Brioche vs. Beetroot

T and I visited my brother on a recent trip to London. Living in university accommodation in South Kensington, Harrods is practically his corner shop, and fresh brioche is just a stone's throw away.

This pretty much epitomises the difference that 500 miles (about the equivalent of a million cultural kilometres) makes; in Fife, the nearest French bakery must be at least 30 minutes' drive away, instead of 30 seconds.


Not that living in Fife doesn't have other advantages; the closest wheat field is just across the road from our bungalow, and the vicar's wife in the nearby manse keeps hens which means that I, too, could glean and poach my way to some tasty delicacies (probably simultaneously winning a lot of kudos with the vibrant Fife slow food community) but that's beside the point! Le Pain Quotidien and Libertys of London have I not. Those cost-of-living statisticians really should factor this into the equation when they calculate just how much cheaper it is to live in rural Fife, although I think I would frustrate their figures by compulsively bulk-buying every time I find myself somewhere with traffic lights instead of tractors.

Actually, I'm being unfair to Fife - it's actually heaven for those trying to avoid accruing frequent flyer miles on their food.  I can walk to our nearest farm shop which is currently selling romanesco cauliflowers, damsons, beetroot, venison and fresh raspberries, all from Fife (although I probably couldn't walk back with all that). Fresh caught fish is almost literally on our doorstep and nearby restaurant The Peat Inn comes third on my list of all-time favourite restaurants (after the Fat Duck, Bray and Vassa Eggen, Stockholm).  If only it stocked brioche...