Clunch. Some say it’s the most important meal of the day, surpassing the lauded hashbrowns oozing with grease at breakfast and the defrostedreheated pheasant served up at formal hall. Verily, what is an essay-day without a healthy boost of midday carbs powering you towards that word count? But knowing where to clunch is a skill. I’m here, dear readers, to guide you through the treacherous pathways of Oxford’s many halls and butteries.
Our first port of call is Lady Margaret Hall. When I began at LMH, clunch was passable. My food taste has improved, however, whilst clunch has been sent into a perpetual downward spiral of grease. Don’t get me wrong, LMH’s beautiful panelled hall is a great place to eat and socialise: to chew the (literal and metaphorical) fat.
Despite its aesthetically pleasing setting, the quality of the food has taken a nose dive in the last couple of years. Today’s options were really something else. With an option of three hot mains, a warm salad and a salad bar, my inner porker loves the potential for gluttony. The problem is that there may be many options for my delectation. But I really have no desire for a third of a courgette halved with a tiny bit of rice placed as “stuffing”. Nor do I have any intention of even going near the sauceless spaghetti intermingled with whole Quorn sausages. I mean, that’s not a meal, hun.
The salad bar remains well stocked, but nursing a hangover, I want something more than a few leaves to soak up the remnants of last night’s shame. As a pescatarian, I’m put into a sticky situation. My omnivore friends assure me the roast chicken is tasty, even if I can see the grease coming out of it. Sticking to my morals, I bite the bullet and opt for the stuffed courgette fragment.
I shouldn’t have bothered. Flavourless and somewhat undercooked, all that I can say is that the chips and baked beans served with it at least provided me with two of my five carb binges a day. Their dessert of spotted dick and custard still continues to satisfy me no end.
