Driving home for Christmas would be fine if only we didn't have to endure ghastly service stations
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It was a legendary confrontation between critic and hospitality giant. 61 years ago, on December 22 1962, the writer Bernard Levin sat in the London television studios of That Was The Week That Was and squared up to Charles, later Lord, Forte, sitting mere inches away from him.
As Forte squirmed in his seat, attempting a nervous smile, Levin savaged the state of hotels and restaurants across the country, as represented by Forte, an Italian-born Scottish hotelier, who was building an empire of catering and hotel businesses.
“If there’s one word to describe the British hotel and restaurant industry – and there is – that word is disgusting,” said Levin. “There are other words that might be pressed into service in emergency: lazy, inefficient, dishonest, dirty, complacent, exorbitant, but disgusting just about sums up.”
Levin spoke of the time he booked into a hotel in Dartmouth, where he asked the proprietor if he could have breakfast the next morning at 8:15am. The man looked confused and stuttered back: “You’re not on the continent now, sir!”
It was a running post-war theme: the drab, grey and terrible state of British food, which nevertheless seemed to sum up the British state of mind in wartime: grin, bear it and victory will be ours.
The Hungarian-born British writer George Mikes described it well in his 1946 book How to be an Alien, when he wrote: “On the continent, people have good food; in England, they have good table manners.”
Of course, we have travelled so far from that era now in our food and drink culture. Our restaurant scene is the most diverse, interesting and eclectic in the world. Yes, other nations have pockets of perfection, culinary geniuses influencing new generations of chefs. But no other country has the mix we have, the variety of cuisines; a reflection of one glorious upside of immigration.
But driving home for Christmas, the festive motorway theme tune of Chris Rea on our mind, you can’t escape the elephant in the room. Although I do my very best to evade it, to plan ahead, to do everything I can to avoid it.
But with the kids needing pee stops and me needing pauses to stretch, one inevitably comes face to face with that shameful culinary and cultural catastrophe that is the motorway service station.
How I would love to see Levin lacerate all those invisible men and women, who between them operate Moto, Welcome Break and Roadchef and who curse our highways. I could sum it up by calling it the four fs. Foul food and fraudulent fuel.
In fact, it’s flattery to call the edible substances offered at service stations “food”. Their fast food offerings serve up little else but ultra-processed carbs and the situation is just as dire if you take shelter in a sandwich and some crisps from WH Smith.
The brilliant journalist, entrepreneur and campaigner Henry Dimbleby sums up the problem perfectly in his 2023 book Ravenous in a chapter that should be on the national curriculum called: “Anatomy of an egg sandwich”. He lists the ingredients in what the label calls a “handmade” sandwich. And there are 32 of them.
Then for a deeper delve, Chris van Tulleken’s must-read Ultra-Processed People explains that “if it’s wrapped in plastic and has at least one ingredient that you wouldn’t usually find in a standard home kitchen” then it’s ultra-processed food. Which you should try to avoid.
But which, if you leave home without a self-made lunchbox and you intend to drive for a good few hours and you don’t intend to starve, is literally impossible.
Keenly, happily, willingly, we are poisoning ourselves. And it doesn’t have to be this way. Try driving through Austria. Actually don’t, because it will break your heart. The service stations are beautifully designed, the eateries serve up freshly cooked food; they’ll even grill you a steak as you like it. And I’m not just biased because most of the female staff wear dirndls.
And what of the fuel at rip-off prices especially for you, you mutt, for taking the motorway. And yes, I know, there’s Tebay services in Cumbria and Gloucester Services when you head south-west. I appreciate the wonderful produce they serve, the latter backed up by the marketing vehicle of a television series.
But have you tried doing an actual, proper food shop at Gloucester Services? My jaw dropped at the till and I caused chaos as I decided to evict 50 per cent of my shopping to ease the bill. And they charge even more for fuel, albeit under a roof sewn with grass seed.
The big beasts who run these places can be knocked off their perches, in the same way that some better eating habits have become mainstream. But it needs some hardy entrepreneurs. See that Gen Z oaf – yes, the one lounging on your sofa wondering what to do with their life. Tell them their time has come. Vive la révolution!
