I’m just checking its temperature,” the chef said as he removed the metal thermometer from the cod.
“Bit late for that, mate, it’s already dead!” Tony quipped, but sadly they’d disappeared around the back of the kitchen so they couldn’t hear it.
Fish with lemon in a little bag, “the best invention I’ve ever seen,” – Toby.
Monday
Time to go home.
We bid farewell to the oddballs at the caravan park ( including the topless man shouting “this is the life eh mate?” as he drove past on a sit on mower) and headed back to Westgate-on-Sea. With an hour to kill before our train we spotted an opportunity for one last foodie adventure.
We approached the man working at the train station.
“Hello, do you know anywhere we can get a coffee?”
“I’m not from here,” he barked at us.
“Oh, so you don’t know anywhere that sells coffee near the station where you work?”
“No.”
With this horrid interaction ringing in our ears we disconsolately trundled up the street. Fortunately, about 200 metres from the station were three cafes.
“Perhaps he’s blind?” Toby tried to justify the station master’s actions.
“He wasn’t blind! He was just a massive twat.” Tony shouted as we flung the door to the Beano cafe open.
“I’ll have the breakfast special and a flat white please.”
“A flat what?”
“White.”
“Make it two coca cola, a special breakfast and a sausage and chips please, buddy?” Toby interrupted, bored of this second difficult interaction of the day.
“Look at that plastic washing-up bowl full of bacon,” Tony said, for there was one.
Mmm special
We speculated as to why the cafe was called the Beano cafe, and settled on the fact there must have been a character who made shit breakfasts, maybe one of the minor ones in the middle you didn’t read. Like Beryl the Peril.
Kent’s food scene clearly wasn’t prepared for us and we’ve come to the conclusion that London is better than Kent.
Kent gets two boys out of five.
