Hotels With Kitchens: The Only Cure for My Traumatic Scottish Pickled Egg Incident

There are two kinds of travelers in this world. There are the whimsical, free-spirited souls who drift on the winds of serendipity, happy to eat whatever the road provides. They are the “go-with-the-flow” people.

And then there’s me. A man haunted by the memory of a single, gelatinous, vinegary egg.

I am not a “go-with-the-flow” person. I am a “pre-emptively-pack-pasta-and-a-jar-of-sauce” person. I am an evangelist for the hotel kitchenette. And it’s all because of one cold, damp, and desperately hungry night in a village so remote, I’m convinced it only appears on maps during a full moon.

The scene of the crime was a tiny, achingly picturesque village in the Scottish Highlands. The kind of place that looks stunning on Instagram but where the primary form of entertainment is watching moss grow. I arrived late, around 8 PM, after a day spent chasing majestic landscapes and getting lost on a road primarily used by sheep. The air was thick with mist and the smell of wet earth. My stomach, however, was thick with nothing but emptiness.

“No problem,” I thought, my naive city-dweller brain firing on all cylinders. “I’ll just pop into the local pub for a hearty steak and ale pie.”

I strode into the village’s only pub, a place called “The Grouchy Laird” or something equally charming. It was cozy, filled with the low murmur of a few locals and the scent of history. I approached the barman, a man whose magnificent beard seemed to contain ancient secrets.

“Excuse me,” I said with a hopeful grin. “Is the kitchen still open?”

He looked at me not with malice, but with a profound, weary pity. “The kitchen,” he said, as if I’d asked for a live unicorn, “closed at seven.”

My smile faltered, but I wasn't ready to surrender. “Oh. Right. Anything at all? A sandwich? Some nuts?”

He pondered this for a moment, then his eyes lit up with what I can only describe as bleak inspiration. “I can do you a packet of salt and vinegar crisps,” he offered. “And a pickled egg.”

A pickled egg. Floating menacingly in a jar of murky liquid, it looked less like food and more like a science experiment gone wrong. I politely declined, certain there must be another option. I wandered back out into the misty darkness and found the village’s one general store. A hand-written sign on the door read: “Open 9-4. Closed for lunch. See you tomorrow, maybe.” It was a haiku of hopelessness.

Defeated, I retreated to my bed & breakfast. My host, a wonderfully sweet woman named Elspeth, greeted me with a cup of tea. When I explained my predicament, hoping she might magically produce a shepherd’s pie from a hidden oven, she instead offered me a plate with two shortbread biscuits. They were delicious, but they were the culinary equivalent of putting a band-aid on a cannonball wound.

Back in my room, the hunger was now a physical presence, a beast gnawing at my insides. I ransacked my backpack. My emergency supplies consisted of a half-squashed granola bar and three loose, dusty mints.

There was only one thing for it. I marched back to the pub with the grim determination of a condemned man.

“The egg,” I said to the barman. “I’ll take the egg.”

He fished it out of the jar with a tiny, specialized fork, plopped it into a small bowl, and slid it across the bar. My dinner that night, in one of the most beautiful places on Earth, was a single, translucent, aggressively vinegary pickled egg, a packet of crisps, and the two shortbread biscuits for dessert. I ate it sitting on my bed, staring at the floral wallpaper, and made a solemn vow.

Never again.

That night, a new traveler was born. The old, spontaneous me died, and in his place rose a meticulous planner, a culinary prepper, a man whose first filter on any hotel booking site is now “Kitchen/Kitchenette.” This isn't about being a picky eater. It’s about freedom. It’s about control. It’s the freedom to have a decent cup of coffee at 6 AM without having to put on pants. It’s the control to make a simple bowl of pasta when you’re tired of eating out. It's my insurance policy against famine-by-pickled-egg.

And nowhere is this philosophy more beautifully realized than in the United States, the land of the glorious apartment-style hotel. My subsequent travels in the US have been a masterclass in self-catered bliss. Here’s my breakdown of the best kitchen-equipped havens.

The Luxury Contender: Hyatt House

The Vibe: “I’m an adult who has my life together.” Hyatt House properties feel less like a hotel room and more like a slick, modern studio or one-bedroom apartment you could never actually afford.

The Kitchen Experience: We’re talking a full-sized fridge (a real one, not a glorified shoebox that hums), a proper cooktop, a microwave, a dishwasher, and actual matching sets of plates and cutlery. You could legitimately host a small, sophisticated dinner party in one of these rooms.

The Advantage: It’s the perfect blend of hotel convenience (housekeeping, free breakfast) and apartment living. You feel independent and pampered at the same time.

The Mid-Range Champion: Residence Inn by Marriott

The Vibe: The undisputed king of the American road trip. It’s reliable, comfortable, and built for people who are staying for more than one night.

The Kitchen Experience: This is the workhorse. You get the full kitchen setup, every time. The fridge is big enough to hold a week's worth of groceries and a case of beer. I have fond memories of making grilled cheese sandwiches at midnight in a Residence Inn near Denver after a long day of hiking. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated comfort.

The Advantage: Consistency and value. You know exactly what you’re getting. Plus, they often have a free "social hour" with snacks and drinks.

The Budget Surprise: Extended Stay America

The Vibe: No-frills functionality. Extended Stay America is not trying to be glamorous. It’s a tool. The decor might whisper “1999,” but the kitchen shouts “I WORK!”

The Kitchen Experience: It’s a kitchenette, but a fully capable one. You’ll get a full-sized fridge, a microwave, and a two-burner cooktop. You might have to ask for pots and pans at the front desk, but who cares? You can boil water for pasta. You can fry an egg. You can store your yogurt. It fulfills the sacred vow.

The Advantage: The price. You get the power of a kitchen for not much more than a standard motel room. It’s the ultimate travel hack.

So, the next time you're planning a trip, ask yourself: are you a "go-with-the-flow" person, ready to gamble your dinner on the whims of a remote village? Or are you ready to ascend to a higher plane of travel enlightenment?

Choose the kitchen. It’s not just a room amenity. It’s a declaration of independence. And trust me, it’s a whole lot better than a pickled egg.