On an ordnance survey map Padstow, the rather quaint, picturesque fishing town in North Cornwall is still named Padstow. However in recent years and to those who have been witness to the Rick Stein effect, the fishing town's name has colloquially morphed into Padstein, a cheeky reference to Rick Stein's multi-million pound brand building exercise.
There is an awful lot of Rick and an awful lot of Mr. Stein permeating through this once sleepy fishing village.
Perhaps it's a question of balance, but the boy has clearly done well.
The one time mobile disco entrepreneur and nightclub owner, (known for its freeze dried curries and eventually shut down by the police, due to regular brawls with local fishermen) has clearly found his A-game in the kitchen. Although, the Cornish nationalists in particular, have not always approved of his empire building.
The experience itself - as out of towners visiting Padstein - was somewhat interesting to say the least. The local taxi driver collecting us from the station, also turned out to be Rick's personal driver and casually told us all about Rick's colourful private life. It then seemed somewhat confusing on arrival to Stein's bed and breakfast guesthouse, to find personal greeting cards from Rick and Jill, his first wife and business partner.
On arrival, we sampled Rick's Cornish Arm's pub with his pint of prawns in a beer handle, and bedded down into Rick Stein linen. We biked the camel trail and ferried over to Rock and wondered how many fish and how much seafood Rick Stein had consumed in his own lifetime.
There was even a Stein's fish and chips restaurant, just a stone's throw from Stein's Seafood restaurant. Even though we were possibly suffering Steinmania, we still popped in and cycled off with our fish and chips in our very own basket, to enjoy the Cornish sunset.
On our first evening in Padstow, we visited Stein's Seafood restaurant for a special 44th birthday celebration dinner. It was memorable for the rather bulbous and big chested Welsh maître d, who seemed somewhat confused by his own decision to serve the wrong wine and then our apologetic discovery of finding enough sand to build a sand-castle, in our queenie scallops. This he resolved rather wonderfully by the kind offer to "be our guests" and welcome us back the next night for a complementary dinner sat plumb at the bar, with both the head chef and head barman's extra personal touch, showering us with oysters tabasco sauce and cocktails.
The only one possible disappointment for those might like to class themsleves as Rick Stein aficionados, was that Rick and his little mate Chalky the Jack Russell, were nowhere to be seen. The clue to that was perhaps 10,000 miles aways. Should you fancy a bit of far flung real Rick, you could always jump on a big bird and head over to Rick Stein at Bannisters, in Mollymook, New South Wales, Australia.
