Brioche, BN Biscuits and a (Bit ) of Growing up

Before the Sand and Suncream

We all have those little holiday rituals that feel unique to us. The first time your toes touch the sand on the beach, or dipping your head under the first wave in the sea. Maybe it’s the first meal out after a long journey, or opening the door of the hotel room or villa and crashing

onto that big, pillowy, pristine white bed.

For me and my sister, it’s always been something a little less sophisticated… more snack-related. I only realised recently that it’s still a thing for both of us — when I was chatting about where I was planning to stay on an upcoming holiday, and my sister casually said, “Well, you’ve got to make sure you’re in a good spot for supermarkets, because nothing quite beats that feeling of pure joy the moment we step into a foreign supermarket.”

At least for us.

There’s something about the aisles of unfamiliar brands, the parallels between UK editions and their foreign cousins, the excitement of stocking up for the hotel or villa, and that unmistakable feeling of exclusivity — because you know you just can’t get it back home.

It turns out this isn’t just us. When I started baking cookies for my shop, I made a batch with mini BN smiley face biscuits — one of my favourite childhood biscuits from France. Funny enough, that cookie became a favourite for two customers who are now my very close friends. When we talk about holidays, they revealed their first stop is always the supermarket too — just like me and my sister.

It’s a small, sweet connection between us all — a shared ritual of joy, discovery, and a little bit of nostalgia.

So here’s a little tour of the foreign supermarkets I’ve loved most, and the snacks and

memories they hold.

The first introduction: France

The funny thing is, you can actually get a lot of these French brands in the UK today. I honestly don’t know if that was always the case — maybe they were exclusive back then, or maybe it was just the absence of all the usual British brands that made them feel so exciting.

Take Lays, for example — my family’s top choice. They’re basically just Walkers crisps in a slightly different outfit (I’m a crisp hater myself, so I stayed out of the debate), but somehow, over there, they felt like a delicacy. Maybe it was the packaging. Maybe it was the fact we were eating them in a Eurocamp holiday home, sunburnt and barefoot, pretending this counted as “French culture.”

You might be able to get them in Lidl now, which does ruin the magic slightly.

For me, though, it was always about BNs. Yes, I know — technically, they’re just jammy dodgers with a face. But they are so much more than that. Not crumbly, not overly sweet, and — this is important — they had a chocolate version. I truly believed I was living the high life, sitting outside a static caravan in the south of France with a chocolate BN and a glass of Orangina, feeling fancy.

And then there were the brioche rolls, pillowy and sweet, and that rich French butter that came in neat little paper-wrapped blocks. We’d stock the tiny Eurocamp fridge like we were preparing for some chic carbohydrate emergency.

Italy was completely different. 

Maybe it was a reflection of where we stayed — a step up from our Eurocamp days. Goodbye holiday homes, hello villas. Everything felt more authentic, more local, more grown-up.

I remember one place in particular, tucked on the outskirts of a small town. There was a tiny little shop nearby — barely a shop, really — more like a glorified pantry. No glossy snack aisles. No cartoon characters screaming from crisp packets. Just the basics: pasta, meat, cheese, a few vegetables. Nothing fancy, but still completely delicious.

In fact, I don’t think I ate a single branded product the entire trip. And it didn’t feel like

anything was missing.

Italy was all about things that didn’t need packaging to prove their worth. Fresh bread wrapped in paper. Cheese handed over in rustic paper. Tomatoes that didn’t look perfect but tasted like sunshine.

It was less about buying food, and more about being fed by a place. Which is, in hindsight, maybe where I started to realise that food could mean more than fun — it could mean memory, and place, and care.

Perfect extra detail — and a really humanising one that gives the chocolate bit more weight. Here’s the final refined Belgium section with that added in naturally:

Belgium is a very specific one. 

And yes — of course, it centres around beer. Surprisingly, not chocolate.

The last time I went, I was determined to bring back the “good stuff” — the artisanal slabs, the elegant boxes of pralines wrapped in ribbon. But honestly? Everywhere I went, it was so expensive. And, more importantly, thanks to my nut allergy, pralines are a total no-go anyway.

Which is fine, really — because the truth is, I’ve always had a soft spot for UK chocolate. Give me a bar of Dairy Milk or a Galaxy Ripple and I’m happy. Sorry, Belgium.

But beer? That’s different. Beer in Belgium feels almost sacred. It’s not just something to drink — it’s something that gets stirred into sauces, reduced into glazes, woven into the

actual food.

The best meal I’ve ever had there was a beef carbonnade — big hunks of beef cooked slowly in dark, malty Belgian beer until it basically collapses under its own flavour. Served with frites, of course. Comforting and boozy and completely grown-up — but still the kind of thing that makes you want to lick the plate.

So even if I passed on the chocolate, at least this trip felt a little more in line with my adult age. Less cartoon biscuits, more stews that slap. A glow-up… of sorts.

I was not prepared for Iceland.

The supermarkets were so different, I actually struggle to describe them properly. The layout was strange, the signage unfamiliar, and nothing seemed to be where it should’ve been. Shelves were stacked with things I couldn’t name — jars without English labels, pickled or vacuum-sealed foods that looked vaguely edible, but also a bit like science experiments.

I don’t remember what we bought. Probably something plain and a bit odd — milk in a square carton, biscuits in packaging that looked like it was designed in Microsoft Paint.

But I do remember how it felt: like being dropped in the middle of a puzzle with no clear solution.

And I think that’s what makes it so memorable — that I forgot everything.

No standout snacks, no iconic product haul. Just a strange, disorienting blur of fluorescent lights and silent shoppers.

And yet, somehow, it left a mark. A kind of supermarket amnesia that still makes me smile.

Canada gave me more aisles than I knew what to do with

You’d think Canada would’ve been one of the more memorable supermarket stops — big cities, big stores, big everything. But weirdly, I found myself overwhelmed.

In places like Toronto and Montreal, the sheer scale of it all — the towering buildings, the sleek city supermarkets — made me crave something smaller, something homelier.

We visited three major cities: Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal. And in each one, I made it my mission to find a market. Not a supermarket — a real market.

And every time, it ended up being the best part of the trip.

But Montreal stood out the most.

At first, I didn’t like it. It felt like wall-to-wall chains, like every corner had been taken over by something polished and corporate. But then I found Atwater Market, and everything changed.

It had everything: a deli, a bakery, a fishmonger, a butcher, fresh fruit and vegetables

stacked like artwork, and even street food stalls showcasing the best of the best.

For the first time, I didn’t need a supermarket.

This was the kind of place where the food felt alive. Where you could spend hours browsing just for the joy of it. Where the passion behind each stall was more satisfying than anything vacuum-packed on a shelf.

It wasn’t about brands. It was about abundance, quality, and care — and it reminded me that sometimes, you don’t need a supermarket to feel stocked, full, and completely happy.

From Cookies to Culture — The Supermarket Ritual Grows Up

What started as a childhood obsession — rows of colourful packaging, cartoon-covered snacks, and the thrill of buying “foreign” biscuits — has slowly grown into something much deeper. Back then, a foreign supermarket felt like its own kind of theme park. And honestly? It still kind of does.

But over the years, that excitement has expanded. I’ve come to appreciate the quiet charm of tiny village shops, the beauty of fresh produce at local markets, and the feeling of connection that comes from seeing how a country feeds its people. The joy is still there — but now it’s mixed with curiosity, respect, and a hunger (pun very much intended) to understand more.

So yes, I still get ridiculously excited about a trip to a foreign supermarket — and probably always will. But now, it’s not just about the snacks. It’s about the culture, the stories, the rituals, and the reminder that food is one of the best ways to get to know a place — whether it comes wrapped in shiny plastic or handed to you in butcher’s paper with a smile.