Tom Davies - The Hungry Cyclist - Pedalling The Americas In Search Of The Perfect Meal

‘We watched you come in. Didn’t think you’d make it through the storm with your tent pitched where it was. Done much camping, have you?’

‘Bits,’ I muttered, embarrassed that my camping show had provided some light entertainment. ‘I’ve cycled from New York,’ I added, in an attempt to improve my credentials.

‘Well, you’re welcome to dry up in here while this storm passes through. Some fudge?’

The mother offered me a plate of home-made peanut butter fudge from the middle of the table where the family were grouped around their game. The Wendlebows were a family from Vancouver Island on vacation in the Rockies. In the snug comfort of the motor home, Paul, Emily and Erik, the couple’s young children, eyed me up and down shyly.

Wrapped in a blanket, clutching a steaming cup of coffee and nibbling on a slab of fudge, I stared out of the steamed-up windows of the motor home and watched as the storm moved into the next valley. Suddenly downhearted in the midst of this comfortable family, I pondered my situation.

I had spent four months sleeping rough and cycling, and now the summer was coming to an end. I had almost crossed the continent but one last, seemingly insurmountable, hurdle remained, and after only a few days into the Rockies the weather had already got the better of me. My tent was in tatters and so was my morale. I imagined limping back into Heathrow and being met by a posse of friends and family offering polite congratulations.

‘You did so well to get so far.’

‘You should be really proud of yourself.’

‘What a shame about the weather.’

At this point it was very clear how totally under-prepared I was for my mountain crossing, and I had at least another month ahead of me until Vancouver. For the first time the thought of failure was very real. I felt a long way from the heroic continent-crossing cyclist I was claiming to be.

The sky cleared and before darkness fell I was able to recover what was left of my equipment, which had been liberally scattered around the campsite. My tent would need to be patched up, I had lost four tent pegs and my inflatable mattress no longer inflated. The Wendlebows kindly invited me to join them for supper and after a comforting evening of Pictionary, hot dogs and corn on the cob, I crawled back into my weather-beaten tent, curled up on my deflated mattress and slept.

In 1885 the completion of the Canadian-Pacific Railway finally linked the east and west coasts of Canada, allowing passengers to travel the 2,500 miles across the North American continent in relative comfort. Passing north of Lake Superior, the tracks traversed the Great Plains of Manitoba and Saskatchewan before snaking into and over the Rocky mountains. A remarkable feat of Victorian engineering, which cost the lives of countless Chinese labourers, the project was spearheaded by the charismatic William Cornelius Van Horne. A rising star of the new industrial age, Van Horne not only saw the railroad as fundamental to trade and commerce, he also saw the potential of the Rockies’ breathtaking scenery as a tourist attraction. ‘Since we can’t export the scenery—we shall have to import the tourists,’ was his entrepreneurial boast before starting work on a series of luxurious mountain resorts where the super-rich of this new industrial epoch could come and take in the clean air and enjoy the views. Van Horne’s vast chateau-style hotel, built on the convergence of the Spray and Bow rivers, was to be the jewel in the CPR’s crown. A towering testament to industrialism, the Banff Springs Hotel quickly became one of the world’s most prestigious getaways.

In bad weather, with its Gothic turrets and gables, it would have appeared like an impregnable cocktail of Psycho-meets-Colditz , but bathed in warm late-summer sunshine it was as reassuring as a Scottish baronial castle on the lid of a tin of Highland shortbread.

I pushed my bicycle up the long sweeping driveway, gazing at the towering façade with its backdrop of mountains. Then I walked into the imposing hotel lobby and, in my dirty shorts and worn-out shoes, I felt immediately and agonizingly under-dressed. Stone chimneypieces framed roaring fires, vast oil paintings of misty mountain scenery hung from the walls and the proud heads of deer and moose stared down at me with disdain. Colourful stained-glass windows lit up solid wood staircases and rich carpets, while busy staff scurried to attend to the well-to-do guests lucky enough to be staying here. I pulled off my bobble hat, revealing a shaggy head of unkempt hair, and approached the reception desk to enquire about brunch.

‘Certainly, sir. Do you have a reservation?’ drawled the concierge in a smooth Canadian accent.

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘Well, I’m afraid you need a reservation, sir, and we do have a dress code in the dining room. Resort casual.’

‘Resort casual?’

‘Yes, sir. Will that be all?’

A short ride back into town I found the nearest phone box and popped in a couple of quarters.

‘I’d like to make a reservation for brunch please.’…‘Today.’…‘Just one, I’m afraid.’…‘Eleven thirty? Perfect.’…‘Tom.’…‘Thank you.’

Back at the hotel’s front door a polite porter offered to keep an eye on my wheels, and after I explained that I planned to be inside for quite some time he offered me the valet service.

‘For a bicycle?’

‘Don’t see why not, sir.’ Handing me a smart brass token, he wheeled away my overloaded bike.

I hurtled through the lobby, past well-dressed guests enjoying their Sunday, and made a beeline for the Gents.

It was an opulent room with yellow marble basins, golden taps, tall mirrors and, amid a baffling range of towels and scented toiletries, I went to work. I trimmed my wayward beard, added a few well-needed blasts of deodorant, put on a collared shirt and slipped into an almost clean pair of jeans.

The reflection that looked back at me may not have been wearing a pink Ralph Lauren shirt, chinos and a preppy blazer, but as I brushed my hair and eyed myself up in the large mirror I decided I was as close as I was ever going to get to ‘resort casual’. Stuffing my dirty clothes in the small cupboard under the sink, I made my way to the dining room, leaving a trail of stubble and my own distinctive fragrance in my wake.

Like another of life’s simple pleasures, eating is much more fun with other people. I gave my name to the maître d’ and felt a momentary pang of sadness as I was shown to a single table, laid for one, in the middle of the large dining room, which was filled with families, groups of friends and the lively sounds of animated conversation. Eating alone is one of the downsides to solo travel, but determined not to dwell on my solitude I began to plan my brunch and activate my gastric juices.

‘Do help yourself to the buffet, sir.’

Just hearing the word ‘buffet’ conjured up apparitions of metal trays filled with multicoloured gloop in cheap Chinese restaurants. It reminded me of cheapskate corporate functions with tables littered with cold cocktail sausages, plastic ham sandwiches, damp quiche, greying Scotch eggs and soggy sausage rolls. But as I stared at the galaxy of food laid out before me here, it was clear that they treat buffet very differently Stateside. This was buffet, but not as we know it.

Heaps of crushed ice were covered with pink lobsters, meaty crabs, fat shrimps and coral-coloured langoustines; there were sides of smoked salmon, trout and gravadlax; pepper-crusted pastrami, haunches of prosciutto, shiny maple-cured hams studded with cloves, salted hunks of beef, rolled pancetta, looped Spanish chorizo, slender salamis, chunky saucissons…

Busy men in tall chef’s hats and white jackets whisked eggs and made omelettes to order. Balls of pizza dough were thrown around like juggler’s balls, stretched like chest expanders before being sprinkled with savoury ingredients. Headband-wearing sushi chefs patiently constructed flawless nigiri and sashimi while others tossed ingredients into hissing woks. Sous chefs with knives that could remove a man’s arm at a single stroke dissected tender ribs with all the skill of a surgeon and racks of lamb and huge hams glazed with sticky honey were deftly sliced. Golden chickens rotated slowly on spits. There were salads of every colour and description. Baskets spilling over with fresh fruit and wild berries were next to towers of decadent pastries and puddings cemented with whipped cream and bejewelled with fresh fruit. It looked like the delirious fantasy feast of a starving man. After four months of living on the road, it was almost too much to take in. I wanted it all and yet seemed to be overcome with a strange sensual panic.