The Travel Critic

‘Twas the lunch before Christmas, and all through the place,

The in-laws were smiling, all brimming with grace.

Four days of their company, not just one night—

So off to a restaurant to soften the plight.

The Goram & Vincent, with its scenic display,

A bridge in the distance—the Avon, they say.

“Isn’t it lovely?” they cooed with delight,

While I squinted and thought, It’s a bridge, not Versailles.

To the menu I turned, to distract from the chat,

Where topics range wildly from pensions to flats.

A prawn starter arrived, all sweetness and bliss,

The kind of safe choice you’re unlikely to miss.

Then came the steak, so meaty, so rare,

Cooked just as I’d asked—yes, they do care.

My father-in-law poked at his medium slice,

And sighed, “Well, it’s not quite as tender as mine.”

I drained my Malbec, rich, smoky, divine,

The kind of red nectar that smooths any line.

A glass turned to two, and the talk ebbed and flowed—

A proper lubricant for the festive overload.

The family adored it—the bridge, the tableau,

I nodded along, playing the pro.

But let’s face it, the view is a ploy for the masses—

A bridge is a bridge, not the Louvre through rose glasses.

And yet, as we lingered, dessert came around,

A sticky fig pudding so rich and profound.

It silenced the table—oh, glorious feat,

Four nights to go, but at least there was sweet.

So to Goram & Vincent, I give you a cheer,

For saving my sanity at this time of year.

It’s perfect for in-laws, with wine poured in spades—

But next time, perhaps, I’ll eat out for all four days.