24 metres between me and my work

499 kilometres between me and my boyfriend

614 kilometres between me and my mum

792 kilometres between me and my dad

Having chosen to live abroad, there was always going to be a geographical distance between me and my family and for the most part I don’t mind this. I really like taking the train, as of recently it seems the only place where I am able to get any writing done. I am currently on the TER between Guingamp and Paimpol, a one carriage Dingly Deller as my mum would call it. Off to Brittany to see Paul for the weekend and in typical “us” fashion we have booked to go and eat at fanciest restaurant in the region and so we will be having lunch at Le Coquillage. When booking we were asked if we were celebrating a special occasion and although the answer is technically no, I think that dining with my boyfriend who currently lives 500km away could count. I don’t need to be told twice that we should celebrate the small things, wear the fancy clothes, eat at the nice restaurants, visit your family, because life is dangerously short. But, we were painfully reminded of this in Paris this month, having tragically lost the impossibly genius chef Bertrand Grébaut after his battle with cancer. Paul’s old boss, and chef patron of Septime amongst others, is the defining Parisian chef of his generation, responsible for making Michelin accessible and inspiring a global movement of bistronomie. In this moment, I hope that it brings peace to know that his legacy, so expansive and dear, will live on in so many plates and meals in restaurants worldwide as there is a demarcation of cooking before and after Bertrand. His spirit and his point de sel will continue to be felt for generations to come. All my love is directed to his family, both his relations and his chef family, all of those who worked and were lucky enough to cook with him.

With this reminder that simultaneously nothing matters and everything matters, I urge us to book the dinner with friends, call the parents, get a dog, go outside, and make the most of the life that we are able to be living.

Lunch at Le Coquillage definitely comes under the category of living the life we think we deserve. Nestled on the Breton coast overlooking Mont Saint Michel, a stunning property worthy of a French style Downton Abbey houses a three Michelin star restaurant originally opened by Olivier Roellinger, now run by his son Hugo. I flit between intensely disliking the idea of a 14 or more course tasting menu and believing that it is the perfect way to truly understand the style of a chef and their desires in the kitchen.

Embarrassingly, I think that I am phasing out the middle ground of restaurants, erring towards very low-key, cheap eats 95% of the time. Dumplings in Belleville, kurdish sandwiches in Strasbourg Saint-Denis, cheese toasties in the cafe in the library by my mum’s house. Then, once a year, pushing twice, an exceptional restaurant, that knocks everything out of the park, that reignites a passion for eating and cooking in a way that nothing, it feels, has ever done before. I hear the snob and blatancy in my voice whilst I write this but the distance between a restaurant of this calibre to a normal restaurant is immeasurable. Without even mentioning the service, the location, the beauty of the decor, speaking solely about the food in all of its glory at Le Coquillage, I think it was the best I’ve ever eaten.

I am lucky enough to have eaten in many a delicious restaurant, partly to blame is my job, partly my boyfriend, and partly my ongoing love for the industry. Moving from behind the pass to a table is always welcome step, from service to being served. This movement is intensified table-side when the plates starts to arrive. I believe that food that we make in the restaurant where I work is really, very good, there are constraints as with all sectors at the moment, but all in all, Alice is a fantastic chef with great ideas. Cooking the same thing however, over and over, will never be satisfying to me and a repetition of flavour often becomes sickly. Gougères with comté cream and jalapeños, the first time I tried it blew my mind, a comforting cheese embrace spiked with pickled fire, but the thirtieth time, the hundredth, it just doesn’t taste the same.

The novelty of being fed is one thing, but the feeling exaggerated by being fed in one of the top 157 restaurants in the world is incomparable. So without further ado, a brief resumé of this magical restaurant.

Langoustine served in a leaf of shiso (which we saw growing in the greenhouse later that day) with pollen and a mousseline of chouchen

Lobster with XO condiment and a sauce of Mexican cacao and vanilla

Good enough to drink from the Mauviel

Algae ice-cream, with dried scallops, caviar, and salted butter caramel

A perfect pre-dessert of grilled hay mousse, apricot vinegar and toasted marshmallow

The shiso bush of dreams

There was an elegant simplicity in the service of this meal, nothing was shouting for attention, there was a focus of spices and regional products carefully selected to illuminate the beauty of Brittany.

It’s a very easy recipe and that is coming from someone who, although is a professional chef, is not a baker AT ALL. I don’t really enjoy baking, even though I dream of being the type of woman who always has a cake on the table and a pot of tea brewing on the stove. My (adopted) godmother Amy is like this, there is always something delicious cooking in her beautiful kitchen in the Highlands of Scotland (one of my favourite places in the world.)

So, in an attempt to become a Nigella style Domestic Goddess, I do always have cookie dough in the freezer at home, meaning a home-baked treat is only ever 10 minutes away. The recipe makes approximately 20 cookies and is easily doubled. Not so easily halved as there is only one egg but, as I mentioned, freeze once portioned for an easy sweet snack.

Chocolate and sea salt cookies

250g butter (cubed and room temp)

250g light brown sugar

1 egg

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

400g flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

275g dark (80%) chocolate (buttons or chopped bar rather than chips)

Maldon salt for topping

1. Beat the butter and sugar until fluffy. I use my lime green KitchenAid for this in order to justify my Vinted purchase, but can be done with a wooden spoon

2. Add egg and vanilla extract and continue to beat

3. Add dry ingredients, no need to sift

4. Allow these to incorporate well for a minute or so

5. Add all of the chocolate and allow it to spread evenly into the mixture

6. Wrap the ball of cookie dough in clingfilm and cool for 30 minutes in the fridge

7. Portion into 80g balls and then freeze if you’re patient or directly into the oven

8. I use cookie rings to keep the round form but it is not necessary, you can reform the shape when they come out of the oven with a glass or mug

9. 10 minutes in the oven at 180c

10. Once golden brown and still malleable in the centre when poked, take out of the oven and add a good pinch of Maldon salt per cookie

11. Allow to cool for as long as you can wait and then enjoy

My dear friends Hattie and Luke got married this weekend in the village that they call home, Sauveterre-de-Béarn, in the magical Bearn countryside an hour or so away from the coast. I wrote last year about visiting Luke in his kitchen at the legendary La Legende and now one year later his perfect restaurant hosted the perfect wedding and made way for a perfect week’s holiday in and around the Basque country. This part of France will always hold a dear place in my heart as it was here that I made many a fantastic friend and spent a long hot summer cooking in the delicious duck egg blue greenhouse.

This time round, I was able to be the tour guide and show this special place to my boyf, driving round in our little Peugeot 107, eating, drinking, and swimming. This area has become a pilgrimage for many culinary geeks, as the quality of produce from fish to meat to veg is next to none. A climate that cultures the best of the best in terms of ingredients and chefs that know how to simply transform and show off these products. All that to say, we’ve had a crazy week of eating and I thought I’d share all of the fantastic places here, so that everyone can go and visit this wicked region !!!!

Denen Kanttua

Arrive straight off the train at whatever time of day and come straight here. Great lunch set menu, even better gildas and vermouth at 18h. Try the white vermouth, its a bit salty and matches perfectly the bouchée parfaite of the anchovy-olive-guindilla combo.

Petit Grill Basque

A pilgrimage spot of sorts. On a mid April Wednesday evening when the whole of Saint-Jean-de-Luz is snoozing and we can scarcely find a pre-dinner drink spot open, the Petit Grill Basque is radiating heat and noise from half way down the street. I’d go as far as to say it’s worth 4 hours on the train from Paris to eat dinner here, swim in the sea, and go home the next day. Notable seasonal dish, the lagrimas with a poached egg. These little peas, also known as teardrop peas or green caviar, are mini pods of sweetness, served with a bouillon and poached egg. Nothing beats it.

Geralds Bar

I already raved about this spot two years ago but always worth a lunch resa when you’re in San Seb before attacking the Pintxos. Set lunch at 27,50eu with a very happy surprise of Branston pickle served with a Basque piment d’espelette cheese at the end. It’s always nice to taste home away from home.

Extepub

Old man pintxos bar with 1,50eu cider poured from a height and juicy, chunky gildas.

Bar Desy

To finish your pintxos tour, walk to the other side of the water, a helpful digesting walk, to Bar Desy, and share a Txuleta burger. A soft pillowy burger with cream cheese in a brioche bun, so light (?!) and fluffy and different from all of the other bites you’ll have eaten over the past hours. Served with a glass of Cantillon Belgian cider.

La Legende

Even more worth the drive than Petit Grill is worth the train. My favourite restaurant with fave people. Even more so now, as after the beautiful wedding (no thanks to Brexit) Hattie is allowed to live in France and therefore, if you’re lucky, you’ll spot her and Luke cooking together at La Legende.

Hattie and Luke opened the evening portion of their wedding to the village and surrounding villagers, hosting their “Fete de l’Amour”, having posted a few flyers around and spread the word, the village was buzzing with amorous joy for the days preceding. Luke told me, that he went to drink a coffee in a nearby village bar, and an elderly lady at the bar asked him if he'd be going to the Fete de l’amour, only for him to reply that its his amour, his celebration! More people, more love.

Elizaberriko

Slightly jaded after a wedding, you do have to eat eat eat. So we schlepped up to Elizaberriko at Hasparren and ordered with our eyes bigger than our bellies. Big fat pork chop, washed down with a saline crisp Basque white. My lovely old colleague Gwladys has concocted a great wine list to help us discover lots of regional wines.

Pluviose

A one man show in a tiny garage. Luke Dolphin, the proprietor and chef has the reputation of being quite tempestuous but nevertheless hugely impressive and inspiring meal cooked exclusively in a wood-fired oven, cooked, served, bussed, and watered by two hands.

Sweet Pea

Another home away from home, with crumpets and scones in the patisserie window. Very good coffee with a view over the port of Ciboure. Right next door to the Sardine Epicerie, where you can pick up absolutely any regional treat you desire, from the best anchovies, to handmade soap, to rum soaked Pastis Landais cake.

La Cidrerie

The beauty of being on four wheels is you can fill the car with goodies from every stop you make. After tasting La Cidrerie cider in a nearby restaurant, the owner told us that is was made a mere 6 minute drive away, so we called the maker and asked if we could visit. Expecting a big production, we found Pierro and one cider making room, which makes it even more special to have scooted away with 12 bottles. (Possibly forgetting that we were taking the train home and therefore the magic of the car boot was slightly tainted). Also, 2,50 a bottle…!

Arotzenia

Un restaurant associatif, meaning a sort of charity style restaurant. All profits go back into itself and they work with a direct link to each producer in the region. One cow delivered every year, nose to tail style. We know the vegetables taste better when they are grown just up the road and cooked and plated simply but its nice to be reminded how much better!

La Rhune

Not a restaurant but a rec in any case. A big old hike up La Rhune cures all ailments. Especially in the spooky foggy conditions in which we climbed. Obligatory stop at Espelette to buy local chilli jam to pimp the cheese (Ossau Iraty) and ham (Jambon Kintoa) baguette.

Shopping list for you

• For a darn country moment

• Obligatory re-read to remember why books are great

• Blocking MET Gala content, you’ll thank me for it

• My BFF has started his business and in 2,5 years he will be running the world

• And subscribe to his newsletter cos its better than mine

Back soon with more.

Merci beaucoup for reading and as always please share with hungry friends!

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Since I last wrote, I have left my countryside cocoon and come back to work full time in Paris, as Sous-Chef at Le Cadoret in the 19e arrondissement, a decision that didn’t come lightly but that was definitely the right call. I realised that I probably only have a few years left of city life before the birdcall of the countryside eventually lures me back. With this return to the concrete, I decided that I must “make the most” of being in Paris whilst I still reside, a cliché of the highest degree but one that I am trying to adhere to. This comes in the form of eating out at restaurants (as if I wasn’t already), hosting friends and strangers in my flat in the form of Supper Clubs, and profiting from work opportunities that arise and only could arise in the city.

I started my Supper Club in November in celebration of the end of Autumn and hosted the Winter edition in February. In my next newsletter I’ll talk in detail about my little club and explain how it works, but I LOVE IT as it reminds me how much joy I gain from having people round for tea. Just this morning, I found out that three girls who both attended my first event now regularly have dinner together, having met that night and become pals and that warmed my heart so intensely.

Another small project I’ve started recently is gardening in order to keep my small connection with the mud and flowers that I had whilst spending time in Normandy. There is a garden a stone’s throw away from my flat that I had passed by many times on my way to eat a poulet frites at Bar Fleuri. I had always assumed that it was a private garden for residents of the building in front, but one day I stuck my head in a bit further and saw a notice with an email address on and I decided to contact the presidente du jardin to find out if they would allow me to come and get my hands dirty with them. Fast forward a couple of months and I now have a key to a little paradise and some seedlings growing in the greenhouse.

My job at the restaurant is really fun at the moment and my commute to work is a 35 second walk, so there are no complaints in that aspect, however I am always posing the question of will I work in a kitchen when I am 40 50 60 years old, and if not, then where why who how what else? I want to have my fingers in all of the pies simultaneously, spinning of all the metaphorical and physical plates. Can I do it all or more importantly should I want to? I’ve therefore taken on another (oops) job alongside Le Cado, as a private chef one night a week. The offer came about as a sign of kismet and the stars aligned for me to go and work for this star (can’t say who because NDA oops) and it is such a pleasure. Cooking for a family in their home is such an intimate act and demands a certain empathy but I’ve been welcomed in and am really enjoying opening up my mountain of cookbooks to make something creative and new each week.

I spent a few days in England last weekend with my love, visiting my Mum in the countryside and an unexpected night in London due to a cancelled Eurostar. Winter is hard in the UK, probably more so than it is here, so when the warmth of the sun and the tendrils of Spring start to gently caress the ground, you can feel the exponential gratitude in the air. Seasons also feel more pronounced in the countryside, of course, as you can see the changing colours of trees and hear the bleating of the lambs in March. We visited some newborn lamblings and I even got to help one ewe birth her babe, if that was not a sign for the new life new season new start of Spring, I don’t know what is.

My impatience, my best and worse trait, lays pretty dormant during the winter, and as the world wakes up so does my fervent desire to be doing all things, everything, everywhere, all at once. Perhaps, it is the Year of the Horse, but I feel that there’s a momentum springing me forward at the moment, so I am happy to be back tapping away at the plastic letters sending my virtual penpal postcards to you all. So merci beaucoup for reading and as always please share with hungry friends!

Shopping list for you

• Gardening podcast is now my jam

• A return of Mumford can only do good

• The Pass subscrip to be able to read my work

• My always and forever favourite email to receive for daydreaming

• A new Substacker who also makes me dream of the country life

The stability or constant of Pret is what I value most about its presence in my life. I know, that no matter where I go, whichever airport or train station or street corner (if I’m in London), my latte and whatever pastry I choose is going to taste exactly the same. This taste is certainly not perfect (read; not even very good), it is not a specialty coffee and there is something quite sickly industrial about the sweetness of this muffin but I knew that going in and it was exactly what I was craving. It is the same with McDonalds, a consistency so stable it feels familial. So, this muffin, whose crumbs are decorating my keyboard as I type, made me wonder about stability and if that is something that I am looking for.

My gut response would be yes, 1000%, tie me down and let me live out the rest of my days in the same apartment, with a stable job, a group of friends that doesn’t move, and for the whole nine years why not a husband and a dog. But, looking at the choices I’ve made over my adult sentient years, it seems I’m also a bit addicted to the chaos of the unknown. I recently made a big and quite horrid decision to turn down a job opportunity that would have been a career move for the next five (or maybe more) years and whilst originally the prospect of being fixed to one restaurant felt comforting, the more I sat with it, the less prepared I felt to give up the freedom of movement that I currently possess. The question of “but what now?” has been thrown at me a few times in the past weeks and all I can really say is eek who knows but that’s ok, more than ok even.

I read something this morning that said “the Universe will make you so uncomfortable when you aren’t on the right path. It will make you so uncomfortable so that you start moving differently and towards where you’re meant to be going. Don’t resist it.” With hindsight, the Universe had been telling me that I was not on the right track and I hadn’t been listening. It took the Universe sending a big taxi to physically knock me off my bike for me to realise that there was something that wasn’t right. My philosophical rudder of believing that everything happens for a reason is relatively simple to stand by, what is not always as evident is working out what that reason is. It is even more difficult to explain that reasoning to other people. To use an instinct or a gut feeling as a big decision maker feels slightly unstable and, even for me, a bit loony, but a culmination of past lived experiences make up these strong premonitions and they shouldn’t be ignored. Pushing aside instinctual feelings is akin to obliterating everything that you’ve done up until now and all you’ve learnt in favour of “maybe it’ll be different this time.”

It is more often than not not different this time and instinct makes up who we are. We speak of instinctive cooking, people having an innate sense of taste and being able to cook extremely well with this intuition. I certainly grant this whilst also acknowledging the training and rote learning of many high class chefs, but I think there is a hereditary instinct that is hard to shake. While deciding what to eat for dinner tonight, I had a hunkering for some beef, my iron deficiency shouting very loudly, and so I settled on a bolognese. I arrive at Biocoop in Nogent-Le-Rotrou and find myself reaching for courgettes, mushrooms, peppers. All of the culinary school, years of working in restaurants, and a general internalised snobbery about Italian food, doesn’t stop my instinct of cooking my Mum’s “bolognese” and calling it by its name. It is what arrives first in my head when I picture a bolognese, a large red casserole pot filled with roasted vegetables and seasoned with ketchup. The first meal of the week being a spag bol, likely followed by jacket potatoes and that same bol, and finishing the week with a lasagne. A core memory that has engrained itself into my cooking repertoire and will remain firmly there, even if they won’t let me live in Italy having admitted this. Grazie mamma!

Shopping list for you

• To have the title song stuck in your head for a week - Partir un Jour

• Rich person energy Substack hack

• My best friend writing better than I ever will and always convincing me to spend my money on antiques

• Olivia Dean telling us all what to do

This messy introduction does have a point, I promise. A few weeks ago, I flew to Copenhagen for 36 hours after having been offered the chance to go and eat at Noma. René Redzepi’s kingdom in the Northern quarter of Copenhagen is a truly stunning setup. Greenhouses overflowing with plants, views over the canal, and a genuinely happy looking staff (!) Since opening in 2003, Noma (meaning “Nordic Food”) has existed in various iterations, has won the world’s best restaurant title five times and has three Michelin stars. The 20 course tasting menu costs €600, without drinks, and the only seating of the day starts at 17h. I didn’t have too much time to overthink this price tag before embarking on the spontaneous trip but as the day loomed closer I began to get weirdly nervous. Ever since I’ve had the slightest interest in food, which my Mum will tell you has been 20 plus years, I have adored going to restaurants. This love of eating out has been deeply engrained for as long as I can remember. I have vivid memories of driving past Aroma in Northampton town centre, next to the Vue cinema complex, and begging my parents to stop the car so that we could go to the “All you can eat” Chinese buffet, I had an addiction to their crispy seaweed.

The joy of reading menus, ordering, being served. Every important stage of my life has significant restaurants attached to it, meals like memory banks, that mark occasions and feelings. The Frankie & Benny’s where many a youthful birthday party was spent, or the DIY salad bar in Pizza Hut. When we lived in Abu Dhabi, there was a black lentil daal at a curry house that still holds place in conversation with my family. During my five years at boarding school, Domino’s pizza was a crutch, as was India Cottage, where Georgia and I would frequently order a box of chips with all of the sauces. My first few years in Paris are coloured by the memory of spaghetti aglio et olio at Vitelloni’s with my sister. All this to say, restaurants are extremely valuable currency to me and this realisation made the prospect of eating at the world’s best restaurant quite terrifying. I tried to keep my expectations average to low, for fear of being let down.

Needless to say, it did not disappoint. From start to finish, Noma was a crazy revelation, a dreamscape that still feels fuzzy when I try to draw pictures of it in my mind. During the nearly six hours tableside, we were regaled with treats from under the sea; the Ocean menu follows 20 stages of various seafood concoctions with the Redzepi twist of fermentation. From a standpoint of extreme and very aware privilege, the meal (if you can call it that), the experience, for me, was worth every centime.

Thanks to my chef, we had an extremely warm welcome from the team, the head Sommelier Ava Mees used to hold the same position at Sven’s restaurant in Paris, assuring that we were taken care of beyond wildest expectations. A royal welcome and a treatment that followed suit, a tour of the kitchen, cave, and fermentation labs, and off-menu dishes sent especially for us. (Again – aware of the situational privilege), but if you’re going to go to the best restaurant in the world, this is the way to do it. I will most likely never again go to Noma, but it will be an experience that sticks like toffee in my greedy brain.

But…the best? I am not so sure. Prone to a hyperbolic missile, I throw the word around a lot. Only today, I’ve told three people that I ate the best meal of the year yesterday, the best riz de veau I’ve ever tried, the best sparkling water even. When I say the best, I am conscious that it is grammatically incorrect since I use it so generously. But nevertheless, I like to use it as a marker to myself, my mental “best of” list helps me categorise the restaurants I eat in. The culinary juxtaposition of Noma and Lille Bakery (where I ate the following morning) further highlights my superlative issue. I needed to be brought back down to reality after the wild ride of Noma and so I went for a long, nature-filled walk to arrive at Lille bakery, where I sat in the sun and had a filter coffee (the only choice) and a cheese pastry. This was also one of the best moments of the trip.

I flit between two mindsets, even more so with my current Work from Perche setup, one of extravagance and ostentatiousness and the other of simplicity and mud. One side of my brain wants to eschew the city smog and move permanently into a forgotten village with just some goats and a vegetable garden to keep me company, hands in the dirt and no knowledge of the latest restaurant opening. Alternately, I feel a sense of pride, maybe even smug, about being up to date with who is cooking where and what is new and where to eat. It’s my favourite game when someone asks me where to go on a Friday night, an oracle of eateries. This filters into my work choices as well, for a long time I was convinced that I just wanted to find an unknown bistro where I could cut my teeth without worrying that the novelty would wear off, but there is a devil on my shoulder telling me to aim higher, find the best of the best and learn from them.

Alas, there is a trade-off to be found at every step and for now I can bunny-hop between these two worlds without having to make any difficult choices and I will continue to do so as the long summer months stretch out ahead of me.

For this month’s Alphabet Soup, I will try to tone down my exaltation because I know it will embarrass the recipient more than a lot, but a few days ago I ate at La Légende in Sauveterre-de-Béarn and it was a perfect day.

Luke was my chef, alongside Hattie, last summer during our season at De Puta Madre in Biarritz and he has since retreated to the back country. A small hour away from the Villa where we once all lived, transitioning from traditional Basque red and white houses into a more Northern style countryside, very almost feeling English. The village itself is quaint without feeling twee and apparently is home to many a character, including the water man who roams around with large bottles of water in his precariously open rucksack and one in hand. A river runs below the medieval battlements and when the sky is clear you can see all the way to the Pyrenees.

The restaurant, run by Allistair Bellahsen, is a converted terraced house with three floors and a little patio facing the church. The open kitchen sits in the middle of the ground floor allowing a theatre of movement to accompany your meal. A wood-fired stove replaces any induction hob and renders even more impressive the food that comes across the pass.

The ingredients all come from the local region, and they actually do, meaning no sugar, no black pepper, no olive oil. A challenge that many a talented chef would find qualm with I think.

Crispy matchstick potatoes with fried pigs’ ears and baby sage started us off. The pigs ears sliced to match the shape of the potatoes and weirdly, but deliciously, had a texture of Walkers French Fries crisps, sort of puffy and hollow. Pâté de campagne with pickles and oyster mushroom croquettes followed. Wild garlic pasta with white asparagus, hazelnuts and a house ricotta. Lamb and fagots with mint sauce, polenta, chickpeas and red beans.

We sat outside for pudding and cheese, a yoghurt cake with honey and kiwis, and a digestif. Perhaps it was the beaming March sunshine, the pregnant reunion of last season’s family, or watching a friend look totally fulfilled by their job and vice versa, but it was a pretty perfect lunch. Falling asleep to murmurs of chat in the back of the Defender as we passed through the tolls on the road back to Biarritz, full and very happy.

Next week, I am going to eat in another legendary restaurant. In a serpentine turn of events, along with my bosses, I am going to eat at Noma for dinner next Tuesday. I can’t really believe that I am able to write that, it hasn’t really sunk in that I will be going to a restaurant that has been repeatedly named the best restaurant in the world. The legend factor of Rene Redzepi is unparalleled and I cannot wait to see what is in store. I am in equal parts full of greedy anticipation and fear. Nervous to be disappointed by the expectation. But, as Tori of one year ago wrote, the aphrodisiac of expectation is spurring this on to be a most memorable moment, whatever happens!

Shopping list for you

• Patrick Melrose novels - one in and I’m hooked

• New Bon Iver today is the best present

• To becoming a better cook

• Annoyingly useful phone hack

• Haven’t yet been but want to go

Thanks again for subscribing to and reading Alphabet Soup, it is a continual joy for me to write this newsletter and to have people read and respond to it. This year has been a busy one and is definitely not slowing down, so I will be pausing my paid subscriptions but I will be back on a fighting schedule before you know it!

It’s been a good few years now that this trend has started to grow, in popularity and in physical scale and I’ll admit I was originally seduced. A mini sculpture made out of butter, sign me up! But, as food design has become more mainstream, I’m starting to be revolted by the extravagance of it all.

I was just sitting at the end of my work day with colleagues and clients, listening to someone explain how these types of events work. You may get a brief, a colour scheme or pattern and then you must design a menu with this in mind. Polka dots was the example that she used. An interesting enough concept, but in nature, weren’t polka dots, on ladybirds for instance, used to ward off predators? “Do not eat me” it means. This evolution of fashion into food has become inedible.

A discussion with a friend about a recent “exhibition” by the Queen of this style of “cooking”, was reassuring to me. I’m not the only one confused about why we are encouraging this grotesque indulgence in culinary design. The exhibition in question was for a Fashion Week event, of course, and involved huge balls studded with potatoes (skin on) and tomatoes (out of season). Firstly, it didn’t evoke an appetite and secondly, to what avail? Would it not have been possible to recreate these shapes and styles using papier mâché if the look was the most important factor? Sveva Guedroitz, aforementioned pal and very talented chef, put it simply:

“In a world where we’re constantly reminded that the world is ending and that waste is participating to that issue, I find it ironic that we are wasting this much food just for the sake of a name, for the sake of aesthetics and to ‘represent’ a brand. ⁠I also find it disrespectful for people who actually make good food. We’re spending so much energy and money to promote people who actually know nothing about food and are just using it as a tool (for marketing).

I have participated in events like these, for work, usually ignorant to what I am signing up for when agreeing to help behind the scenes of an “event”, and therefore have been privy to how they run. Having had the curtain drawn back on the production of events such as these means that I feel legitimate to criticise with conviction. I’ve constructed Christmas trees with hundreds of madeleines, I’ve decorated metre-long pavlovas and sadly after all the pain-staking attention to detail, no-one eats the fucking cakes.*

There is usually, from experience, a team assembled to watch the set-up and to check that the Artistic Direction is being followed suitably. This tends to mean, a headset and clipboard ensuring that there are enough pomegranate seeds on the cake and the height of the meringue is Pisa-worthy.

These beautiful installations, and I am in no way undermining their ingenuity, beauty, and all the hard work, are just undeniably wasteful. We are all guilty of the occasional food waste at home, not remembering to freeze something before it goes out of date. But, the difference here is the intention. The elaborate design and minutiae of planning that makes up a design event, the buying of ingredients, the measuring of the string on which we are hanging scamorza (?!). Everything is purposeful and we all know, back of house and behind the scenes, that this food will not be eaten.

A gluttonous plague is upon our fashion houses and I don’t feel like it is slowing down.

The buck doesn’t stop with these design events, it extends into the whole explosion of food media. The popularisation of food video content and Instagram food creators. I love watching these videos, one pan dinners, one shot content of a quick weeknight supper. I’ll take ten. But I wonder how many times that recipe has been tested, how many reshoots one video must take before the final version is Adobe-cut, copied and pasted to the Internet. I loathe to think that any of this food gets thrown away but it’d be naive to believe every morsel of every test meal gets eaten before the next is launched.

There are a few creators I follow who are actively trying to push back against this and I applaud them, as it can’t be the easiest to go against the viral grain. from @justine_snacks is currently doing a series on how to finish all of her store cupboard ingredients before rushing to buy the next lot. Our most wholesome family favourite (who has just launched his own Substack), is cooking for his farming family in his greenhouse and in between feeding his cade lambs and fencing his fields, I don’t believe he is reshooting his videos. from @5oclockapron shoots her videos in the early morning to eat with her family at lunchtime, so that we can be inspired for our supper. (An impressively quick turnaround here.) And finally Balbosté, the lauded culinary design genii, after their recent event with Longchamp donated all food and produce to Refugee Food (555 meals!).

It can be an unsatisfactory job, that is for sure, a constant updating of Instagram reels, posting and never having that moment of recognition, but where the frustration comes, for me, is how the concentration of food media is depreciating the work of chefs themselves. There is not one job more worthy than another, but being asked to work for free (it has happened too many times to count) or to make an aesthetic display and being told that the taste doesn’t matter (again too many times), makes me anxious that the real reason we cook is going out of fashion. When did we forget that food is about feeding?

In a moment where a viral post on Instagram can get you a cross-continent book deal and vulgar British Vogue column, the world and his wife are publishing a cookbook and I don’t yet see a plateau incoming. At risk of sounding as bitter as a melon, let us try consuming less constant content and consuming more good food.

Shopping list for you

• Too short a clip but on repeat quand meme

• My new kitchen shoes but I imagine them being cool in all walks of life

• A spoon to make you look more talented whilst plating

• Julien Pham talking sense on what looks like the Line 2

• Anyone in New York, follow Lucky Dinner Club for v cool events

• Good graffiti to finish (I’m in my Mad Men era)

*I can’t talk for all events because I don’t want to get sued (?)

Three years ago I was about to quit my 9-5 cushty job as an Editorial Assistant to go to culinary school and “retrain” at the green age of 24 to become a chef. Alphabet Soup was born out of my desire to hold onto a part of my editorial brain and combine my newfound culinary expertise with my love of writing to eventually (still working on it) become a food writer. Cut to Feb 2025, I am on the train on the way back to Paris from the French countryside where I am currently working in a small but mighty restaurant in the Perche, under the inspirational lead of Michelin starred chef Sven Chartier. My job as a chef, in the last few years, has introduced me to many of my now best friends, allowed me to travel and live in some mesmerising places, and develop a creativity and strength that I didn’t know I had in me.

The sun has been shining hard for the last few days and we had a magnificently busy weekend at work, the type of busy where a hectic choreography is required in the kitchen, an uncommunicated communication between the two and a half of us who make up the back of house. This type of work is so gratifying when it goes smoothly and no cock-ups are made and that might be part of the reason why I’m writing this cheesy letter - no Valentine this year but I fucking love my job so there’s that!

Anyway, I recently went back to the book that inspired the first year of Alphabet Soup, and that is An Alphabet for Gourmets by MFK Fisher. I often reach for this work when in need of motivation to write and with every re-read I find something novel and galvanising. A compilation of alphabetical essays full of shrewd observation regarding food, dining and everything that comes along with being a gourmet.

A few of my favourites:

S is for Sad

… and for the mysterious appetite that often surges in us when our hearts seem about to break and our lives seem too bleakly empty. Like every other physical phenomenon, there is always a good reason for hunger if we are blunt enough to recognise it.

H is for Happy

When I was a child my Aunt Gwen (who was not an aunt at all but a large-boned and enormous-hearted woman who, thank God, lived next door to us) used to walk my little sister Anne and me up into the hills at sundown. She insisted on pockets. We had to have at least two apiece when we were with her. In one of them, on these twilight promenades, would be some cookies. In the other, oh, deep sensuous delight! would be a fried egg sandwich!

A recipe for Fried Egg Sandwiches follows including a list of spiritual ingredients made up of equal parts hunger and happiness

B is for Bachelors

Their approach to gastronomy is basically sexual, since few of them under seventy-nine will bother to produce a good meal unless it is for a pretty woman. Few of them at any age will consciously ponder of the aphrodisiac qualities of the dishes they serve forth, but subconsciously they use what tricks they have to make their little banquets, whether intimate or merely convivial, lead as subtly as possible to the hoped-for bedding down.

W.H Auden stated ''I do not know of anyone in the United States today who writes better prose.'' Although I do not aspire to be the greatest writer in America (already geographically difficult), I aspire to continue to write with the hubris and greed of MFK Fisher as long as this newsletter shall continue.

Shopping list for you

• Bawl your eyes out at Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

• Flowers for UK friends

• Impatient waiting for the opening of Hattie’s caff

• Happy Pear flu juice time again

• Dolly making a great song even greater

• T-chaz lip-syncing his way around the Dylan press tour

Resolve, noun: the strong determination to achieve something

The difficulties in her way merely strengthened her resolve.

January - the month of resolutions, tried and tested, commenced and collapsed. I love a resolution but looking back over my past few years of listicles where the goals have remained indistinguishable, but almost always completed. I ask myself if these even count as resolutions or if I’m just reminding myself what type of person I am and want to continue being. One who reads, travels, exercises, has friends, is kind. (etc, etc, etc.) Less of a goal to work towards, more of a maintenance. My best friend always tells me that my goals have to be SMART (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Time-Bound) and as much as I understand the sense of this acronym, my intentions are never SMART (and whether they are smart is another question.)

I resolved this year to leave the city more and ten days after making this resolution I was offered a job à nouveau outside of Paris. And so, as of this afternoon, I will be decamping to the countryside once a week to cook in a beautiful restaurant in the Perche in Normandy - Oiseau Oiseau. Straddling my time between Paris and Le Perche, meaning my new resolve will be to not spend too much time (money) in Pret à Manger in Montparnasse station. As I type this, the hour of my train is chugging closer and I am feeling a stirring of excitement, an untroubled anticipation of what this next destination will bring.

January also was a month of good eating, beautiful new openings from friends, and old classics that resolve to never change. My top five seatings of January will be shared below the paywall. To access all of the list and for much more to come, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to Alphabet Soup. This support buttresses and invigorates me to continue with this project.

Shopping List for you

• 35 surprisingly interesting health tips

• A reminder of how to help in LA

• Gua-sha replacement

• Breakfast upgrade

• A greedy Japanese thriller by Asako Yuzuki

• GP’s Desert Island Dishes

J is for January

5 favourites from the longest month of the year

Pianoterra

Possibly, the perfect (Parisian) Italian restaurant. When it comes to eating Italian in France, we should never rely on the authenticity factor when it comes to deco, style, service. Food, yes. But the rest does not need to feel veramente italiano, if we want the Italian job, we can be in Milan after a few hours on the Frecciarossa. Which is why I think that Pianoterra is so greatly admired, the foundations of the cuisine are solid but the adornments are modern and cool. Branded as a restaurant and gallery, I believe there is an architecture firm upstairs who designed the glassy, marbled interior. The ragu is the house special, served in a big platter if more than one member of your party orders it and the negroni sbagliato is the perfect drink for going to a house party afterwards where you only know the hosts. (Disclaimer: I drank this before going to said house party and on my return home ordered an Uber with the same start and finish address and wound up doing a very expensive lap of Ile Saint Louis before being booted out.)

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Working in restaurants, eating in restaurants, walking past restaurants and feeling the reverberation of jubilation coming from inside. I just love restaurants. 2024 was not an easy year for the hospitality industry, the ripple effect from Covid is still being felt financially and psychologically amongst staff, owners, and clients. Yet, the people are persevering. More restaurants are opening than ever, the guttural desire from chefs and restaurateurs to succeed in an industry with a very large failure rate is still present and powerful. It is becoming more and more expensive to run a restaurant with interest rates and energy bills and many other factors that go over my head and yet in many other senses, the “food” sector is booming.

Chefs are moving out of kitchens and onto screens, from tickets to TikTok, making the demand for line cooks higher than ever. The population of people that want to start working in food but not in food is growing with such rapidity that it is impossible to keep up with the Substacks (yours truly included), the Foodstagrams, and everything that goes with this digital service.

Cheffing has never been a glamorous profession, that is a known sentiment, yet the digitalisation of the work, through film (We Live in Time, Burnt, The Bear) has given a new lease of life and a sexier view of the Back of House.

Chefs are learning their value in this modernisation of the trade and realising that restaurants (certainly independently run restaurants) cannot function if they pay their staff well. It is a frustrating back and forth on the inside, a constant battle of wanting financial stability and equally keeping integrity within the business. I hide behind words on Substack to avoid starting a video welcoming people to a day in the life as a chef in Paris, despite knowing full well that that’s where the money lies. It feels vulgar to romanticise my job for the internet’s sake, so in full honesty mode, I’ve had a few months off restaurant work and I am not 100% convinced that I want to put myself back through it. As much as I love the job, cooking everyday, having access to a secret world of produce, the hasty choreography of a service, it is nonetheless all-consuming. A Narnian entryway into an intimate world, a secret club of those privileged and stupid enough to ask for entry. Therefore, my current predicament is whether to give up my membership, to stop paying the subscription fees and carve another path for myself that allows part-time access, a one foot in one foot out agreement.

Whilst I endeavour to figure out this head-spinner, I’ll continue to eat in restaurants and be thoroughly inspired by those who are managing to stick in the game. Perhaps in the weeks to come there will be a meal that screams for me to rejoin the brigades, to hear the siren call of the ticket machine. In the meantime, my list of 2024 restaurants is ready for consumption. To access the whole list, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to Alphabet Soup!

My Top Ten

1. Le Cheval d’or

2. Paulownia

3. The Plimsoll

4. Early Bird

5. Le Cafe de l’Abbaye

6. JJ Hings

7. Gerald’s Bar

8. Chez Philou

9. Lim Sept

10. Oobatz

Read more

This brief epistle also serves as a thank you for everyone who has been reading Alphabet Soup this year. Over a hundred new readers in 2024, some of whom are paying to read my greedy musings, and that is such a dream. So, merci mille fois, and I cannot wait to continue sharing with you throughout this next trip around the sun.

• Breasts and Eggs by Mieko Kawakami

• Arket linen trousers for every occasion, surprisingly good kitchen wear

• Chappell Roan on repeat

• Deux Lunes coffee shop in Bayonne

• Pai huile démaquillante

• Since No One Asked newsletter has been like reading a postcard from a friend this summer

• Olivia Dean on Jools Holland on repeat

• Oyster without the iode

• Edible rom-coms

• One of a million articles about The Yellow Bittern sketch

• Two ingredient heaven for me

• Recently discovered but new top album of the year - Dunya by Mustafa

• Ben Lippett’s Christmas Menu planning perfection

• Leftover cream genius from Elly Pear

• Irish pride

• The most perfect Instagram advertising to ever exist

• My friend Carrie’s beautiful cookbook

• Kaia olive oil

• Fiasco

• Dinner with Edward

• Eras tour

Of course, the restaurants that have had a special mention over the course of the year.

A moro

Au passage

Le cafe de l’abbaye

Lulu la nantaise

Bibim house

Cheval d’or

Moncoeur

Early bird

Chez philou

Cafe des delices

Zoe bouillon

Gramme 11

The plimsoll

St john bread and wine

Nellys

La table de megumi

Denen kanttua

Geralds bar

Happy New Year!

Tori x

I’ve been avoiding reading back over my notes from the trip and looking at photos, so as not to fall into a recollection recession, but today I’m scanning for one specific purpose - recipes.

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In this run-up to Christmas (and it is always a run), the traditions are abounding, new and old, and I am certainly a culprit of falling into the festive trap. From the First of December, food and drinks are slowly morphing into a full Christmas lunch, wine becomes mulled, pies become minced and by the 24th, our palettes are ready for the summit of this gastronomic ascent. So, for the few days, I’ll try and eschew this confine (for writing’s sake and maybe to avoid early onset gout) and go back to my recipes collected over the two months away.

We tried to weasel recipes out of anyone who would speak to us, occasionally having to quietly mention that we cook for a living in order to convince the parsimonious types. That being said, I’ve come away with a small collection of nothing-to-do-with-Christmas inspiration, easy to recreate at home.

These recipes, much like a French December, have nothing to do with Christmas, but hopefully can ignite a fiery interest in travel for 2025. As we hurtle towards the end of the year, resolutions are rearing their promising heads and I’ve been thinking about goals and gears for the upcoming year, and apart from having enough influence on the internet to be sent free olive oil (has been goal for past three years), my main aim is this newsletter. A passion project for nearly three years, and a steady and patient readership, I resolve to focus my time on improving my fidelity and consistency with Alphabet Soup. This will start in January with the 2024 restaurant round-up, and much like last year, the first 100 restaurants will be available to al subscribers but the full access will be for paid subscribers only. (I’ve still gotta pay for the olive oil, guys!)

To drink - Special lemon soda

We loved this fluorescent drink found on Munroe Island mainly for the colour but also for the peps and quirky flavour combination.

• Red grapes

• Lime

• Gooseberry

• Salt

• Sugar

• Club soda

• Ginger paste

• Fresh green chilli

• Unidentified syrup (I think it was a simple sugar syrup)

Muddle the salt, sugar, ginger, chilli, and lime. Blend the fruits, skins on , with club soda, being careful with the effervescence. Mix these two preparations together, and the result should be Barbie pink.

Dry coconut chutney

Served on the side of nearly everything we ate, I wish I could package up this condiment and carry it constantly on my person.

• Fresh grated coconut

• Chilli powder

• Onion

• Coconut oil

• Mustard seeds

• Curry leaf

• Salt

Cook down sliced onion, mustard seeds, and chilli powder in coconut oil. Once translucent and almost caramelised, add fresh curry leaves and salt. Add fresh grated coconut and fry off until dry. Use liberally.

Crispy cauliflower

Textural treasure next to curried vegetable and soft rice.

Batter:

• Coconut milk

• Lemon and garlic water

• Salt and pep

• Chilli flakes

• Turmeric

• Cumin

• Rice flour

Pre-cook cauliflower florets in water with turmeric until cooked with bite. Dunk into the batter and into breadcrumbs. Fry in coconut oil until unfairly tanned and crisp. Salt whilst hot and also devour whilst too hot.

Okra Fry

In Ella, we had a cooking class at our homestay and despite a very evident language barrier, we cooked a huge feast with many an element. Known in Sri Lanka, quite simply as Rice and Curry, the national dish incorporates any seasonal vegetable cooked in its own special way. Like a thali, served with rice in the middle of the plate and a surfeit of veg.

• Chopped okra pieces

• Onion

• Tomato

• Mustard seeds

• Ginger

• Garlic

• Turmeric

• Curry leaf

• Roasted curry powder

• Green chilli

• Chilli flakes

• Salt and pepper

Heat coconut oil in a pan and add mustard seeds until they start popping. Add grated ginger and garlic, curry leaf, turmeric, roasted curry powder. Toast the spices until fragrant. Add the chopped okra with onion and tomato. Cover with lid and simmer until the okra is tender. Season. Finish with lemon & garlic water.

Shopping List for you

• Recently discovered but new top album of the year - Dunya by Mustafa

• Ben Lippett’s Christmas Menu planning perfection

• Leftover cream genius from Elly Pear

• Irish pride

• The most perfect Instagram advertising to ever exist

• My friend Carrie’s beautiful cookbook

But the ideas are simmering, ready to emulsify into a cohesive piece, but I must be patient (not my strongest asset). I thought I’d start with a few places that we ate during our time in Fort Kochi.

A patchwork town of Dutch, French, Portuguese, and British influence. Officially, you visit Fort Kochi for the Mattancherry Synagogue, the oldest in the Commonwealth, or the expansive Dutch palace, but we were there for the food. The town was a stop off point originally, carefully slicing a journey in two, but we found so much pleasure in the culinary exports of Kochi, that we looped back around a few weeks later to revisit what felt like our local restaurants. My notes from my carnet are quite hard to read but the closest I’ll get to remembering details, so here goes:

Restaurants/Cafes in Fort Kochi

Mary’s Kitchen

Old Harbour Hotel

Master Art Cafe

Sri Krishna

Kaavakada

Anatha Bhavan

Puthu Hotel

Raawal Lassi Joint

Chat Shop

Fresh Choice

Master Art Cafe

Next to our homestay was a very sweet terrasse with a tiny menu. One breakfast option that changed often apparently. Very nice chai and perfect coconut chutney. The most friendly older gentleman running the show, he’d sit next to us to take our order, meticulously noting on the branded paper ‘one coffee, one chai’. We wanted to go back for our final breakfast before departing and upon arrival realised it was closed on Mondays. I thought Marion would cry.

Kaavakada

Roadside teashop next to the mosque. Ordered a masala chai but he didn’t have any ready, so he made a peppery, gingery hot tea infusion. Like something you’d drink when you’re sick. It was the end of school time, rickshaws rammed with little children in starched uniforms would stop at the stand and buy fried bananas, the drivers handing them out to the kids in the back. Very much l’heure du gouter. The man refilled his little window with bananas, veg cutlets, pancake rolls, and all was sold whilst we sat sipping our tea.

Sri Krishna

A canteen on Palace Road, full of workers eating their quick thali or masala dosa. So hard to say no to the top up of rice and sauce and curd and pickles and chutneys. So delicious. Ordered 2 masala chais to finish the meal and they brought a masala dosa. Oops. We left here and went to my wet dream shop - Indian kitchenware - stainless steel galore!

Rawal Lassi Joint

Two options of lassi:

• special

• standard

Special is curd sweetened with cardamom. Tastes like the creamy portion of the old sugary corner yoghurts that we used to eat as children, with the sugared chocolates to pour into the bright white yog.

Standard lassi, to quench the thirst we’re told, is watered down slightly, but still sweet and creamy.

The shop has been there for over 40 years and is open 7 days a week. You stand at the counter to drink your lassi, or lean against your motorbike. Heaven.

I have so much more to write about this trip and aim to get through all of my thoughts over the coming weeks, so as to catch up back to present time, so if you’ve enjoyed this first epistle of Indian adventures, please do share and/or subscribe.

Shopping List for you

• Olivia Dean on Jools Holland on repeat

• Oyster without the iode

• Edible rom-coms

• One of a million articles about The Yellow Bittern sketch

• Two ingredient heaven for me

Whilst bathing in my privilege of travel, there are, of course, creature comforts that only exist at home. We started taking, Marion and I, about the small pleasures that we miss from Paris. So I thought whilst waiting for my next flight in Kochi airport that I’d write a few of them down.

When I get home I want to:

Make two cups of tea with full fat milk and take them to bed, drinking the first with haste, stinging my tongue with the heat so that the second isn’t too cold. I could make a pot but I like this method. The ritual of making two cups feels generous, as if one is for someone else, maybe sometimes it is, but for now I’m happy to drink both myself.

Get half dressed (a coat over pyjamas and maybe some jeans) to go downstairs to the boulangerie. I will buy a pain au chocolat, a croissant in case I change my mind whilst walking the twelve metres back to my front door, half a tradition for my lunch later and some orange juice. This flaky breakfast will be eaten across my messy round table, a space will be cleared next to 5 months worth of post, my open handbag, a burnt out candle. If the window is open, the crumbs will infiltrate all of these objects.

Take my bike (first must buy a new bike) and cycle to meet Dawnie. We will meet on Rue Amelot and get a coffee from Dreamin Man. A latte with cow’s milk and just one shot of coffee. The coffee will last until we are hungry enough to cycle to the 10e to buy a lahmacun from Urfa Durum and, of course, un sandwich au poulet.

To feel thirsty and drink water straight from the tap from the pint glass that Basile accidentally stole from La Bella Citta at Mia’s birthday the night when England lost to France in the World Cup. Refilling the glass greedily a downing a pint of clean and crisp water in a frantic rush.

I’ll be home in three weeks and these small things will feel immediately joyous but soon after I’m sure I’ll regret wishing for banality during this spice voyage that we’re on. So for now, on arrival in Sri Lanka I will continue to make the most of every delight that comes my way. Starting with this gluttonous breakfast spread from our homestay in Kandy.

Sent from my iPhone so please forgive any or many formatting or spelling errors!

The tourists have left Biarritz, and so has the summer weather, days of prolonged thunderstorms have replaced the patchwork sunshine to which we had become accustomed. The cooler front is settling in and it shocks me each year how quickly the nights get darker and the autumnal air fills my lungs and how, also, we can forget how cold a cold snap feels. The reflex of reaching for a jumper before leaving the house somehow has to be relearnt each autumn as if the sun melts away any memory of frigidity, of frost.

That being said, I love this time of year, la rentrée, or back-to-school-season (less cool), for its freshness. It’s a clean white shirt, a new pencil case, an empty notebook ready to be filled. The memories of hazy summers packed away, ready to be thawed out again in Spring. I am taking a cheat’s approach this year and extending my summer by two months, heading East for sunshine and spices, meaning that when I get back Winter will be inescapable, so these last days of autumn must be relished.

Re-reading my pre-parting words above written a week ago whilst currently stuck on a 6+ hour journey back to Paris, allowing me ample time to reflect. A short cry, a short nap, a scroll through my photographs and notes from the past four months. A seasonal job is much like a seasonal ingredient. It must be relished in its fast, fleeting presence. The sweet nectar of tomatoes, perfect during their harvest, quickly lose their appeal as the sun loses its strength. It’s over before you know it, leaving the taste of sunshine freshly on your tongue. But with the changing of seasons, the calling in of new products, the fleshy beginnings of squash start appearing, the arrival of mushrooms and the colours of our plates deepening, we’ll start to remember the beauty of winter.

A Pays-Basque debrief

Biarritz is the entry point for many into the Basque country and I don’t think that it should be. It is accessible yes, but representative, not at all. The Pays-Basque is rich in so much diversity, from culture, to food, nature, and the people that inhabit this little bordering pocket of France and Spain. To visit Biarritz is not to visit the Basque region at all, an area so desperate to be explored. I feel like I have hardly scratched the surface and will be trying to learn more and discover more in years and decades to come. A little part of the Basque country will remain fixed within me, and most likely on my plate for the food here is something to be marvelled at. It’s the years of traditions burnt into grills, the salt of the sea that seasons the local produce, and the pride of families around the table. not French, not Spanish, but Basque families.

Over the next two months, I’ll be discovering how Autumn feels in India, after this summer of activity, I’ll be operating at a different rhythm. I’ll therefore be pausing paid subscriptions of Alphabet Soup and returning with so much to say in November.

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This attitude, I am aware, can lead to a certain romanticisation of less than positive experiences, or an overly inflated expectation of what life has in store for me. Expectation is a deadly sin, a greedy prediction of the unknown, but is the keeping of low hopes generally healthier than raising the bar too high to ever attain? My expectations for this summer were wildly romanticised through all fault of my own, I expected the sun, I expected to surf, I expected a summer fling, a Wiz Khalifa moment. Despite that not being in my blood at all, I believed that this change of air would awaken a novel worthy story of energetic youth, or at least a brief chapter. Alas, the sun doesn’t shine so much on the Atlantic coast, the weather is as wild and unruly as the rugged coastline. Surfing is fun but achingly exhausting and I don’t think my weak arms are cut out for it, and when it comes to men who surf (the only breed that exists here), their brains are full of salt water.

Having expectations can be like putting on your armour, preparing yourself for battle, so as not to arrive naked and unprepared. It also acts as an aphrodisiac, if the expectation is half of the pleasure, the foreplay of a good meal, then the reaching of this expectation can only ever be sweeter. There is, I think, no better feeling than having a high expectation for a restaurant, and the result being above and beyond what you could have dreamt. The range of emotions that you allow yourself to be open to when you have high expectations is automatically larger than when you arrive not expecting a thing. The risk is greater, there is more to lose, but in that then so much more to gain. I am sure there is a graph to be drawn here, or a formula to be written but I don’t trust my mathematic skills, but maybe it would look something like this:

Enjoyment of a meal = (epicurean pleasure) + (service and environment) X (range of expectation) ÷ (price/quality ratio)

Of course, a surprisingly good meal is a satisfying moment, a wild card, but without the titillation, the pre-dinner scroll of the menu and the photos, the possible months waiting for a table, the climax reached will not be as high.

I’ve come to see the other side of expectation this summer, where the bar is set so impossibly high in the restaurant where I am working, thanks to Instagram and mega marketing, that our legs are paddling at a hundred miles an hour beneath the water to keep the gracious swan afloat. The beast of Social Media is a vicious one, especially so when prices are high and the clientele are particular. We’ve had a client show our server a photo of roast chicken from a two year old Instagram post and ask if he can order that for his dinner, bear in mind, we have a set menu each night and a disdain for Instagram related food intolerances. (We made the chicken and he didn’t leave a tip, just sayin.) Someone commented on a post saying “my meal didn’t look like that last night”, when the menu had since been changed, therefore her lemon sole didn’t resemble a Basque seafood stew. We have to laugh, so that we don’t cry.

Clients have grumbled that the place is an Insta-trap, yet we can see from their booking that they reserved through Instagram, so really, we ask, what did you expect? We are warned not to judge a book by its cover, yet we await a fantasy after seeing an Instagram post.

I, sadly, don’t have a solution to this incessant conundrum and we will continue to paddle our legs and peddle our wares until the end of the season, debriefing over a Campari and orange at the end of a Sunday service.

Shopping list for you

• Breasts and Eggs by Mieko Kawakami

• Arket linen trousers for every occasion, surprisingly good kitchen wear

• Chappell Roan on repeat

• Deux Lunes coffee shop in Bayonne

• Pai huile démaquillante

• Since No One Asked newsletter has been like reading a postcard from a friend this summer

Lyon, the famed gastronomic capital of France however, did not interest me gastronomically. We didn’t eat a lot and what we ate was not very good, but perhaps I can only blame myself. Usually before travelling to a new place, I spend a large chunk of time researching where to go, eat, drink, mooch, and I did not do this for Lyon. Either because, with its reputation I assumed everywhere we ate would be good, or because the days surrounding this trip were so very hectic with packing, unpacking, repacking, and moving to Biarritz. Despite bad meals, and a slightly dodgy hotel, the ground-shaking spectacle of Taylor Swift made the 6am train, the chewy steak, and the warm champagne (problems) worth it.

The day after the concert, after many hours of panic reshuffling of suitcases and handing over of keys, I dragged my heavy bag to Montparnasse station (I dragged it to the Uber and then out the other side but it was heavy in any case) and planted myself on the 4 hour train down to Biarritz. Today, it has been five weeks since I arrived and I still don’t quite understand the town. A scholastic desire to understand everything is possibly hindering the spontaneous enjoyment of Biarritz itself, but my overall, mind-blowing take so far is… I can understand why people like to live by the sea.

I’ve never lived by the sea before, unless you can count Exeter in Devon, which I don’t because I never profited from the proximity. I admit, that when I was younger, I never totally warmed to the sea, nor to the beach for that matter. The sand was too sandy, the sea too wavy, and I could never get comfortable enough to enjoy the sunshine. But, as with age comes patience and a more powerful appreciation for nature, the draw to the outdoors, the sea, the mountains, and, god forbid, even the idea of camping, becomes stronger every year. From where I am sitting now, in the garden of the house I’m staying in this summer, I am a 3 minute walk away from Lac Mouriscot and a 8 minute cycle from the beach, there is, therefore, no excuse to not profit from the abundance of the outdoors.

Pays Basque Special

The food of the Basque Country has always been renowned as one of the bases of global cuisine, it has a reputation that it upholds staunchly and, even more so in recent years, the call of the Basque Country for chefs, certainly English chefs, has been unparalleled. The food in and of itself is simple and familial, even if you have no prior experience with Basque cuisine, you will recognise the references and flavours in many things you eat throughout French and Spanish cuisine.

Pintxos, small snacks to be eaten with drinks, we could call them the Basque version of tapas but we might get in trouble for saying that. From what I have understood, a pintxo is more often than not served on a stick, a little spike of grub, the most common being a gilda. This is one of the most perfect bites you could ask for, a curlingly salty anchovy, a mouthy pop of green olive, and the briney pickle of a guindilla.

This tradition of Basque cuisine is, of course, strongly protected, as is the Basque culture in general, but in recent years, a move away from this heritage and with more people responding to the call of the Atlantic ocean, the cuisine is becoming more and more diverse. It is, I’ve come to notice, a divisive process, as the tradition is so heavily respected but as the area becomes more youthful, the cooking is following a similarly rebellious teenage streak.

I have eaten very well these past weeks, and equally not so well. In a town that is longing for novelty and ingenuity whilst clinging to its deep heritage, you have to be wary of wear you park your ass and your appetite to eat and drink. So, the following places are a mix of the conventionality and contemporality of this strange seaside town.

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This Spring special, therefore, will showcase things that have brought the sunshine this dreary printemps, and honestly there haven’t been many. But May gave way to a quick weekend in London, full of eating and a glimpse of what a life in London might look like for me (read: never hungry and very broke).

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This epistle is being written from the Basque Country, where I will be spending the next four months working in the restaurant of Villa Magnan; De Puta Madre. The sun has been shining here, giving hope of a hot kitchen summer, although interspersed with torrential rain showers, keeping the garden very lush and green. If anyone is heading down to the South West of France this summer, let me know and I can impart my quickly expanding restaurant recommendations, and we can have a beer.

Edible Recommendations

Chez Philou

When compiling this list with the idea of a sunny outlook, this bar was the first to spring (pun intended) to mind. Recently taken over by a very friendly new owner Guillaume, Chez Philou has a three table terrace in front of its old, tabac-style storefront. Full frontal sunshine all afternoon gave way to a 4pm sangria with my friend Achille, which was so fresh and slidey that it led to a second. The bar serves snacks (not quite tapas but nearly) and sandwiches (not quite bocadillas but nearly) and fun cocktails. For 6 euros, a sangria in the sun is never a bad idea.

Café des Délices

Continuing in the same vein without worrying my family about an over-consumption of alcohol, this bar has become an HQ for afterwork, afternoon drinks. The terrace, equally, gets direct sunlight and shelter from the Boulevard breeze, making it a perfect little sun trap. I used to dislike it, honestly, I found the bar pretentious and the staff quite cold, but as the sun has thawed them off, the place has become more and more palatable. It is sure that the moments passed in one place can swing your opinion and Café des Délices has had its fair share of sunny times these past few months.

Zoé Bouillon

Just down at the bottom of my street is a small café (daytime) / restaurant (nighttime) called Zoé which has become something of a canteen for me. On a Monday, my first weekend day, I like to do nothing, really nothing at all. It’s a daylong recup after a working weekend and a quick potter to Zoé Bouillon for a pulled pork sandwich and a vegetable loaded salad is the perfect not-work-from-home lunch. The menu changes daily (except the pork sandwich which is served on a fluffy galette berbère) and it is fresh and greedy.

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Gramme 11

I used to work here, so it feels biased, but the jokes on me, that the food coming out of the kitchen as Gramme has improved significantly since I left. A dinner amongst friends was the best meal that I’ve had this year, with absolutely nothing to fault. Asparagus transformed into slick Dandan noodles with a confit egg yolk. Lamb brochettes with a chilli and tamarind glaze. Millefeuille potatoes (that made my life stressful during my months working there) were now such a treat to eat, better on a plate than directly from the fryer perhaps. The stars of the show were the desserts, a strawberry cake with crème diplomate, light as air, tear-inducingly spongy, and a chocolate coulant, like a fondant but almost totally liquid, which is of course the best part.

Plimsoll

This was sold to me as the best burger in London, so with this honour in mind, I expected a fancy, or trendy, spot. It is, in fact, quite a pubby pub with wooden benches and wooden walls. The food, however, is far from wooden, it is vibrant and delicate, fatty and light. A really well-executed small plates menu, even though I am not sure that a burger belongs on a menu designed for sharing, especially one so good that you absolutely do not want to cut it in half or even give away a bite. It deserves the title of the best burger I’ve eaten this year, and honestly, maybe even ever.

The spring was brought to the plate by broad beans that are podding into season, beautiful light green drops, whose mouthy texture paired extremely well with the clams and cider.

St John Bread and Wine

Hard to say much more about St John than what has already been said by many a fan, but it really is that good. British classics, done well. But done so well, that you can’t believe the simplicity of the dish isn’t masking something more complex.

Goat’s curd on toast, mint leaves, and slow roasted shallots made me nearly lose my mind. It is a proof that the best produce, the best ingredients, are able to produce the brightest plates.

KAïA olive oil

Not a restaurant but an edible recommendation nonetheless. A family business taken over by Sarah Ben Romdane, an olive oil export from Tunisia, that Sarah has transformed into a flourishing international brand. You can read the cover story with Sarah over at Semaine and watch the beautiful video to see an insight into the whole KAÏA world. Sarah dropped by my restaurant a few weeks ago to drop off the new varietal of oil and it is really fantastic. A slick pepperiness that neither underwhelms nor overpowers, making it the perfect catch-all olive oil to dress salads, pastas, or to just be eaten with a morsel of bread.

Inedible recommendations

Fiasco

This very stupid French tv show had me hooked for three days straight. Completely slapstick and hilariously bait, the concept is a faux Behind the Scenes on the set of a film where everything imaginable and unimaginable goes wrong. Pierre Niney and François Civil, the Morecambe and Wise of 21st Century French cinema are such a perfect duo, but the star of the series, is Juliette Gasquet, the intern who tries to fix all of the absurd problems. Every quip that comes out of her mouth had me in stitches.

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Dinner with Edward

Dinner with Edward by Isabel Vincent is one of the few books I’ve managed to get through this year, my New Year’s resolution to read more has not been going so well so far. (Nor was it a SMART goal) But this memoir, short and sweet, was an enjoyable détente at the end of the day. Vincent, an investigative journalist based in New York, writes this memoir about her friendship with the father of one of her close friends. Edward invites her for dinner most weeks, cooking a splendid feast, teaching culinary techniques, but most pertinently, imparting his 90 or so years of wisdom. Come for the semi-cheesy learnings, stay for the elaborate menus that bookend each chapter.

Taylor Swift Eras Tour

24 hours in Lyon, a 6am train, bad food in the gastronomic capital of France. But none of this mattered after the spectacle that was 3h20 of Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour. Perhaps this shouldn’t be a recommendation, as it not the easiest task to nab tickets, however if you come across the opportunity for a ticket, take the train, plane, car, bus, bike, because it is the concert of a lifetime. Never have I ever seen such a well-manicured show, from start to finish there was not one foot put wrong, truly a feat of strength.

It’s funny how the longer you live in a place the more you imprint certain feelings on certain areas, consciously or not. Repeated journeys become second nature, standing at the back of the metro as you know where the good exit is, hanging right so you can shave four seconds off the journey home. Muscle memory digs its claws into your subconscious and boy does it dig them deeply. Instead of retraining my muscle memory this summer by exposure therapy, I’ll be taking the much less mature route of avoidance for as long as it takes to wipe the city clean from the malaise. My approach to life is much like my approach to cooking; haphazard and sometimes slightly lazy but equally zealous; all or nothing. I want to be able to sieve my brain and dust the memories that I no longer want to keep into the bin. Alas, I hate sieving, I think it’s messy and unnecessary and sieves are fucking annoying to clean. And therein lies the conundrum, I know what to do to feel better but it feels like the path of most resistance, so instead, like Beth from Little Women, I am taking to the sea.

I won’t remain cynical for long, perhaps my attempt of learning how to surf will knock that out of me, the waves washing away the bitterness that lies in the wake of a breakup. All that to say, for the next month and a half, I will be working on a different muscle memory, eating my way around Paris even more than I do now. Flexing my overdramatic tendencies and eating everything “for the last time”, despite knowing full well that it is not the last time.

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