At the weekend Helena and I went to McDonalds, where I tried a new burger. It was surprisingly better than a Big Mac, and I'm glad that I've now found something vaguely edible to have when we go there.
This isn't very wordy, so instead I've decided to write it in the style of a certain famous British film director:
I'd been meaning to visit this particular branch of McDonald's for some time, as my friend BOV has been pestering me for a review. Purely by chance I happened to notice that the route taken by Sly Stallone's private jet, which he'd lent me so that I could get from Cannes to a delightful dinner party at Hertfordshire, would pass within a few miles of the place.
So whilst the pilot made a refuelling stop at the local airport, I spotted that Martin Lord, owner of a delightful winery in the area, happened to be there with his helicopter, and cadged a lift to McDonalds. The pilot wasn't happy landing in the car park, but I explained that this was an emergency, and that this counted as a starvation relief flight.
The decor has changed recently - pastel coloured furniture and decorative murals make the establishment look more upper class than the old plastic primary colours ever did. There was a brief difficulty when they refused to move a family who were sitting at the only well-located table in the place, so I had to tell the mother myself to take her husband and their screaming brats somewhere else.
On my way past, I stopped at another table to steal a bite of the famous filet o' fish. Sadly it met my expectation, with the exception of the capers in the tartar sauce, which to my great surprise were of particularly high quality.
The staff were very helpful, though they didn't seem to be able to locate a wine list, or the sommellier. So I got on the blower to Martin and he very kindly got the helicopter to fetch me a bottle of his 1997 Cabernet.
Meanwhile Charmaine, the delightful manageress of the establishment brought me my "M" burger. Unlike normal McDonald's food this is made with real meat, and real cheese, and the sauces are somewhat less overwhelming. It wasn't quite up to the standards of the Savoy Grill, but it was passable as a quick snack for hungry jetset directors, especially when washed down by two bottles of Cabernet (I had to send out for a second one), and I can recommend it.
Next time, though, I'll phone ahead so they can boot all of the riff-raff out. There were so many normal people in the place that I almost had to have a third bottle of Cabernet to steady my nerves.
The great thing about the whole fast food experience is that within 30 minutes of Sly's jet landing, we were back on our way to Hertfordshire, where the evening was ruined by my host's terrible faux pas of letting the port breathe for 15 minutes too long. But that's an article for another day.
NOTE: I'm away this week, so don't be surprised if I don't post any comments over the next few days...