It was our first proper event of the year this weekend. Not that others, so far, have been improper. They’ve been terribly nice. We only let nice – pronounced ‘naice’, if you please – eat our food.
We arrived in a world all set to celebrate the daffodil. The van, unhappy with its ten-ton load of pittas, wobbled wearily across the wonky field. Our pitch had been snaffled by some very cheeky pizza chaps. I name no names. Being ever so nice, and not wanting to make a fuss – it’s the British way, no matter how misery-making – we nodded quietly and agreed to swap places. Oh dear. You know that saying ‘if Carlsberg did..’? Well this was more ‘if Victoria Wood did street food…’
The serving counter was at quite a jaunty angle, to say the least. Where the highest point lay was also a neatly-placed mole-hole. Think pinny-wearing giant to midget in two metres flat. You couldn’t make it up.
I won’t even mention the Force 8 gale. It was like some ghastly Masterchef challenge. I could hear Gregg Wallace shouting “Chop enough coriander for 150 people in this wind tunnel! In a mole-hole! In a bad mood!” (Yes, every one of Gregg Wallace’s sentences ends with an exclamation mark. Really? You’ve never noticed?)
Cooking just got real… but the daffs were terribly naice…