Stamford, Lincolnshire.
As we returned from our North Yorkshire holiday we diverted our route home to take a B L F break ( bum, leg & food ) in Stamford. We also wanted to investigate a local fabric shop to see if they had anything to suitable for Cottonwood Home (there was).
Stamford as a market town, is a place with it's own distinct charm, full of beautiful honey coloured stone fronted buildings, most of them significantly of a certain age and maturity. Though it looks as though Stamford ought to be a county town, it isn't, it is, however, slap bang next to Burleigh House and its estate. It is clear that this and its position by a main north south axis road have always left both hands deeply plunged into the lucre. But like any small town with a shopping centre across this island, in this era, it has significant missing teeth in its high street's dentures. There is also an uneasy 'ghetto zoning' of high and low end shops that betrays an unevenly spread wealth divide.
On a previous visit we'd had quite a lovely lunch in this cafe, so we had no qualms about returning. This particular bright winter's afternoon its windows were steamed up very badly. This is never a good thing for a cafe, not to be able to see inside until you enter. It is, however, despite the condensation, definitely a popular destination even in January.
After giving the cake range a greedy scan, I spotted a carrot cake, ordered it with my preferred afternoon thirst quencher, an Earl Grey tea. Sat down at a somewhat wobbly table, trying not to rest my arms heavily on upon it whilst perched on an modern style clear perspex chair. Thus I awaited my tea and cake expectantly.
When it came, my goodness it was a massive wedge. Whilst its ingredients appeared evenly sized and distributed it looked far far far too near beige for my liking. Had a carrot been anywhere near this cake? Had a framed picture of a carrot just been left on a shelf nearby? Had a carrot been used instead of a wooden spoon? This was too pale a tint to be anything like a true representation of the sacred edible carrot cake classique.
Nevertheless I opened my gob and shovelled a fork full in. What happened next was the most actively unpleasant taste sensation I've experienced in quite a while. The moment this morsel of cake landed upon my tongue it immediately sucked up all the saliva from it, becoming this doughy clag sticking to the roof and basement of my palate. God, I've been deceived, affronted by a gluten free carrot cake.... again! No amount of telling myself to be calm, just keep your cool, don't get too worked up, it really isn't worth it, was working. Just think of all the people for whom a gluten free carrot cake is a lifesaver. Yes, I was thinking of them, in very sharp definition.
Hubby assures me, the claggyness indicates it was rice flour that performed this abomination of a carrot cake. There were plenty of nuts, the texture, before it congealed into a playdo-de-goo, felt strandy, but tasted not of the venerable carrot, nor, suspiciously, of any spice mix. Well, at least it wasn't a spice cake I offered myself as consolation, to a sotto voche response of a sneering grunt. Though definitely lifted by the cream cheese topping, this sat looking a little flushed and sweaty on the top as if all the responsibility placed upon it to save the day, was giving it a nervous breakdown. An excess of sugar never saves a cake, no matter how beseechingly it behaves
But the question as my teeth, tongue and mouth struggled to disentangle, work around and through their burden, was - what exactly was this cake? Its wasn't by any stretch of the baking almanac a carrot cake, self-evidently. Was it a walnut cake? What on earth did this cake taste of? Its as though an alien from outer space made a carrot cake based solely upon a fuzzy photo. So, basically, this was of no distinct flavour previously known to humankind.
There was no sign, no forewarning, no excuse - so its a 2 for you.... Pah!
CARROT CAKE SCORE - 2/8
As we returned from our North Yorkshire holiday we diverted our route home to take a B L F break ( bum, leg & food ) in Stamford. We also wanted to investigate a local fabric shop to see if they had anything to suitable for Cottonwood Home (there was).
Stamford as a market town, is a place with it's own distinct charm, full of beautiful honey coloured stone fronted buildings, most of them significantly of a certain age and maturity. Though it looks as though Stamford ought to be a county town, it isn't, it is, however, slap bang next to Burleigh House and its estate. It is clear that this and its position by a main north south axis road have always left both hands deeply plunged into the lucre. But like any small town with a shopping centre across this island, in this era, it has significant missing teeth in its high street's dentures. There is also an uneasy 'ghetto zoning' of high and low end shops that betrays an unevenly spread wealth divide.
On a previous visit we'd had quite a lovely lunch in this cafe, so we had no qualms about returning. This particular bright winter's afternoon its windows were steamed up very badly. This is never a good thing for a cafe, not to be able to see inside until you enter. It is, however, despite the condensation, definitely a popular destination even in January.
After giving the cake range a greedy scan, I spotted a carrot cake, ordered it with my preferred afternoon thirst quencher, an Earl Grey tea. Sat down at a somewhat wobbly table, trying not to rest my arms heavily on upon it whilst perched on an modern style clear perspex chair. Thus I awaited my tea and cake expectantly.
When it came, my goodness it was a massive wedge. Whilst its ingredients appeared evenly sized and distributed it looked far far far too near beige for my liking. Had a carrot been anywhere near this cake? Had a framed picture of a carrot just been left on a shelf nearby? Had a carrot been used instead of a wooden spoon? This was too pale a tint to be anything like a true representation of the sacred edible carrot cake classique.
Nevertheless I opened my gob and shovelled a fork full in. What happened next was the most actively unpleasant taste sensation I've experienced in quite a while. The moment this morsel of cake landed upon my tongue it immediately sucked up all the saliva from it, becoming this doughy clag sticking to the roof and basement of my palate. God, I've been deceived, affronted by a gluten free carrot cake.... again! No amount of telling myself to be calm, just keep your cool, don't get too worked up, it really isn't worth it, was working. Just think of all the people for whom a gluten free carrot cake is a lifesaver. Yes, I was thinking of them, in very sharp definition.
Hubby assures me, the claggyness indicates it was rice flour that performed this abomination of a carrot cake. There were plenty of nuts, the texture, before it congealed into a playdo-de-goo, felt strandy, but tasted not of the venerable carrot, nor, suspiciously, of any spice mix. Well, at least it wasn't a spice cake I offered myself as consolation, to a sotto voche response of a sneering grunt. Though definitely lifted by the cream cheese topping, this sat looking a little flushed and sweaty on the top as if all the responsibility placed upon it to save the day, was giving it a nervous breakdown. An excess of sugar never saves a cake, no matter how beseechingly it behaves
But the question as my teeth, tongue and mouth struggled to disentangle, work around and through their burden, was - what exactly was this cake? Its wasn't by any stretch of the baking almanac a carrot cake, self-evidently. Was it a walnut cake? What on earth did this cake taste of? Its as though an alien from outer space made a carrot cake based solely upon a fuzzy photo. So, basically, this was of no distinct flavour previously known to humankind.
There was no sign, no forewarning, no excuse - so its a 2 for you.... Pah!
CARROT CAKE SCORE - 2/8
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