10 of the best things we stuffed in our faces in Trump's America

We spent three weeks in Donald Trump's America at the start of April. This was a lengthy holiday masquerading as parental leave but however you billed it, it meant we were in the United States of America for three whole weeks. Three. Despite their new leader being a massive racist baby, it was a luxurious time make no mistake.

Our flight landed in Los Angeles where we had three nights down near Venice Beach before taking in a further four nights in Palm Springs, plus a whole two weeks in Portland, Oregon. Oooof. Rather than post pictures of us and our kid marauding around the place, here's a break down of the ten best things we ate. It's hard to go out raving all night when you have a six month old baby so instead the vibe was all about pure gluttony. Open wide and take a look inside...

Ronnie's Diner, Los Angeles

Diners are in some ways the ultimate American eating experience. Big portions, limitless coffee, nutters at every turn. And breakfast can be peak when it comes to visiting. The casual abandon with which the Americans mix sweet and savoury is something to behold. So at Ronnie's Diner (see above), a greasy spoon-esque joint near our place in Marina Del Ray, we went in on a 'scramble', French toast and grits. 'Are grits nice?' is a question I'm still asking and still don't know the answer to.

The Blue Coyote, Palm Springs

This is a Mexican joint on the main drag in Palm Springs. Mexican places are everywhere in this town but the Coyote could be the best partly because they go heavy on the cheese on the plates and even heavier on the tequila in their drinks. We had two margaritas and walked home cross eyed attempting to avoid steering the pram into the road.

The Ace Hotel, Palm Springs

The Ace Hotel brand is synonymous with the trendy and the Palm Springs branch may well be the trendiest. It's full of silly young things in uniform shades preening and pouting and generally crossing their fingers that they might get 'discovered' there by someone to give meaning to their meaningless, yet highly instagrammable lives. Even if its the silliest, most vacuous black hole on the planet, they do a mean breakfast. Avocado on toast was the one.

The Cricket Cafe, Portland 

Oh my gosh this place may well be the best. They do big portions with just the right balance of grease, stodge and vegetables to make it not seem like you're scoffing down a heart attack on a plate. Although you most probably are. The staff in there are so horizontally laid back, it makes you want to own your brunch spot and just lope around serving people scrambled eggs until you die. It's simple, yet killer fare dudes.  

Pig 'n Pancake, Astoria

One of the local folk told us not to go to Pig 'n Pancake as it's too skutty. But they were talking to the wrong people. This cavernous diner offered the perfect vibe for our slightly hungover morning in Astoria (the town where the Goonies was filmed). Again, there were grits, again there was a scramble and the green Tabasco sauce so prevalent (and delicious) in the US. Can we get this in the UK? Questions, questions. Plus there were American folk of all shapes and sizes eating all sorts of weird shit early in the morning. Steak and syrup? I don't think so...

Pok Pok, Portland, Oregon

Everyone bangs on about the chicken wings at Pok Pok in Portland. But that's because they are the BEST thing you can ever put in your mouth. Originally a food cart, the success has been so gargantuan that they've got a permanent restaurant with a permanent queue outside, plus cookbooks and worldwide acclaim. These wings will redefine your thoughts on chicken. Like totally. They use fish sauce and it will blow your mind. 

Lardo, Portland 

If I was on death row and I was asked what I'd like for my final meal, I might be tempted to ask for the so-called 'dirty fries' from Lardo in Portland. I'd probably want them with a scotch egg, a pork pie and a side order of scrambled eggs but I'd definitely want them. They are fucking amazing. Look at them there above. They are fries, with hot peppers, bacon scraps and chunks coated in Parmesan cheese. There is no nutritional value to be had in them and they're all the better for it. The sign on the wall of Lardo says 'pig out' and it'd be rude not to obey. 

HunnyMilk, Portland 

One of the worst hangovers we had on our recent trip was after the 1st birthday bash of the Toffee Club. The next day was one of serious hard work, anxiety and beer-induced paranoia. Perhaps the one good thing to come out of it was stumbling upon the HunnyMilk pop up breakfast spot. I hate the concept of a pop as much as the next normal but this was something else. Ribs, grits with a carrot cake waffle for afters? All for 20 dollars? Excuse me! 

Screen Door, Portland 

After three weeks in American, we'd started becoming more American. Not to the point where we wanted to shoot anyone. Or not let them into our country due to the colour of their skin. But where the concept of sweet and savoury didn't seem like the worst idea ever. We were of course brutally hungover when we went to Screen Door and ordered chicken with waffles. But when they arrived, we ate every last crumb. Game changing. 

The Holiday Inn, LAX 

After many amazing breakfasts, our last hurrah was at the Holiday Inn near the airport in LA. You'd be forgiven for thinking that we were going out on a bit of a low ebb but not a bit of it. We arrived late at the all you could eat breakfast. But, despite being tardy, they still let us go mad on every bit of it. So we did. God bless America. And the French Toast that resides within you.

It’s the sort of holiday Nick Grimshaw would…

… find himself on’ - was the standard bookend to any sheepishly guilty explanation of our recent overseas holibobs. That’s right for Christmas we fucked off the winter and exchanged it for the palm trees, dry heat and craft beers of the Americas. Let me tell you there’s nowt better than having a swim in a heated pool on Christmas day before nomming on barbecued chicken and swigging a seven percenter. Lardey de dar... so where were we heading? LA was the first stop on a trip that swung by Palm Springs, Mexico, Belize and Miami. Smug? To begin with yes, but the hangover and extreme turbulence on the outward bound flight really put us back in our place. Prayers were said. Tranquilisers were taken. But we made it unscathed.

LA was a total stonker of a vibe. You’ll need shades and a good set of teeth to fit in. But even if you don’t you’ll still require the glasses. That sunshine - it just don’t let up. We stayed at the achingly trendy Ace Hotel in Downtown LA where everyone looks like they’ve (gracefully) fallen out of the pages of ID magazine. You can buy smoothies downstairs from the Moon Juice seller with jalapenos in them. They provide Rudy’s Barber Shop shower shit which makes you smell of lavender and chamomile. You have craft ales in the fridge. The bed is massive, expensive and amazing. There’s a rooftop bar. Valet parking outside. Everyone is nice. We drove up to the Griffin Observatory to take in the views of the city, the Hollywood sign and went for a mooch around downtown before ending up on the rooftop of the Standard Hotel dicking about drinking beers. We followed it by having a pizza in bed. Just how Nick Grimshaw would roll.

Our next few days were spent in the Hollywood-approved weird, faded glamour of Palm Springs. Located in the desert, surrounded by wind turbines, it’s full of old gay couples and one storey, art deco condos. Apart from the surrounding mountains, the town itself is as flat as a pancake, full of palm trees and Mexico restaurants. You can imagine David Niven and Errol Flynn staggering around the streets out of their mind on martinis with their libidos raging totally unchecked. Our first taste was a margarita and burrito at the Blue Coyote, a fabled Mexican institution. It set the tone for four days of ‘illing’, swimming and eating top scran. It was well Balearic - we even enjoyed a night at the Hard Rock Café, clambered around Joshua Tree and I went for a run through the streets topless. We also went to see the Cabazon dinosaurs, a so-called ‘theme’ park full of shit plastic, huge dinos. Fucking weird. Big up to the xmas Hoppins fam who made it happen.

Mexico’s Yucutan Peninsula was the third stop. After dumping the hired wheels at LA International airport, we took a flight to Cancun, then a taxi to Playa Del Carmen where we were staying in the decidedly unglam confines of the ‘The Tired Frog’ b&b. We were just off Playa’s main tourist drag and the vibe here was opposite to that of Palm Springs. This was the land of the American frat boy holidayer, intent on shouting, shagging and drinking their way around the place. We enjoyed some big breakfasts and an afternoon in a supposedly hip beach club where a goonish bar tender tried to coerce us into spending 100 quid on a bottle of spirits at midday. Jibbed him right off m8s.

Tulum was the next leg of our trip. Here we were staying at the compound of Rick and his (third) wife Paulo. It was near the centre of the run down town and Rick was very much up for sharing tall tales of his nutty life flogging Harleys on Miami Beach. He enjoyed a big fat cigar, treated us to ace breakfasts everyday (or Paulo’s mum did  never seen but constantly cooking up something regal for the gob) amid much laconic, but still deeply sincere recounts of his adventures. Rick had once hung with Peter Fonda and had the photo albums to prove it. He didn’t give out keys to guests, opting instead to stay awake around the clock so he could answer the door or let people out. Intensely intense if very hospitable. One of the highlights of our relationship was returning from the Tulum New Year Festival (featuring Nicolas Jaar and DJ Harvey) at ten am the following day (after a minor skirmish with a taxi driver) and ringing the bell. Our hosts were unsure how to cope with the wild eyes and ramblings. We tried to maintain a low profile for the rest of our stay.

After four days in Tulum, we boarded a bus to Chetumal on the Mexican border. We were getting a water taxi into Belize to the small island of Caye Caulker. Our entry and exit into Belize were both fraught with strife and emotional turmoil. The boat was wee and, after a depressing interaction with a full of it, backpacking, I’m right you’re wrong British self employed photographer dick, we got aboard the top of the boat and sat behind the driver. We were buffeted and soaked for the next two hours until we got to the island in the dark and a golf buggy picked us up. They don’t do cars. The way back was a flight out of Belize City and was as turbulent as my ass after a night on the Devil’s Backbone craft beers. We veered so wildly that passengers started screaming. Cue more prayers. A smattering of tears.

The between time was deeply relaxing. Lobster is the official food of Caye Caulker, a small island where people don't really do very much but drink all day every day. ‘No working during drinking hours’ is the official motto and makes good sense when it’s sunny (or cold, wet, hailing or drout-like) all the time. We spent our time playing shithead, eating lobster whenever we could and swimming. Tres relaxing. Special mention to Terry who’s grill was both lo-fi and delicious, plus Peaches the labradoodle who appeared to have coincided her annual jaunt to the carribean with ours. Peaches! Thank you.

We left via Belize City, which was a much more gnarly vibe. Here everyone was hustling and poverty was high on the agenda. We were only around for an afternoon spent mooching and playing more shithead before getting a scary flight out of there. OOof.

The last stop was Miami - it just made more sense to stop as the flights back to London from there were relatively inexpensive. So we spent a night at Miami Beach, staying at the Clay Hotel on Washington Avenue. Apparently Elton John had once resided here while shooting a video outside. Al Capone was also believed to have made some serious deals in da place. So our residentials came with extra vibe. Our time was spent mooching up and down Ocean Drive checking out the huge, art deco hotels zorbing up and down South Beach. We ended up at Joe’s Stone Crabs restaurant – all the waiters are in dickie bows and give you the run down on the institution that is the steamed crabs. They are top drawer material for the mouth. Indeed it was one of the best bits of our final day that culminated in another lengthy flight back to the UK, this time (thankfully) fueled by tranquilisers. No prayers crew this time round. Props to the tranqs and everyone who hosted us on the way round. Best holibobs ever? Ever ever? Ever...

We took about a million photos. Not wanting to be the ultimate bore but if you're interested the full 300 odd (!) are kept over here...

Peaches!

America - part trois

It's pretty self indulgent to go through this jaunt in three parts. It's hardly Lord of the Rings is it? So this'll be snappy.

After Cambria we roared off on the last leg of the journey towards Los Angeles. Everyone had said it was big before we got there but 'big' doesn't do it justice. This place is fucking humongous and hard, very hard to get one's head around when you arrive.

Our route took us up via Malibu and the Santa Monica boulevard which led us into a massive traffic jam for almost three hours. We became confused, tired, emotional and deeply lost in and around west Hollywood searching for a hostel which wasn't actually there. It had moved. Oh dear. After reluctantly turning on data roaming and locating the mother, we parked up and decamped to the pub only to be slapped with a ticket the next morning. The LAPD were on to us!

Los Angeles from the Getty Centre

Other than being big, LA has got plenty of left, cosmic vibes. Hollywood seems like a Leicester Square, full of tack and tourists with a sizeable dollop of loonies smeared all over it. We saw one chap in a wheel chair dressed up as tiger speeding about the place wolf whistling at girls. There was an impromptu patrol of cop cars dating back to the twenties with a classic batmobile thrown in. In amongst the bonkers bits was Musso Frank's bar and grill, which is where the likes of Chaplin, Niven and Chandler called their local. So they'd come, like we all do, and get pissed, swear and shout at each other. The vibe in there is classic, golden years where the waiter looks a bit like Marlon Brando and you can drink an old fashioned which makes your mind spin. We did. It was mint.

An old fashioned in Musso and Frank's bar and grill

What else? Almost too much to reel off. We saw the Capitol Records Building, drove through Beverly Hills (catching the end of the road Steve Martin supposedly calls home - it looked a bit boasty for us), walked down Rodeo Drive (out of Pretty Woman) and visited the Getty Centre for an injection of architecture and ideas and that.

Muscle beach - kiss the fist

Our final afternoon was spent on Venice Beach - it's a weird little mile and a half stretch where you can get yourself prescribed weed and strut your stuff on Muscle Beach along with some saggy looking old fellas. We went for a mooch and ended up purchasing a grilled cheese doughnut. It was a meal which summed up us, our holiday and America in one fell swoop. Thanks for having us USA!

Grilled cheese doughnut

If you're not utterly bored by this travel diary, then you can check out the first two parts both hither and thither.