Category: travel

A pinch of art and a large dose of love

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“Cuisine is a few grams of passion, a spoonful of technique, a pinch of art and a large dose of love”

When chef Eric Bendel wrote this, he clearly meant it. His restaurant is in the middle of nowhere, well actually right bang in the middle of France in Bruères-Allichamp. We were driving South and found that all the hotels in Bourges were full. A short drive on an empty route départementale and we were grateful to find a small hotel along the Cher river. Les Tilleuls isn’t the prettiest of hotels, rather a long 60’s wooden affair.

No credit card or passport were asked, what a delight and oh so rare these days. Our rooms were clean and comfortable although sound proofing is probably not high on the list. The big surprise came when we sat down for dinner. The menu is a short list of about nine items that change fortnightly and you choose how many you want. Children just get smaller portions, no fish and chips to be found anywhere.

When I read Eric’s poem I figured we should be in for a treat. When I read the menu, it was definitely an artist talking. Proof was definitely not just in the pudding. It started with not one ‘mise en bouche’ but two: three verrines each of cress, celery and cucumber gazpachos followed by crayfish with a courgette soup topped with herring caviar, all beautifully presented.

It’s one of those menus some people find pompous. Verrines are pretty little glasses filled with soups or layered puddings. Gaspacho is after all a cold soup. Yes it’s nouvelle cuisine if that means a pleasure for the eye and yes there were foamy additions to perfectly balanced plates. Last time I had a meal that made me feel like a child again was when I ate at Les Ambassadeurs, the Crillon’s restaurant in Paris. Proper posh with a stool for my handbag. Jean-François Piège was in the kitchen, I was scribbling notes for a magazine. This time, I was with my family, paying my way. Seeing my children get all excited by beautifully presented plates and happily discover new tastes was a joy.

Laure has done a great job decorating the restaurant, husband Eric clearly cares passionately about his work, attention to detail is faultless; although I must admit there were only two tables that night, being mid-week and off holiday. At around £60 per person for four properly crafted courses including nice wine, aperitifs and digestifs, we got an evening that we will remember for a long time. The joy of the unexpected, the subtlety of tastes, the fun of new discoveries; the love did show.

Some call it professionalism. That’s not enough. The passion has to be translated to provide a memorable experience.

I can still taste the mini pistachio rice pudding with strawberry cream and poppy mousse.

Thank you Bourges for being full that day.

Hotel restaurant Les Tilleuls

Are you a foodie?

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I’m told I’m a foodie. But what does it mean? That I like food? Well who doesn’t?

I don’t live to eat nor do I eat to live. I just like tasty food. I enjoy cooking when I have time but I often have a dozen other things to do. I won’t eat chicken that feels like I am eating a sponge because I’m lucky enough never to be that hungry. I like dark chocolate because it tastes of cacao rather than fat, milk and sugar. Can’t bear sweets that have a chemical taste. Does that make me a foodie?

It may be my being French that makes this new word puzzling. Does it mean I am a gourmet (lover of fine food) or gourmand (greedy – not as in ‘greedy bankers’ but as in ‘I’m so greedy when it comes to pudding’). Neither really. Gourmets know their wines and their cuts of meat. I still struggle with my grapes let alone your ales. Gourmands have a sweet tooth and I’d rather eat cheese than a dessert. Gourmands get fat which of course French women don’t.

So foodie is a word that does not translate literally in French. Just like gourmet and gourmand. A ‘good grub lover’ would be as good a translation as any. So I get back to my point. Who does not like good grub? Are we saying that we know better than the poor non-foodies who like bad grub? I thought the word gourmet had a certain “I know better than thou” connotation but how is foodie any different?

That’s stuff of revolutions that is. Would it not be if we were in France? But don’t take my word for it, after all it is an English word, I’d love to hear your take on it.

Fun family day in the woods guaranteed?

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“You are your own health and safety” says BBC Master Craftsman Guy Mallinson. Music to my ears. “Place your body sideways otherwise you’ll chop your arm off or cut yourself in half” says bodger Mace Brightwater; that got the kids listening. Despite dealing with blades that make a steak knife appear blunt our family day trying our hand at green woodworking was one of the most relaxing experiences we’ve had in a long time. Warmer than finding fossils on the beach in Normandy  (no fire to warm us up there) and far more rewarding than a day on a beach in the South of France.

We have a tangible memory of our day in the midst of Dorset in the shape of two rounders’ bats for the boys and two wooden spatulas, although they’re a bit square and I’d far rather use spoons but hey I do use them and remember. As for the bats, what can I say? Proud gushing mother says they are beautifully unique. Which they are, full stop. Whether they’re any good I have no idea -French people don’t play rounders- but the boys seem to think they’re great.

So how did we actually make these? Tricky to explain; I did not actually make one myself, my artistic side was too busy taking pictures and my motherly side was so proud to see my eldest son enjoying a pole and lathe far far more than a computer game let alone a book that I simply did not interfere. Nothing to do with the fact that when I tried to strip layers of wood I did not do as well as I thought I would. My romantic notion that ‘if I love arts and crafts then surely I’ll take to it like a duck to water’ was knocked on the head. As my eldest was a natural -Guy did say, so must be true- I thought I’d let him get on with it whilst I just got on with what I do best, look around.

Concentration on people’s faces, my 10 year old son and his father crafting together, kids chatting with their parent, tools borrowed from a neighbour, getting help, asking for advice, proud smiles, giggles when it went a bit pear shaped. I kept being distracted that day. Thing is, once I was no longer making a bat I had no particular reason to listen. So when the birds twittered, I heard them; when I got a bit chilly, I warmed my hands on the open fire and when my son was using a new tool, I studied his hands with my camera.

The setting in the middle of the woods is tranquillity personified. It is so quiet that Mace thinks a pole and lathe is loud when it gets going. He asks us to listen to the noise it makes to ascertain whether it is working OK or not, “if it isn’t, it makes a racket” he says. I was waiting for a loud background noise but you can tell that some of us live in a town whilst others are more used to woods and seaside. This townie found everything oh so quiet and peaceful. The children want to go back for more and their father was the last one to leave. “He’s in the zone” says Guy. My zone had kids trying to catch ducks eggs on a tiny island in the middle of a pond, the sound of a Scout father saying he would recommend the course to his Scout friends, the smell of woodland mixed with smoke and fire, the feel of a perfectly smooth rounders bat made out of sycamore.

It’s not perfect mind. Half way through the morning when I realised that I wasn’t going to get to do much woodworking I did feel a bit put off. I’d spent over £200 on the four of us for the day. On top of that our shaving horse was broken so we could not start straight away. I was getting a bit fidgety and began to think that frankly these things should be checked first. As Mace got a branch, fashioned a footrest and repaired the horse in minutes and as we borrowed each other’s cheap tools (weirdly the expensive ones were in sufficient numbers), I realised that actually the whole experience is not a race or a competition and the most important part of the experience is to slow down, concentrate, observe and simply enjoy each other’s company. And learn a little something on the way. At £55 per person for a day, it’s not a cheap day out but it sure beats a day on a sunny beach and that’s a lot more expensive to guarantee.

Foraging with the Wild Garlic Masterchef

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Nettle soup followed by a poached breast of chicken wrapped in wild garlic leaf and wild garlic pesto could sound a bit weird. Then again, when it comes at the end of a foraging day, it not only makes sense it demonstrates what it’s all about. But is it tasty and worth the effort?

There’s much talk about foraging these days but let’s face it, however good a reference book is, it is not conducive to go out there and find out on your own. I prefer a hands on approach so I booked a foraging day with Masterchef winner Mat Follas. Nine of us met at the Wild Garlic restaurant and were greeted with a coffee before we set off on our walk towards the woods.

We took a lane I have walked many times. I had noticed these pretty little purple flowers but never knew they were called Ground Ivy let alone that I could eat them. Most people will know these (unlike this French townie) and want to get rid of them on their lawn. It spreads like mint, in fact it rather tastes like it. Jack-by-the-hedge (or Garlic mustard), the good old nettle, hogweed and wild garlic can also be found in abundance in many places.

Theo, who helps Mat on his foraging days was an absolute mine of information. Once people got over his tattoos and his ‘traveller status’, we quickly realised he is a sharing kind of guy and knows his stuff. He pointed out that many of the plants we now consider weed or that grow in our hedges were in fact imported by the Romans for eating purposes. Nettle soup is not such a novel idea after all. Of course we can’t eat all the leaves we come across, it may be on private land or a dog may have marked them as his territory.

The point of wild food foraging is to use common sense. Whilst wild food is very much what spices Mat’s cooking, it does not mean that he forages anything that is not abundant. He may have to supplant it with some home grown version as he feeds rather more than a family of four but many people can find new tastes for their salads or greens in their back garden if not in the woods.

The seaside was a revelation for me. I have walked along our gorgeous beaches many a time, avoiding treading on those purple and green thick leaved, wavy looking plants. Look closer. It must be a cousin of the broccoli, only sweeter. These lovely balloon like tiny white and pink flowers? Pick a few Sea Campions (and leave plenty) and garnish your salads.

So back in Beaminster, what was the food like… The nettle soup, presented in a mini saucepan was light, fresh and surprisingly tasty. The wild garlic flower on the side not only looked pretty, it gave a little kick and balanced the starter perfectly. The poached chicken breast that followed was wrapped in a wild garlic leaf with a wild garlic pesto and was totally succulent. I will try this at home although I doubt it will taste the same. New potatoes and a spoonful of horse radish ice cream completed the main course. I don’t normally like horse radish as I find it too strong but this was subtle and spiced the chicken surprisingly well. Pudding? A rather tidy berry Mess. Got the girls Oh’ing when it arrived and kept us quiet for once.

We were a rather chatty kind of group. Friendly forager wannabes met a kiwi chef and a traveller to learn about the British wild food in the middle of what used to be a Norman town. That tickled my fancy. Mat and Theo were a fitting combination of forager and chef who obviously love their food (Theo’s mother was trained by French chef extraordinaire Bocuse) and are willing to share their passion. We weren’t prompted to give Theo a round of applause when he left us to our lunch to get back to his kids nor did we feign our appreciation when we thanked Mat for a fun and instructive day. The beautiful surroundings were the cherry on the cake or in this case, a wild garlic flower on the nettle soup.

Oil tankers off Unesco World Heritage Coast: Erika disaster waiting to happen?

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The French Appeal Courts have ruled that oil company Total is guilty but not responsible for the oil spillage that wrecked the Coast of Western France in 1999. Why? Because the boat owners are responsible, not the oil company.

The Erika disaster happened eleven years ago and Total will probably go to the High Court. Total’s press release points out they’ve spent millions on cleaning the coast. I just remember the images of birds and seaside covered in black goo. Other similar disasters have happened since.

I really don’t care who is responsible. What I do care about is not only the beautiful coast on my doorstep but the rest of the seas and coasts.

I’ve always found it odd that there seems to be tankers on the horizon along the Jurassic Coast going nowhere in particular. This is a coast of international interest, Unesco listed, an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, partly owned by the National Trust. Does that count for nothing?

I’m sure the boat owners would say that these boats are perfectly safe which by boat standards they may well be. I don’t want to get into the reasons why they are there. Waiting for oil prices to go up?

The point is, if they are going from A to B fine, I still buy petrol for my car. If they are transporting a substance that is known to be harmful to the surroundings they travel in, then surely they should not be allowed to spend any more time than they have to. Trawlers have already been banned in parts of the bay. If it is acceptable to prevent local people to earn a living for the good of the wider community, then surely the same can be applied to companies whose activities put an area at high risk of losing a large part of its livelihood. Not to mention the rare wildlife or the ecological implications.

According to an article in the Western Morning News (11/03/2010) the government is aware of the situation but there are no statutory restrictions on the number of ships that can be in an area at any one time. Again, I don’t care which government is in power, this is an international matter. But one that needs to be dealt with.

In the meanwhile, let’s hope nothing happens. Let’s hope indeed that 2012 don’t have a new Olympic event due to Sailing being cancelled: “Coast Cleaning”.

Bull Hotel, relax… you’re in Bridport

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As you drive into town, you can’t miss the dark blue 17th century Inn with a gold Bull overlooking the pavement. A Bridport artist gilded that Bull, old fashioned way; she works on the St Michael trading estate. I like that about the place. The meat comes from the butcher next door, the apple juice at breakfast is from a farm down the road, the amazing beds from a company whose impressive showroom is just outside Bridport.

I’ve been a few times for cheap and cheerful lunches (they have a ‘crunch lunch’ for a fiver which is great value for money) and once for a friend’s 40th which was a great laugh. I was curious to know what an overnight stay would be like and thought a night without the kids would be a great idea…

And it was. The bed was wonderfully comfortable (although ours did creak a bit but hey) egyptian linen and all, the Neal’s Yard bottles were bathroom size (no nasty plastic throwaway stuff) and we loved the mixture of old and new. Philip Starck lighting worked well with a french inspired Toile de Jouy wallpaper and plain chocolate walls with a silver tinge. Taste is very personal and if you like twee, you might want to find somewhere else. If you like bold statements and smile at quirkiness this should be down your road.

Supper? Well, we liked. Went for a sharing evening all the way with a Côte de boeuf and a cheese platter. The meat was tender in the middle yet crusty and black on the outside, sliced onto a wooden tray laden with hand cut chips, crispy yet not fatty, oversized sweet and crunchy onion rings, a large mushroom and some rocket salad. There was also a tomato each. I don’t understand tasteless tomatoes in winter (southern french pompous palate probably) so I gave mine a miss. It went back with the herbed butter which was unnecessary. The meat was succulent and did not need any addition. It did not need any more salt either, if you’re one of these add salt before tasting, beware.

The cheese platter was a good selection of local fare, from the famous Blue Vinney (which I love) to the Dorset Red (delicious if you like smokey) via a Somerset Brie and of course a farmhouse Cheddar. The husband liked the chutney which tasted too much like curry for my liking. He also loved the pudding of raspberry soufflé which was a bit too sugary for me but then I’m more of a savoury kinda girl.

There’s been a fair few reviews on Bridport’s Bull Hotel since they opened. They appeal to the growing number of people who have moved back into the area after a London stint or time elsewhere, as well as visitors who want comfort and a certain amount of luxury in a relaxed, modern atmosphere. Think affordable Babington House and you won’t be far wrong.


Saved by the naked chef

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Do you remember the world before Starbucks? That’s the one I landed in. Late 80’s, from the South of France, took food for granted and could not hold a glass of wine outside of meal times. Nowhere to go to sip a decent café (au lait).

The 90’s came along. Expensive coffees invaded the world whilst many of us were already hooked with fast-nasty-food for a pittance, plastic toy thrown in. I got caught by both. London, busy, convenient… Weekly shoppings at my local supermarket because I had no time to go and find butchers or greengrocers and… you try and park in London, it’s a nightmare. So, every little helps.

Yes I know the naked chef is the other supermarket. All the same, my salvation started with my friend Louise, some white fish on a bed of raw green beans and some vanilla. Delicious, simple and different. Inspired, I went off and bought ‘Jamie’s kitchen’.

Looking back, I think I lost the plot  because the raw ingredients I kept buying were insipid. My food was all about tomatoes or courgettes. Here they were more water than taste, aubergines or fennel cost almost more than gold. I dreamt of peaches in Summer, nectar oozing out and juice dribbling onto my plate.

If somewhere along the line you are a foodie then you want to pass this love to your children. When my son was about seven, I asked him which celebrity he would like to meet. ‘Jamie Oliver’ he answered. No singer, presenter or a character in a film, he chose a chef. Result. Food and its image was beginning to change in the UK. Lovely jobbly.

Mid naughties and J’s ‘School dinners’ programme came along. Why did schools ever stop providing a canteen to pupils? My French brain still thinks this an aberration. This is the first year that both my children are having a cooked meal for lunch. 2010. My youngest is even lucky enough to be fed by Local Food Links in Dorset. They won a Catering Gold Mark for using local, organic  and sustainable when possible. I know this is not the case all over the UK and many schools import all their meat from abroad and still cook unappetising fast food. There’s always room for improvement.

Nevertheless, despite criticising Jamie for ‘being in bed with a supermarket’ -quoting a chef friend of mine- or for his excessive presence on our screens followed by his array of books he, and Hugh, Rick, Lesley not forgetting Keith who started it all; they are all contributing to this country getting the balance between eating to live and living to eat back where it should be. It’s been fascinating to watch. And taste.

Gastronomie anglaise: on mange bien chez les Rosbifs

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L’ Angleterre culinaire en 2010? Elle n’a rien à envier à personne. Qui aurait pu croire que les Anglais feraient une révolution, et culinaire en plus. Quand je suis arrivée à Londres il y a vingt ans par contre, si les pubs ne manquaient pas ils n’avaient rien des gastropub actuels. Gastro comme gastronomie. Anglaise.

Je vous sens douter. Je comprends. Une mauvaise image est très difficile à secouer. Les Rosbifs pensent que les froggies sont des trouillards. Je vous raconterai une autre fois. Revenons à nos moutons et autres mets en fin de vingtième siècle. Les rois du hamburger étaient déjà bien établis et comme la plupart des parents citadins, je me suis laissée convaincre par le prix et le petit jouet.

Comme beaucoup d’entre nous, j’achetais tout au supermarché. En bonne varoise, mes recettes avaient des tomates et des aubergines. On en trouvait toute l’année, ce qui me ravissait même si les fenouils étaient plus chers au poids que l’or.

J’étais pourtant dans une prison culinaire sans goût, aveuglée par la frénésie de la vie citadine. Jusqu’à ce les chefs anglais remarquent qu’il fallait faire la guerre aux destructeurs de saveur pour libérer ces pauvres gens de leur triste impasse… Si vous avez la chaine cuisine sur satellite, vous connaitrez Keith Floyd (le chef au verre de vin) qui a ébranlé la façon de présenter les émissions de cuisine en Grande-Bretagne dans les années 80. Sur le tas, sur le vif, jovialité et des litres de pinard.

Celui qui a réveillé mes papilles c’est Jamie Oliver. Vous avez peut être un de ses livres de cuisine puisqu’il est devenu un des chefs les plus vendus au monde. Avec ses recettes simples il a commencé une révolution accompagné d’autres chefs tel que Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall qui a remis les produits du terroir (parfois obscurs) à la mode.

Voici donc l’univers culinaire aujourd’hui chez nos cousins les Rosbifs. Ici dans le Sud-Ouest par exemple, sur le menu du resto de ma ville (Wild Garlic) on trouve du lapin confit ou du chevreuil. Ce ne sont pas les étoiles Michelin qui intéressent (il y en a des restos étoilés bien sur, l’excellent Sienna à Dorchester par exemple). Cette nation voyageuse a su marier les inspirations internationales dans une cuisine à l’origine simple mais pleine de goût, malheureusement oubliée. Révolution industrielle, exode rural et un complexe d’infériorité culinaire difficile à perdre sont passés par là.

Les notions de provenance, de saison, frais et local ont repris la vedette et avec, l’amour de la bonne bouffe. Comme en France et ailleurs, il arrive encore d’être déçu. Mais pour la plupart, finies les courgettes bouillies à mort. Allons enfants de la révolution culinaire, le jour du goût est arrivé.


Haynes Museum: great cars, shame about the chef’s attitude

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The husband loves cars, eldest son is a petrolhead, what’s the mother to do? Convince them to go fossil hunting when it’s raining. Don’t think so. Follow the family to the Haynes Motor Museum and take her camera to keep boredom at bay. More likely.

Sparkford is only up the road from us, just off the A303 north of Yeovil. Haynes happens to be the largest motor museum in the UK so it’s bound to keep the boys occupied. The famous red room is quite impressive with all sorts of beauties from the obvious Ferrari, to other names car fanatics will expect: Austin Healey, Triumph, Lamborghini Countach, AC Cobra, MG…

This is a feast of mainly British and American cars all lined up behind a red rope in several halls. Whilst I understand that in our sad world expensive cars have to be protected from idiots that may damage them, it is somewhat frustrating not to be able to see the back of most cars or any other angle for that matter.

Thankfully, there are a few exceptions for the very special cars. Husband and son voted the XJ220 Jag the one they wanted to take home. If only. At least they were able to walk around and admire. I was able to get close and click. Found some wonderful reflections in the curves of the cooling system. (or whatever the holes on the top of the bonnet are).

One car I had never heard of -although it is an absolute legend for American petrolheads I’m told, is the 1931 Duesenberg Model J. Now I can see why it would be a legend. Only eight were ever built and the blue model on show at Haynes is the only one outside of the States. It will come as no surprise it’s the most expensive car in the museum. It certainly is an absolute beauty of a car. An ode to craftsmanship. The thing is huge and chunky and yet still manages to look curvaceous and sexy.

An other little number at the other end of the scale, also curvaceous but not so financially valuable is the 2CV. An icon in its own right, it makes me nostalgic. My uncles had one and it does really represent ‘La France Profonde’. This particular one does look like it has had a long hard life which is how it should be. I don’t care much for the newer shiny ones.

Now if you happen to get hungry, just a little word of warning. Make sure that you get to the cafe before 2 pm. Being on holiday and all, we got there at one past (I kid you not) and the chef was switching the lights off above the food, making sure that all potential customers queuing (all six of us) could hear that he was very busy and there would be no more hot food. Over and out. Prima donna was whispered when his back was turned. Probably wasn’t just an off day then.

Captive audience cafes often bug me. The ones with helpful and smily staff that have decent food work. I’m quite happy with home made cakes and tea if need be. How difficult is that? And smiles should be a given.

Thankfully the chap talking cars back in the museum was totally passionate, friendly and knowledgeable. Wheelchair bound he zoomed around, smiled, said hello and sure knew a thing or two about his cars when asked. I think he is secretly in love with the Duesy. (the big blue American curves). Can’t blame him. Even I can see the attraction.

Pourquoi venir dans le West Dorset?

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Portsmouth, Weymouth et Plymouth vous connaissez de nom, ce sont les ports de ferry pour les Français. Pour les Anglais et leurs vacances c’est le Devon, les Cournouailles et le Dorset de l’Est. Ben nous, on est au milieu. On a pas d’autoroutes et le ferry le plus proche est à Poole. Une petite heure en voiture pour arriver à Bridport. Et là c’est réellement le dépaysement.

D’abord il y a la Côte Jurassique qui est classée à l’Unesco (d’Intérêt Naturel Mondial, donc à préserver) pour sa diversité et sa beauté. Les falaises passent du gris au rouge (Charmouth ou Burton Bradstock), les plages sont de galets ou de sable fin, celle de Chesil est à perte de vue. Les petits ports de pêche approvisionnent la région en poisson frais (Lyme Regis ou West Bay).

Mais le West Dorset c’est aussi le vert des vistas du haut de ses collines. Tel un patchwork de verdure rappelant les bocages normands avec la mer en contrefont, les vues qui récompensent les marcheurs sont paisibles et sereines. Les sentiers balisés sont nombreux mais jamais bondés, juste quelques ‘hello’ de temps en temps.

Si la France est la championne des produits du terroir, le West Dorset n’a pas grand chose à lui envier. Oubliez cette image ancrée de la viande bouillie et insipide. La région a un amour de produits frais du coin qui attire les chefs et gourmets depuis longtemps grâce a un climat plus doux que le reste de l’île. Les restaurants ne sont pas classés chez Michelin et les nappes blanches sont rares. Mais les poissons sont frais et servis sans cérémonie, la viande -du chevreuil à l’agneau- est succulente et vient du boucher voisin, on privilégie les légumes de saison. Les restaurants ne comptent pas sur des touristes qui ne reviendront pas pour gagner leur croute.

Bien sur, la tradition du thé n’est pas perdue et les villages ne manquent pas d’offrir leurs petits salons où les grand-mères se tiennent au courant des affaires des voisins. Le soir, les hommes se retrouvent au pub pour la même raison et pour discuter rugby ou foot.

Et puis il y a les villes où il fait bon vivre comme Sherborne, Beaminster, Bridport ou Dorchester. Ce qui fait le charme du Dorset Occidental c’est que le département ne fait ni publicité ni relations publiques pour attirer les touristes. Mais la télé anglaise semble faire de plus en plus de programmes par ici. J’espère qu’ils vont pas nous gâcher le paysage. Faudrait pas qu’on devienne la nouvelle mode.