Continental Drift
I entered this article for the inaugural AA Gill Award for Emerging Food Critics in the the Sunday Times. I have no idea of whether it was ever a contender as only first, second and third were published but concede that Chris Neven’s piece (the runner-up) about the food in a Paris hospital was superb.
‘The Economist’ published an intriguing photograph recently depicting the golden age of air travel. Half a dozen British Captains of Industry, their hair Brylcreamed over thinning pates in the First Class section of a Boeing 747, enjoying champagne served by a very proper looking stewardess. It must be sometime after August 1971 when the first UK airline took delivery of a Jumbo and so within the same time frame as the UK’s ascension to the EEC, in January 1973.
Fast-forward forty-five years or so, it’s a world apart from today’s uncharted political waters where bemused international onlookers now regard the UK as an ungovernable basket-case. Less crucially, the budget airlines that dominate European skies have systematically degraded their product to the point I will drive across continents to avoid using them.
It’s hardly a hardship and so my skiing holiday starts with a two-day peage cruise, stopping at Auberge Côté Rivière, a handsome coach house and hotel by a stream in Is-sur-Tille near Dijon. A pre-dinner stroll round the village yields a solitary bar where, as presumably laid down in the Constitution of 1791, the locals congregate in the early evening to ignore the smoking ban and watch football played by provincial teams on a black & white TV with a coat-hangar stuck in the back.
Back at the Auberge, Coquille St. Jaques with truffles, veal cassoulet, a plate of four local, stinky cheeses and a chocolate desert. A little Trou Normand then, to break down the excesses of the last two hours rounds off a stereotypical Burgundian evening with nobody to complain about the snoring. Bliss.
Courchevel and Val D’Isere are amongst the most celebrated skiing destinations in the French Alps with Courchevel, long being synonymous with sybaritic excess, even before the Russians invaded. It is now the most densely Michelin-starred town in the world with fifteen shared between eight restaurants, all of them scandalously expensive. But Val d’Isere is the choice for where skiing is the priority and where I’m heading. But the eating is catching up quick; there are multiple starred venues now and a thriving mid-market.
Taverne D’Alsace is in the basement of the Hotel Kandaha and the wrong range of mountains. But the calorific requirements of the Savoyade skier are broadly aligned with those of the Vosge and so it’s rammed by seven. Within seconds we are perched at the bar supping bracingly strong beer, perusing menus and the monochrome photographs of famous skiers, sportsmen and celebrities from yesteryear that dot the walls. I might regret Boudin Noir in filo pastry, Duck Shepherd’s Pie with Morels and an improbably butter-engorged version of Tarte Tartin during future visits to a Cardiologist but you’re only middle-aged once.
To approving noises from the proprietor, we hoover up a fresh tasting Ribeauville Riesling. But it’s the second bottle, the Grand Cru version from the same producer, with the viscosity and hue of diesel oil and enough helmet & throbble, as we say in Essex, that’s the right match for the offally banquet before us.
La Mourra reeks of restrained good taste with a Nippon-Scandi vibe, enhanced by film-set lighting of a mellow ochre that makes the assembled, preening metropolitan types with thick glasses look like movie stars. Well-heeled Citizens of the World will feel instantly at home here. The beautiful parchment menus feature Marinated Tuna Mini Tacos; Foie Gras with Green Beans & Sesame; Rice Cubes with identically proportioned cubes of Salmon Tartare, Chicken Gyosa (superior to Wagamamma’s, as they should be for €28 for five…) Black Cod, Sirloin with Truffle & Wasabi…the list goes on but without compromise. From the Japanese spirit-based cocktails to the Yuzo Souffle with Coriander for dessert, everything served displays a clinical level of precision in the execution.
Next day, a blat round a sparkling Lake Geneva and a few hours more to Obergurgl, high in the Southern Tyrol where the Hotel Bergwelt has hosted the well-scrubbed German and English Mittelklasse for the last quarter-century or so.
Given the obedient nature of the clientele, everyone pitches up spot on seven o’clock for dinner served to a honed formula. A properly made soup followed by a cold-starter of a terrine, smoked fish or maybe venison & hare tartare (“Bunny & Bambi in a Blender” was how my then eight-year old and now vegetarian daughter described it) and then a DIY salad buffet. You will have chosen your main course at breakfast. I love this last part of the ritual but grudgingly accept not everyone is smacking their lips at what they will be eating ten hours later while recovering from a mild hangover, worsened by the inevitable dehydration of 2000 metres altitude and unfiltered sunshine. Cheese, dessert and the sleep of the dead follow.
Sandwiched between the star-chasers and TV-fame seekers at one end of the cheffing spectrum and the national franchises at the other are the Claus Sagerniks’ of the world. Working to a level of consistency, quality and within a budget, they are the leitmotif of true professionalism. So thank you Claus and enjoy your retirement. He lives nearby and plans to help his protege of the last decade keeps things just as they are.
Recently, the obsession with Michelin stars by restauranteurs and punters alike has had an unintended McDonaldisation effect. Meals formulaic to the point that many garlanded places offer pretty much the same fodder, disconnected from their locale and at increasingly unrealistic prices.
But then just as I decide that my Michelin comfort zone is the knife, fork & plate symbol that is a reliable lodestone for a meal authentic to the region, but delivered to a higher level a random choice will usually deliver, a friend will recommend a place like Hostelrie Gilain. A few miles from Dinant and just off the arterial route that connects Brussels and Luxembourg, it has held a single star for twenty years and represents the best the continent can offer.
A juicy, pink, wibbly foie gras seared to split-second perfection with caramelised passion fruit to start; Kentucky-Fried frogs legs (or Les gigotins de Cuisses de Grenouilles, if you prefer) with asparagus; Dover Sole with chorizo before half-time. Then, the dinkiest Lamb Cutlets infused with rosemary, so pretty and tender I registered a pang of guilt about how cute the animal itself must have been. Next, a blue-cheese ice cream on a brown-bread biscuit and a vanilla tiramisu finale. Matched wines are versatile and generously poured if you are staying over in one of the spacious rooms. A well-bred, mongrel Alsatian from all the indigenous grape types (most Alsace wines are single varietals); a shrewdly chosen Marsanne from Northern Rhone, a silky Adriatic Coast red and then back to France for honeyed Jurançon to accompany desert.
Long after such Bacchanalian excesses have flickered from consciousness, what I will remember longest is that was the only customer that night. Despite being economically non-sensical to open up just for me, they did just that and then put on the full show: no grumbling, grousing or watch-checking, just the epitome of European generosity, civilisation and hospitality.