It’s a fairly trite observation to say that Americans are fond of their food, but crikey, they really bloody are, aren’t they?
This morning for breakfast I asked for two poached eggs on brown toast. I got two poached eggs in a bowl on a large plate with a big pile of ‘breakfast potatoes’ (tasty but almost certainly unhealthy), two rashers of crispy bacon, and two rounds of whole wheat toast.
Later, while wandering around Disneyland I bought a ‘regular’ ice cream cone about as long as my forearm, probably containing more of the stuff than a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, and a small root beer – or roughly half a litre. The idea of a large option terrifies the bejesus out of me. The ‘large float’ option (which the apparently partially deaf stall owner initially mistook as my order) even more so.
Tonight we’re going to eat at an apparently salubrious and semi-famous restaurant named The Kress. I think I’m probably safest with a salad, though I’m equally certain that will arrive on a plate the size of a coffee table with enough dressing to drown an average-sized child.
My stomach is not going to thank me for this trip.
(Random fact nugget of the day: Forgot to mention yesterday that Zoe ‘Avatar’ Saldana was on our plane and got papped exiting LAX with me standing no more than six or seven yards away. Also, given her tiny frame, she presumably cannot ever eat when she is in America.)