Ever since my first sortie to Europe and being greeted at Calais with an "exotic" brie baguette, I have been a voracious consumer of local delicacies. The waft of croissants baking in the early Gallic morning has sent me off course in search of the source.

The Mullah's first call to prayer in the Middle East has roused me from my slumber, not to pray, but to devour hot rotis and swill sweet milky tea at the mosque tea house. The neon lights of a "Waffle House" have lured me off many an American Interstate with the temptation of a six stack of hotcakes dripping in maple syrup.

Spain's sweet start to the day has had me lingering over frothy cafes con leche and chunky tostadas lathered in apricot jam. Caddying can present a whole new menu to the inquisitive bag toter. Unfortunately, someone on tour got the idea that it would be great if we could eat hamburgers and sausages all the way around Europe.

What do we travel for? To broaden the mind. Loop for a decent player. Make a decent cheque and put some different pain or panini on the table at night. Treat the palate to something a little different.

Searching a new town on tour for a hidden restaurant with good local food has always been one of the adventures of a new tour stop. It might take all week to find a good one, but it's usually worth the effort. The quest for the "George and Dragon" or the "Early Fiddle" in say Lago de Garda in Italy seems to defeat the purpose of being abroad.

The tour brainwave was to sanction a catering truck, originating in England, to trundle around Europe and set up kitchen at each tournament. Not a bad idea you would have thought. Well, it wouldn't be if they actually served some decent tucker. The great British tuck truck turned out to be an "Iceland" on wheels. If it wasn't frozen, they didn't serve it.

The only hope of getting a decent feed was if they underestimated the bagmen's hunger and ran out of home supplies towards the end of the week. Then they were in danger of serving some wholesome local grub. You would need to make the cut to have any hope of sampling this fare.

Now, given the choice of a midday snack in Italy, doesn't the idea of a fresh panini with cured ham and herbs accompanied by a delicate array of olives, whet the appetite a bit more than the prospect of a barely thawed burger enbalmed in a cotton wool excuse for a bun?

Well, apparently not. Cleverly positioned - usually behind the practice range - the "scran van" lures many's the lingering caddie, probably bored watching his man's divots flying down the range. Or if the wind is in the wrong direction and they are suffocating in the reek of burnt fat they may submit to the wicked enticement of the Euroburger.

You can take the caddie out of the country but his taste buds remain firmly fixed. If you are caught eating something that wasn't frozen first and then fried you are likely to be asked in amazement by a burger worshipper, "you're not eating that muck, are you?"

At the German events we are treated to a hot meal every day. Thanks to years of hard bargaining by Herr Shopsteward, the organisers realise that caddies eat real food, too. The caddie wagon sits out the German events.

In England we are usually given vouchers to feed ourselves at the public catering. On offer here is something that fills a gap but doesn't do much for your daily nutritional requirements.

In Britain, when it comes to eating, caddies are steered away from the clubhouse, unlike at the continental events. It's understandable that not everyone can eat in the clubhouse where space is at a premium during an event. The trouble is that there is no viable alternative. Standing outside in muck, at the hotplate of the food wagon, being smothered in hot sausage fat and getting wet if it's raining, is not the alternative the authorities think it is.

Come to think of it, maybe it's the PGA who are the main force behind the great British "Scran Van". Any time the stench of frying onions wafts in my direction and I turn to scowl at the source, I tend to catch sight of a PGA official elbows high and mouth heavily bearded in a semi-devoured burger. Why won't the burger, like Sterling, stay out of Europe and let us eat some decent food?