Forget what the song says (and for my money, Nina Simone always sang the best version): Do go to the Rising Sun. Just make sure it’s the beachside café in Palm Cove, not the brothel in New Orleans. We’re still catching up with the backlog of posts from our trip north, but the Rising Sun – part of Nick Holloway’s mini-Nunu empire along Williams Parade – deserves a special mention. The weather wasn’t entirely crash hot or balmy our week away, and so Mrs Prick and I spent a fair bit of time camped out here, largely on the lovely little wicker sofa up the front (no picture, we were sitting on it). Anyway, those of you – and you know who you are – contemplating Palm Cove could do worse than to spend some time at the Rising Sun. Great burgers, fish and chips, and the like, plus more exotic offerings (goat stew with polenta dumplings; soft shell crab with a Vietnamese-style salad). Normally shooting so widely at so many different cuisines, from pub grub to Italian comfort food to mod-Asian, is a recipe for disaster, but here it works. Also, they make a helluva classic margarita, with the good stuff too. Check it out. Repeatedly. Our only complaint: would it kill them to offer breakfast as well?
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