When I was a kid, one of my favourite things in the world was when my dad would take me for breakfast at the Little Chef just outside town. It wasn’t a regular thing, it was always impulsive, and this is what probably made it all the more special. Every so often, usually on a Saturday, he’d say, “Come on, we’re going for a drive,” and that was that. No explanation, no fanfare. Just a quiet, understated little adventure.
It was only ten minutes up the dual carriageway, but to me, it felt like we were heading somewhere far away. I remember watching the town slide past the car window, feeling that strange mixture of calm and excitement that comes from doing something out of the ordinary. And then, there it was — the Little Chef sign, a red beacon of promise by the roadside.
Inside, everything had that distinctive hum of 1980s comfort: the sizzle of the grill from the open kitchen, the clatter of cutlery, the smell of bacon fat and coffee. The tables were Formica, the chairs were just slightly sticky, and the laminated menus had photos that made everything look shinier than it ever arrived. It was, in every sense, glorious.
That’s where I first had fried bread. A slice so crisp it crunched at the edges, soaked through with flavour in the middle, and utterly unlike anything we had at home. It came with bacon, egg, and beans — the kind of breakfast that made you feel like you’d achieved something before the day had even begun. Best of all, it was just like the one my Dad was eating, but smaller, so I felt just like him.
The waitresses always seemed so cheerful too, always busy, but always had time to talk to me. And let’s not forget the free lollipop after the meal. That tiny gesture sealed the deal. I don’t think I’ve ever left a restaurant happier than I did walking out of that Little Chef with a sticky Chupa Chups in my hand and the smell of breakfast still clinging to my jumper.
It wasn’t about the food, of course. Not really. It was about being there with my dad. Just us, no distractions, no schedules. The drive, the chat, the ritual of ordering the same thing every time. Those breakfasts felt like our thing.
When Everywhere Started To Look The Same
You can’t really do that now. Not in the same way. The Little Chefs are gone — most of them flattened, the rest converted into something identikit and branded. I looked once to see what stood where our old haunt used to be. It’s a coffee chain drive-through now. Efficient, soulless, and staffed by people who have to say “have a nice day” because the company handbook says so.
It’s not just that the places have changed — it’s that everywhere has. Those quirky roadside stops have vanished, replaced by sleek service stations that could be anywhere in the country. They all smell faintly of petrol and pastries, the coffee’s the same, and the music’s piped from a central playlist somewhere deep in corporate HQ.
There’s no charm, no character, and certainly no fried bread.
When I think about taking my own kids out for breakfast, I realise I don’t even know where I’d go to recreate that kind of experience. The options are all too clean, too branded, too designed. You can’t make memories in a Costa.
Trying To Recreate It
Every now and then, I get the urge to do it anyway — to take one of the kids for a drive and find somewhere, anywhere, that feels like the old Little Chef. Somewhere that smells of toast and bacon grease. Somewhere the tables wobble a bit, the mugs are mismatched, and the tea is strong enough to stand a spoon in.
We’ve tried a few local cafés and greasy spoons, but it’s not quite the same. Maybe that’s just nostalgia talking, or maybe it’s the fact that the world doesn’t leave as much room for those little moments anymore. Even a quick breakfast feels like it needs booking ahead, checking menus online, making sure there’s a plug socket and free Wi-Fi.
The spontaneity’s gone. We’ve traded the adventure of discovery for convenience and consistency.
And I think that’s part of why I miss those trips with my dad so much. They weren’t planned. They weren’t perfect. But they were our adventure.
There’s nothing adventurous about booking ahead.
When “Treats” Look Different Now
When I was a kid, going for breakfast at a roadside diner was the height of sophistication. It was special precisely because it was simple. These days, when I suggest taking my kids for breakfast, I usually get a half-hearted “what’s there?” followed by, “Can I bring my iPad?”
It’s not their fault, really. The world they’re growing up in is faster, noisier, and more connected than ours ever was. They don’t crave the novelty of a car journey or a fry-up — they’ve got the whole world in their pockets.
Still, there’s a pang of sadness when I realise that I can’t easily give them that same feeling — that small adventure, that shared quiet moment where time slows down for an hour over toast and tea.
I’ve tried to explain to them what it was like: the excitement of being given your own kids menu, the thrill of being trusted to order, the lollipop at the end like a tiny medal for good behaviour. They listen politely, nod, and then ask if the Little Chef had Wi-Fi.
The Real Ingredient
Of course, what made those mornings special wasn’t really the place — it was the person. My dad didn’t make a big deal of it, but he was giving me something you can’t package or replicate: time and attention. No phones, no distractions, just being together.
Now that I’m the dad, I can see it more clearly. He wasn’t taking me out for fried bread — he was taking me out for a bit of peace, a chat, a laugh, and maybe a short break from the noise of everyday family life.
It’s easy to underestimate how powerful those moments are when you’re a kid. I didn’t know it then, but those breakfasts were quietly shaping my idea of what being a dad looked like.
And that’s probably why, decades later, I still think about them every time I smell a cooked breakfast or drive past a lay-by café.
Trying To Find The Modern Equivalent
So where do I take my kids now? That’s the question I keep coming back to. There isn’t really a modern equivalent. You can’t replicate it at a fast-food chain, and I don’t think the kids would see a trip to a motorway café as anything special.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the trick isn’t to recreate it exactly, but to find new ways of doing the same thing — something simple, unplanned, and ours.
Sometimes that means driving out for ice cream late in the evening. Other times it’s a quick trip for chips in the car on the way home from football. The food’s different, the settings are different, but the feeling — that sense of small adventure — is still there when we let it be.
I still think about that Little Chef. The smell of the grill, the sound of cars rushing past outside, the way the sunlight came through those big front windows. I think about my dad across the table, his cup of tea in hand, both of us content just to be there.
Those breakfasts were never meant to be momentous — but somehow they became exactly that.
I miss the days of Little Chef with my Dad, and I’m sad that I can’t recreate them with my own children. But maybe one day, years from now, my kids will remember the times I took them out for a late-night McFlurry or a random breakfast run to the farm shop café in the countryside. Maybe they’ll think of those as their Little Chef moments.
It will never be as good as that fried bread though.