u/qwertyMu

And lo, for just £7, a mighty breakfast was bestowed upon us, complete with two slices of toast.
The bacon fat was crisp, as the Lord intended. The mushrooms were firm, beautifully cooked, and blessed with a satisfying bite. The portions were balanced, and no ingredient sought dominion over another.
Yet two sins were committed. A basic sausage cost them one righteous point, whilst the offering of margarine instead of butter was an abomination worthy of another half.
But behold! Genuine HP Sauce stood upon the table, and verily, this alone may elevate the score to a glorious nine.
The establishment was spotless, the congregation of locals plentiful, and the hosts exceedingly welcoming.
Final judgement: 8.5/10. A magnificent £7 offering. Replace the sausage, banish the margarine, and the gates of breakfast heaven shall surely open.

And lo, whilst travelling through Carmarthen, I came unto Hagan’s Café and Chip Shop, where there was set before me the Small Breakfast, the least of five offerings upon the menu, priced at a most righteous £7.50, including a hot drink and table service.

The bacon was thick and full of flavour, cooked with wisdom and purpose. The mushrooms were moist, lightly crisped at the edges, and most pleasing unto the palate. The tomatoes were well seasoned, the fried bread a blessing, and the egg was nothing short of perfect.

Yet not all was well in the kingdom.

The toast had been spread with margarine rather than butter, which brought mild disappointment unto the faithful.

And the sausage…

Brethren, the sausage was dog shit.

It sat upon the plate like a warning from the heavens that no breakfast may attain perfection in this fallen world.

Yet the quality of the remaining items was such that this grievous offence could not undo the good works that had gone before.

Thus the final judgement was rendered:

Excellent value, superb bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and egg, glorious fried bread, but let down by margarine and a sausage that should seek forgiveness.

8.5/10.

Amen. 🥓🍳☕️

And it came to pass, as we journeyed westward into the mountains and valleys of Wales, that we lodged for a night at the Usk and Railway Inn. And though the stay itself was most pleasant, it is the breakfast whereof I must testify this day.

For lo, when the morning had come, there was set before me a breakfast of such quality that the angels themselves peered over the battlements of Heaven and whispered one unto another,

“Bro… this absolutely slaps.”

Verily, I have eaten many breakfasts during my pilgrimage through this mortal realm.

I have consumed breakfasts in hotels whose websites promised luxury but whose sausages possessed all the charisma of a corporate risk assessment.

I have endured breakfasts assembled by committees.

I have witnessed eggs that had clearly lost the will to live.

I have known beans served in quantities so meagre they could be counted individually.

But this breakfast was not numbered amongst them.

Upon the plate rested a pork and leek sausage of uncommon excellence.

And I say unto thee, this was no ordinary sausage.

This sausage had presence.

This sausage had aura.

This sausage had main character energy.

It was succulent and flavourful beyond all reasonable expectation, and if there existeth a higher tier of breakfast sausage known only unto God, then surely this one standeth but a single rung beneath it.

Indeed, had this sausage launched an influencer account upon the social media platforms, I fear I would have followed it immediately.

Likewise the bacon was plentiful, the egg was perfectly cooked, and the black pudding dark and mysterious, as though forged in the very depths of Welsh folklore.

The mushroom was of such impressive stature that I briefly wondered whether planning permission had been required.

The beans flowed freely and abundantly, as rivers unto the sea.

Then came the laverbread.

Now many establishments would have rested content with a competent breakfast and called it a day.

But the Usk and Railway Inn chose violence.

For they placed upon the plate a serving of Welsh laverbread; a touch of class so authentically Welsh that I felt my ancestry shifting despite not being Welsh.

It was not there as decoration.

It was not there as a gimmick.

It was there because somebody understood the assignment.

Furthermore, the menu listed local suppliers, which brought gladness unto my heart.

For in these latter days there are many who speak loudly of supporting local producers whilst sourcing ingredients from somewhere beyond the edge of the known universe.

Yet here were the suppliers named openly, and the quality upon the plate bore witness that these claims were not mere LinkedIn thought leadership.

And beyond the cooked breakfast there awaited a buffet.

Toast.

Tea.

Coffee.

Juices.

Yoghurts.

Fruit.

An entire supporting cast of breakfast delights.

The Welsh rhubarb yoghurt was particularly excellent and vanished from sight with a speed that would have impressed even the most seasoned digital forensic investigator.

The hospitality throughout was warm and genuine.

No forced smiles.

No performative customer service.

No awkward corporate scripts.

Just good people serving excellent food.

And thus I conclude:

In an age when many breakfasts are all aesthetic and no substance; all Instagram and no flavour; all filter and no filling; the breakfast at the Usk and Railway Inn remains gloriously real.

It is, as the young people declare, an absolute W.

The pork and leek sausage is goated.

The laverbread is elite.

The buffet is stacked.

The hospitality passes the vibe check.

And the entire experience is so far from mid that it scarcely occupies the same postcode.

Verily, I say unto you:

If breakfasts were ranked upon a tier list, this one would dwell comfortably in S-Tier amongst the righteous.

Amen. 🍳🥓🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿