Look, the food was... acceptable. Nobody's writing sonnets about it, but it wasn't offensive either. Just your standard, dependable breakfast fare--like the culinary equivalent of a beige cardigan. And all was going reasonably well until The Toast Incident.
So there we are, happily nibbling away, when--shock twist--we're served an extra piece of toast. Unrequested. Unannounced. A rogue slice. Naturally, we pointed it out, because we are, at heart, decent and law-abiding people. What do they do? They take it away. I mean--snatched. Gone. Like we'd been caught smuggling sourdough across international borders.
I asked, trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice, "Are you going to give it to someone else?"
And with the casual indifference of someone discussing municipal rubbish collection, they said:
"Oh no. Straight in the bin."
The bin.
Perfectly good toast. Doomed. Like some sort of gluten-based Greek tragedy.
And just when I thought we'd reached peak absurdity, we were overcharged. Because of course we were. It was the natural finale to this breakfast-themed emotional rollercoaster.
Would I go back? Only if every other café in the Blue Mountains was closed, on fire, or had been mysteriously swallowed by the earth. Even then, I'd have a long, hard think. Possibly over a muesli bar in the car. read more