Town mouse on seagulls

My wife shares the same birthday as my eldest son. As the doubly joyous anniversary falls during half-term, we often find ourselves in Ramsgate when it happens. Ramsgate, fortunately, is a good place to celebrate; it’s developing a reputation for its restaurants, led by Age and Sons.

Age and Sons is not on the pretty harbour, but is tucked away beside a boules court and garden that the council imaginatively created, then let run to seed. We feared for the restaurant’s future when it opened last year. Now, however, it has received such universal plaudits in the national press that we early adopters find ourselves having to book. Such is private enterprise that the shabby garden will soon be colonised by tables and chairs, and made delightful.

On leaving, I mentioned my only disappointment to the proprietor, Toby Leigh: no seagull’s eggs on the menu. We have far too many seagulls. These large birds scatter the contents of binliners, having ripped them open with their beaks, and are terrifying in defence of their young (‘like having a frozen turkey hurled at your head’ is how one friend described their dive-bombing attacks). Almost no culture has been able to overcome the impenetrable saltiness of seagull flesh to eat it. But the eggs are delicious. I recommend them.

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