‘Can the food culture of San Sebastián ever translate to a sit-down restaurant in Blighty?’
The British seaside is presently heavily oversubscribed and it may well be more jocund simply to stay on your sofa looking at scenes on Google Images of Broadstairs, Margate or Hastings than to brave the actual throngs. But there is something hard-wired into the British psyche that, every time the sun shines, compels us to run as far as we can to the edge of our island without falling off. And then we eat ice-cream.
Or, in the case of Folkestone, we eat gyros, tacos, poke and acai in a ginormous leisure zone called The Goods Yard that lives in a vast car park. Just park up, then follow the scent of designer hot dogs and the dulcet tones of Fat Man Scoop imploring you to Put Your Hands Up.
