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Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

1 day ago

When I first came to England from Canada, I had a very specific idea of what a proper English pub would be.

Low beams. Roaring fire. Dog asleep by the hearth. A landlord who knows your pint before you order it. Some bloke called Arthur at the end of the bar who’s been there since decimalisation and knows absolutely everybody’s business.

Then someone sent me to Wetherspoons.

Jesus Christ. 😂

I went looking for Dickens and found an airport departure lounge with fruit machines, a carpet capable of hiding a homicide and a kitchen apparently communicating entirely through the medium of PING! PING! PING!

Thankfully, I kept looking.

And eventually I found them.

The crooked little village pubs. Floors that haven’t been level since the Civil War. Fires roaring in winter. Dogs under tables. Six things on the menu because there’s an actual human being out the back cooking them. Locals taking the piss out of each other. A landlord who knows your name, your drink and probably why your neighbour’s car was outside someone else’s house at 2am.

They weren’t polished. They weren’t corporate. They weren’t cheap.

They were warm, eccentric, occasionally dysfunctional and absolutely bloody magnificent.

I fell completely in love with the quintessential English pub.

So much so…

I eventually bought one.

Which proves that falling in love and making sound financial decisions should never be attempted at the same time. 😂🍺

What’s YOUR idea of the perfect British pub?

#BritishPubs #PubLife #SupportYourLocal #HospitalityLife #BritishHumour … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

3 days ago

A little over a month ago, I published a book.

Which is still a ridiculous sentence to type.

I spent years collecting stories from behind the bar, inside the kitchen and occasionally from underneath whatever fresh disaster had just landed on my head. I wrote about the customers, the staff, the food, the lies, the theft, the bodily fluids, the spectacularly poor decisions and, yes, the actual sh*t on the ceiling.

Then I pressed PUBLISH.

And thought: Well. That’s that then.

It was not, in fact, that.

Since then, this bloody book has hit #7 on Amazon’s Food Writers bestseller list, sitting there among people whose names you actually recognise. I’ve been interviewed on the radio. I’ve signed copies. I’ve had messages from complete strangers telling me they laughed out loud, recognised their own pub life in it, tried the recipes and, in one particularly satisfying case, spat out a drink laughing.

And every so often I remember that people I have never met are sitting on sofas, lying in bed, sitting on holiday or possibly hiding in the toilet reading stories that once existed only inside my slightly battered head.

That is fucking weird.

Wonderful. But weird.

Publishing a book is a bit like opening a pub. You spend forever preparing, convince yourself you know what you’re doing, open the doors and then discover absolutely none of it is under your control.

Some days the sales are brilliant. Some days Amazon appears to have hidden the book behind the spare batteries and haemorrhoid cream.

But people are reading it.

And that was the whole bloody point.

So, just over a month into this completely accidental adventure, thank you to everyone who bought it, reviewed it, shared it, recommended it, laughed at it or told some poor unsuspecting bastard:

“You need to read this woman’s book.”

I genuinely have no idea where this goes next.

But Christ, I’m enjoying the ride.

Lies, Theft and Sh*t on the Ceiling
A Canadian’s journey to pub ownership in England.

Apparently, writing the bastard was only the beginning.

#BookTok #AuthorTok #PubLife #BritishPubs #Memoir … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

1 week ago

IT’S MY BIRTHDAY… SO NATURALLY I’M IN A KITCHEN. 🎂🍳

Most people spend their birthday opening presents.

Hospitality workers spend it opening the walk-in fridge.

Today I’ve been cooking lunch for a lovely group of villagers, plus anyone else who wandered in because “we’ll just see if they’ve got room” is apparently a national pastime.

There was no leisurely breakfast.

No champagne.

No afternoon off.

Instead, I was serenaded by the soothing sound of a ticket printer having what can only be described as a full-blown emotional breakdown.

The gastropans tried to remove a fingerprint.

The oven branded my forearm for the hundredth time.

The cling film once again demonstrated that it will happily stick to absolutely everything… except the thing you’re trying to wrap.

And at some point, someone inevitably asked if we could “just squeeze one more in.”

Of course they did.

Would I rather be somewhere sunny with a cold beer?

For about thirty seconds… yes.

But here’s the strange thing about hospitality.

You sacrifice your own birthdays so other people can celebrate theirs.

You miss family lunches so strangers can enjoy theirs.

And somehow, despite the burns, the chaos, the impossible requests and the permanent smell of garlic, you keep coming back.

Because there’s something oddly satisfying about sending people home happy.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to celebrate turning another year older in the traditional chef’s way…

By eating a handful of chips standing over a bin before someone shouts, “Chef!” again. 🍻

⸻

#HospitalityLife #ChefLife #PubLife #BirthdayShift #KitchenConfidential … See MoreSee Less