Hoist on my own culinary petard

I seem to have earned myself a bit of a reputation as a gastronomic fuss-budget. Recently, when I asked friends to recommend all-inclusive resorts for a mid-winter getaway, they all hesitated.

No one seemed concerned about my Casper-white skin turning the colour of a freshly boiled lobster or that I’d be rearranging the suite furniture by the time the jet-lag subsided. No, they all agreed that the sunny skies and swim-up bar service would be overshadowed by the unimaginative food. More specifically, the menu wouldn’t be “interesting enough” and that the wine “came in a big barrel with a little tap on it.”

I want to set the record straight. I can tough it out for a week. After all, I’ve eaten more transatlantic airplane meals than Christmas dinners. I’ve survived lukewarm morning beverages that turned out to be sleeper-car cappuccinos. And for two weeks in an Eastern block country that no longer exists, I lived on watermelon and iced coffee.

If it means escaping a repeat of last winter’s relentless snow, and not having to make a decision beyond what bathing suit to wear, I’m willing to put up with mediocre food for six days, seven nights.

So, with nothing on the menu but peace, quiet and warm weather, where would you recommend?

Photo © Topyti, published under a Creative Commons License.