Burgh Island Hotel

To properly celebrate the Führer’s birthday, I married my bird on Saturday. I liked it, then I put a ring on it. I’m the proud owner of a brand new, minty fresh bride. Mrs Del Monte to you.

In the aftermath, we escaped for a getaway to Burgh Island (http://www.burghisland.com/) and my dedication you, my slavishly adoring fans, means that not even a honeymoon interlude will get in the way of leaching the poison out of my brain and onto the page.

Burgh Island is dead swanky and art deco (who I thought was a singer) and apparently Mrs Marple came here in the 70s to write her romances. The thing you need to know is that black-tie is required at dinner. If you’re not wearing a DJ then you’ll be refused supper. Which is awesome. I wish more restaurants turned people away on the basis of what they wear. Douche-knuckle hipsters should be forced into a smart pair of slacks and polo shirt before they get served. Urban tweed-wearers should be tarred and feathered.

One is invited to review the menu over cocktails and make one’s selection. One opted for the monkfish … the other one went for the sea bass. Preceding this was scallops. The food is all beautifully prepared and the restaurant is keen to emphasize that the ingredients are sourced locally where possible. I asked about the pepper and was met with a blank face.

We also took breakfast in the Ganges Room, so I chose the kedgeree. Kedgeree is hard to find and hard to beat when you get the good stuff. My kedgeree was topped off with a precisely poached egg which spurted its warm yellow goo all over the rice. Yum. But that was kind of grossly put. Apologies. Mrs Del Monte ate the caramelised banana pancakes so I threw holy water on her. Bananas are minging.

To eat there you have to stay there. To stay there you probably have to sell a kidney. Or your new wife’s.