Last month in Croatia an old Serbian guy told me a joke about the British, the French, the Germans and the Swiss. I’m shaky on the details but it concerned a vision of paradise in which the engineers were German, the chefs were French, the lovers were Italian, the Swiss were in charge of organising everything and the police – or the “bobbies” as my Serbian friend Slobo called them – were British. I felt a light swelling of pride at this Dixon of Dock Green characterisation of law enforcement in my home country. As for the punchline, I’m not sure how we got to it but there was some kind of muddle in which the Italians were put in charge of organising everything, which led to the policing being done by the Germans, the engineering by the French, the British did the cooking and all the lovers were Swiss.
Now, there’s a lot of crass national stereotyping to unpick here. German coppers seem OK to me, and our Renault drives very nicely. As for the Swiss, while I’ve never had a Swiss lover, I can’t imagine what they might lack for in the bedroom. My friend told me he once offended a Swiss bloke with this joke, and now he had offended me. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard my home country’s food casually disparaged in my earshot. And I’m not having it. Having spent three weeks travelling around Europe this summer, I know for sure that, depending on the criteria, we’re the best.
Where we win hands down is on variety. I was told the joke in a bustling village by a harbour on an island in the Adriatic. I love the place and I’ve spent an awful lot of time there, although I won’t name it lest I cause offence with what I’m about to say, resulting in me being killed, cooked and eaten next time I’m there. But within five minutes’ walk of the cafe where we were sitting were about 20 restaurants. I’ve been to them all at some time or other. While some are better than others, the standard of food is generally excellent – seafood, some meat, plenty of salads, a lot of chard and a pizza or two. However, the menus are about the same wherever you go. The offering hardly varies. This is true on that beloved island of mine and indeed elsewhere in continental Europe. In France you eat French, Italy Italian, Greece Greek, Spain Spanish, and so on. Wherever you go, it’s marvellous for the first five days and then it becomes a bit more boring with every day that passes.
In the UK, we have a bit of everything, happily offering up French, Italian, Greek or whatever you fancy. Even the smallest of our towns will probably have – in addition to a traditional cafe, chippy, restaurant or pub with food – an Indian/Bangladeshi place, something Chinese, a kebab shop and perhaps a Thai restaurant. A nonsense argument about this diversity being itself an outcome of our incompetence in the kitchen might be advanced, but even if this is the case, what of it? How lucky we are not to be living in the culinary monoculture that is the norm for many of our European cousins.
The area in which we are comparatively and embarrassingly ill-served is what we might term food-on-the-move. Our motorway services are overcrowded and overpriced, featuring all the usual suspect mega-brands. Off the motorways you’ll find next to nothing, and if you do, well, good luck. Best of British.
On the continent, however, it is a different story. Going back to where I started this rant, in Croatia, there seem to be excellent little family restaurants at every other bend in the road. And the motorway services, as elsewhere in Europe, are spotless and replete with interesting stuff you want to eat and drink. Somewhere in Belgium, along with fuel, we got a small loaf of bread as black as night, with some nice cheese. In Italy, east of Venice, the chap mending the espresso machine filled my mug for free. But my personal favourite was one of Landzeit’s Autobahn-Restaurants in Austria, just south of Wels. Ye gods, it was like a cross between Fortnum & Mason, your best local buffet restaurant and your favourite farmers’ market. Mountains of salad and vegetables; hams and strings of things hanging all about; a fish counter; patisserie; and sausages – meat and vegan – so thick and long you could have rolled cricket pitches with them. Agog, I checked out of the window. Yes, there was a motorway out there and this was therefore a motorway service station.
The chefs looked like chefs, and not in a fancy dress way. It wasn’t just the outfits; they knew their onions. Each counter was like a different cookery class. Other staff were kitted out in what I took to be traditional Austrian dress. Bit kitsch, I suppose, but my love was blind to this. Could we bring the dog in? But of course! And here’s some water and snacks for him. I was filled with regret that we’d only popped in to charge the car and had to be somewhere else by nightfall. Otherwise, I would have stayed for the night, or even a week. I may make a special journey back there next year. Before we left, heavy of heart, I startled some of the staff by barking at them in poor German that it was the best Autobahn-Restaurant I’d ever come across in all my days.
I’m now working on a joke of my own featuring a vision of paradise in which we find a Croatian roadside restaurant, an Austrian motorway service station, a faulty Italian espresso machine and a British curry house. Feel free to come up with your own punchline.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
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