Saturday’s sunshine tempted us to Hampstead Heath, of which our nearest corner is Parliament Hill. It was a fun day – T enjoyed the playground and paddling pool; I enjoyed the random Swedish festival and, come lunchtime when both kids were blissfully asleep, Rachel and I enjoyed the Bull & Last. I really, really like this place, even though the chips have got fatter and fatter and now they’re just triple-fried skinless wedges.
We both had salads (mine had these totally amazing balsamic baby onions, but that’s another story), and we shared a Scotch egg. I say shared, Rachel had a mouthful, I dealt with the rest.
I’ve always considered the search for the perfect Scotch egg a bit like seeking out the sweetest-smelling turd: even the best one you find still won’t be very nice. But if you do want the perfect Scotch egg, I’m not sure these can be beaten. Still warm, peppery meat with a bit of texture to it and the egg yolk – and this really is vital – golden and runny, plus an excellent crispy crumb. Unbeatable. But still a Scotch egg.
I apologise for the lack of wine-related content in this post.