A Union Jack place setting. Photograph: Adrian Burke/moodboard/Corbis
Next week, as part of the London Restaurant Festival
I'm looking forward to attending "The Great Debate". It's going to be
held here at Guardian Towers and AA Gill, Rosie Boycott, Jonathan Meades
and Janet Street-Porter are going to argue the motion that "This House
believes that French Cuisine is a spent force". I'll leave you to work
out who's defending which side
I'm sure that such stellar advocates will, by now, have rigorously structured arguments well prepared, but, in the unlikely event that any of them are reading this, I'd like to add a thought.
This year, like many others, I holidayed in southern Europe. I do most years. I wouldn't class myself as a Francophile in any sense but you can reach it by train, it has sun, and family, kids, friends and the other trappings of a couple of weeks away don't find it too hard to reach. The food, as I'm sure those of you who read any David, Mayle, Olney, Fisher, Child (or indeed Meades or Gill) will recognise, is pretty good. I have no desire to sound like an espadrille and straw hat wearing Englishman-in-Provence stereotype but, yep, they got fruit, they got veg, they got oil, cheeses, wine and sun and, all things considered, they got it good.
What has been slightly different about these last few years is what the French refer to as "Wee Fee", which is not a repressive Scottish church but wireless broadband - a facility which puts a slightly bored food-writer on holiday in instant connection with an entire twitter list of others just like him.
As you can imagine, conversation is strictly professional but, as I noticed for the first time this year, not a compulsive comparing of notes on a simply delicious Cote du Rhone, a marvellous, undiscovered little restaurant or a divine canteloupe. No, by week two most of us were talking about curry.
Almost any curry really. Or pho, or ramen, or burrito … a greasy sweet and sour or a full-on Szechuan inferno, bacon sarnie, steak and kidney pudding or a salt beef bagel.
From about day seven of the holiday, those initial yearnings for "simply grilled fish, an achingly fresh, crispy baguette and creamy local cheese with an icy rosé on the terrace under the mimosa" had passed like the food-porn cliches they are. We were bored, and it wasn't just those of us holidaying in France that felt this way. The Italian contingent were green round the gills from pasta. From Spain and Greece came reports of surfeit of octopus and meze overload. Even the Maghrebi adventurers wanted anything that wasn't a tagine. Every single one of us was jonesing in the worst possible way for proper food.
Proper food like you get in a civilised city. Food that's in inspired by the cultures and daily needs of an indescribably complex group of individuals. Food with resonance, spirit, challenge, not some faded outdated recollection of a mythical, romantic, classical past. If you love honey, you'll know that the stuff that comes from bees that forage a single crop can be interesting. Monofloral honeys like acacia or lavender can be delightful in their place, but polyfloral honey is in a different league of complexity and fascination.
Within an hour of getting home, I wolfed sushi. The following morning I was pickling onions. Within three days I'd set up stories on hares, Mexican street food in London markets and the best recipes for bún bò huế. Sure, France reinvigorated my love of food - as it does every year - by making me realise how much more interesting it's all going to be when I get back, how lucky I am to live in a food culture that's alive, not preserved and worshipped like a relic.
So tell me. When you get back from a European holiday, are you desolate to be thrown back onto the English diet or thrilled to be home, in what I regard as one of the most exciting food cultures in the world?
I'm sure that such stellar advocates will, by now, have rigorously structured arguments well prepared, but, in the unlikely event that any of them are reading this, I'd like to add a thought.
This year, like many others, I holidayed in southern Europe. I do most years. I wouldn't class myself as a Francophile in any sense but you can reach it by train, it has sun, and family, kids, friends and the other trappings of a couple of weeks away don't find it too hard to reach. The food, as I'm sure those of you who read any David, Mayle, Olney, Fisher, Child (or indeed Meades or Gill) will recognise, is pretty good. I have no desire to sound like an espadrille and straw hat wearing Englishman-in-Provence stereotype but, yep, they got fruit, they got veg, they got oil, cheeses, wine and sun and, all things considered, they got it good.
What has been slightly different about these last few years is what the French refer to as "Wee Fee", which is not a repressive Scottish church but wireless broadband - a facility which puts a slightly bored food-writer on holiday in instant connection with an entire twitter list of others just like him.
As you can imagine, conversation is strictly professional but, as I noticed for the first time this year, not a compulsive comparing of notes on a simply delicious Cote du Rhone, a marvellous, undiscovered little restaurant or a divine canteloupe. No, by week two most of us were talking about curry.
Almost any curry really. Or pho, or ramen, or burrito … a greasy sweet and sour or a full-on Szechuan inferno, bacon sarnie, steak and kidney pudding or a salt beef bagel.
From about day seven of the holiday, those initial yearnings for "simply grilled fish, an achingly fresh, crispy baguette and creamy local cheese with an icy rosé on the terrace under the mimosa" had passed like the food-porn cliches they are. We were bored, and it wasn't just those of us holidaying in France that felt this way. The Italian contingent were green round the gills from pasta. From Spain and Greece came reports of surfeit of octopus and meze overload. Even the Maghrebi adventurers wanted anything that wasn't a tagine. Every single one of us was jonesing in the worst possible way for proper food.
Proper food like you get in a civilised city. Food that's in inspired by the cultures and daily needs of an indescribably complex group of individuals. Food with resonance, spirit, challenge, not some faded outdated recollection of a mythical, romantic, classical past. If you love honey, you'll know that the stuff that comes from bees that forage a single crop can be interesting. Monofloral honeys like acacia or lavender can be delightful in their place, but polyfloral honey is in a different league of complexity and fascination.
Within an hour of getting home, I wolfed sushi. The following morning I was pickling onions. Within three days I'd set up stories on hares, Mexican street food in London markets and the best recipes for bún bò huế. Sure, France reinvigorated my love of food - as it does every year - by making me realise how much more interesting it's all going to be when I get back, how lucky I am to live in a food culture that's alive, not preserved and worshipped like a relic.
So tell me. When you get back from a European holiday, are you desolate to be thrown back onto the English diet or thrilled to be home, in what I regard as one of the most exciting food cultures in the world?
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire