Chips on everything... and with

EVERYONE knew it as the greasy spoon. But it wasn't fair. It had a five star hygiene rating for a start. And never did I get a spoon that was greasy. Not clean perhaps but never greasy. Even that is probably unfair since I do not recall complaining. And I would have.

Bert, we all knew him as Bert. So far as I know he was 153 years old and had been running this East Anglian caff (sorry but it did not deserve an 'e' never mind an acute accent) with its surprising name for most of those years. Without changing the menu. Oh yes, that name – Monsieur Albert's Diner. See that? Bit of French, bit of English and a bit of American – all bases covered. Well you couldn't blame him. We were about five miles from the USAF airbase (where, incidentally, I happen to know there was an absolutely first class and very real US diner). And there was a French language school in town and, well, we were nominally at least English and Albert was, equally nominally, English. I never have known his surname.

The food was the thing of course. OK he did do the best brew for a fair distance and, again to be fair, his coffee was excellent. In common with the modern trend his slightly depressing menus (photocopied, dog eared and done on a very poor desk top publishing package) included five varieties of tea. Yorkshire outsold everything by about 400 to one. I still goggled at the idea that some people thought the tea was actually grown in Yorkshire (OK, I know we grow some in the UK but hey!). And his coffee was best arabica, ground on the premises and available from espresso to (oh well if you must) hob top brew.

Let us begin with the reality behind this. Or rather in front of. The crockery was what we now call harlequin but I doubt that twee description would cover the vast variety or the chips and cracks which Bert's innate meanness guaranteed. Spoons were available but only on request and gathered back sharpish. Clearly his kitchen was not like ours at home where the darn things bred if left overnight in a drawer.

So to the menu. Problem with that was that Bert only knew how to fry food. And he had not yet heard of healthy oils. So everything came with a generous portion of grease – hence the greasy spoon moniker. And Bert had never heard of the all-day breakfast. No point since everything he served could be considered breakfast, regardless of the time of... hang on. I am exaggerating. There were his specials. I'll come back to those. Anyway, to the fry up which was what virtually every customer came for, or at least finally chose. But let us be clear – Bert's ingredients were first class. His bacon was the best in the county and came from the best farm. His eggs were ditto – and he knew about ducks and geese etc. And his sausages were to die for (or possibly of, given the quantity we consumed). Anyway they too came from a top pig breeder's farm and were famous across the region (thanks partly to his mate being a top TV chef). If you visited their farm shop you would find a wide variety of sausage types in the modern way. Bert was not modern. His were 'traditional English bangers' – it said so on the menu. Tomatoes were, well tomatoes. Beans were beans – unlikely to be Mr H's since they were a bit smaller and less sweet. His hash browns (new on the menu after several years of pressure) looked remarkably like the ones in our farm shop freezer. His toasted bread was white or brown – I firmly believe they were identical but dyed for effect. He did chips on demand. Or sometimes not, depending if he had any wilting under the heater when you would get a free portion – with added salesmanship!

Bert did three sizes of 'all-day' breakfast. “Bert's Big Breakfast” would deliver three of everything on a plate the size of a baseball pitch (patterns various; chips with everything). “Bert's Proper Brekkie” - two of everything. And “Bert's Little Starter” - he wanted to call it children's size but since it was the most popular it would have been rude.

There were pies of course. Come lunchtime they were popular. Bert did not make them. He proudly told us who did however, convinced the provenance justified the high price. Varieties were steak, steak and kidney, steak and mushroom, Cornish pastie, chicken and ham, Scottish Pie (the mutton one). The first three looked and mostly tasted the same, the Cornish would probably have disowned the pastie, the chicken appeared absent from the white content of that one and the Scottish pie – well I am no Scot but I doubt worse could be found and certainly not north of the border. But this was where the chips came in. Two types – Bert's Beefy Ones – which were good it must be said. Big, twice cooked and decently crisp. And Bert's Skinny Ones – actually decent French fries but he bought them in - “Too bloody fiddly” he would complain.

Peas were available. I have no idea where he found them or why they were never actually edible. Little green bullets they were and little green, hot bullets was what they became. Carrots were done by Mrs Bert – oh, yes, there was one, but essentially invisible. And everyday, cabbage. Now I was never a fan of cabbage as a child but then that was the 50s and unless it had been cooked for an hour it wasn't considered edible. Actually because it was cooked for an hour it was never edible. But Bert left the veg to Marge and she knew a thing or two about cabbage. The water was hot enough to scare the stuff but leave it crisp and attentive.

I forget a detail – never ask for a starter at Bert's. It will just get him going and your entire lunch break may disappear in a shower of angry reactionary stuff the like of which not even our worst right wing newspapers would dare publish.

Of course there were Bert's 'specials'. These were chalked on a board which, so far as I am aware, had never been taken down or changed. There was 'steak – to your taste'; breast of chicken; pork chop; lamb fillet. You could choose 'potatoes, roast or boiled' and 'vegetables of the day' – you guessed it; peas, carrots and cabbage. And 'Desserts – apple pie, rhubarb crumble, peaches – with ice cream or custard OR BOTH!' (his capitals and exclamation mark).

But all this was about to change. Bert said so. Often. Every year. You see a few years back it was much worse but then he discovered 'provenance' and went out to find some new foods to sell. What he came back with was more of the same stuff, except better quality. The issue he failed to address was that his restaurant had not changed, he still had no idea how to cook except to fry and, well, to be honest the crockery and cutlery hadn't changed either. But for all that you could rarely find space at a table. And that posh this year's model Merc in the yard at back? That was Bert's...