In my post entitled ‘THANK YOU’, I mentioned this croissant which is more widely known as: The World’s Best Croissant, and I’m here to tell ye a tale about this little piece of heaven.
My sister’s wedding took place the week before I left for France (all of the feels) and what do all wedding’s need? That’s right, a Hen Party. Mary’s Hen Party was held one month before the wedding, and was simply the best weekend, even though her best friend and I say so ourselves.
It took place in the magical city of Brighton which along the South Coast of England, it’s full of cobbled streets, Gin Bars, Vintage shops, boutiques Pubs of every sort, it has a pier with ALL THE RIDES, brilliant clubs and then we visited, which basically made it the best city in England.
The Friday night started of at (duh) a Gin Bar, followed by a very tasty independent Italian restaurant where old friends were reunited, games were played and Mary was served a phallic-shaped desert by the owner. Saturday included, reaping in all the rewards of Brighton Pier, eating honest-to-goodness fish and chips, running along the beach, meeting lots of happy dogs and dinner at an incredibly nice Mexican restaurant in the city centre where more games were played. This was then followed by a Hawaiian-Caribbean-cross-bred cocktail bar, which was followed by da club, which was not lacking in velvet and disco balls, but most importantly every 90s and 2000s jam was played (‘Jenny From the Block’ y’all).
It was the best night, really the best night, her friends are gorgeous and so much fun, we did not stop dancing, our little sister was there for Pier fun, and even our cousin Annie who had only just come back from working in Australia for the previous 4 years was able to make it!
In the morning, we were feeling fragile, sure, but mostly feeling on top of the moon about how truly fan-feckingtastic the night had been. Mary picked me up from my hostel room which I was sharing with the other half of the crew, and we went down to the beach where the sun was shining and the sky was blue. Along the way, we stumbled across this little bakery called Sugardough, where, we saw out of the corner of our eye, a croissant was too good to be true, it symbolised our love of the UK and France, and would cure us of any fragility which befell us.
It was freshly made in that morning, it had bacon, it had egg, nay, a seasoned egg, and a freshly cooked British delicacy which we call black pudding.
It was the cherry on the Hen Party cake, and there we sat, talking and laughing about the night before eating the World’s Best Croissant.