On our recent visit to France (more posts to follow), one of the things I had wanted to do from the moment we decided on our destination was to go out to lunch and enjoy a full, fresh, fruits de mer, with (of course) a spanking bottle of white wine to go with it. My vision was clear: Diesel and I, exchanging witty anecdotes, the sun shining off our crisp white tablecloth, my polished Channel sunglasses and the glistening ice on the silver platter on which rested deep red lobster, plump orange mussels, sea fresh oysters in all their saline glory, cheeky little langoustines... you get the picture. I imagined we would be there for a good few hours, most likely enjoying a second bottle of wine, skipping off the restaurant terrace smashed but happy, with hearts (and wallets) as light as a feather into the late afternoon sunshine for a romantic walk along the sand.
As it turned out, when it actually came to it, my experience was nothing like the above.
They say you should always listen to your parents, and I’m not ashamed to admit that it took me a number of years (and many tearful, anguished, ‘I didn’t ask to be born’ themed arguments) to appreciate that. But by and large, I think I do. ‘Clean as you go along’ (mother) really does make life easier and more pleasant. ‘When you have finished packing your suitcase for holiday, remove half of the clothes and take twice the amount of money’ (thank you dad). And of course, avoid at all costs the ‘bucket and spade’ crowd when you’re on holiday, ESPECIALLY when it comes to food.
I spent many holidays in southern Spain as a teenager scoffing at my parents’ insistence that we shun the popular seafront restaurants with their plastic visual (why does anyone put photos on menus ever) menus and ruby red overweight British tucking into spaghetti bolognaise (sans spaghetti, con chips), and instead seek out some dark and imposing tapas bar full of overweight middle aged moustachioed Spanish men drinking cerveza, smoking a constant stream of super strength cigarettes, and tucking into small plates of strange looking food. It is because of these experiences that I know what real Spanish omelette tastes like, why marinated anchovies are one of the most delicious things in the world, and that it is always worth putting yourself outside your comfort zone where food is concerned, because it might just be delicious.
Anyway, against my better judgement we decided on a seafood restaurant just off the sea front, in the heart of the Old Town (we were running out of time). It was located in pretty much dead central tourist town (woman going round with individually wrapped roses, lots of shops selling novelty ashtrays, Matre ‘Ds herding holidaymakers into their restaurants, ‘hello, English? I have perfect table for you, good food, yes? Follow me...’). We had walked past this place on a few occasions and seen others enjoying fruits de mer, and at a distance, in passing, it had all looked so good. Perhaps if I’d have stopped to have a closer look, gotten past the pretty colours, I’d have seen that the chef likes to cook his lobsters until they are so overdone they disintegrate. Or that the distinct lack of gambas was hidden by piles and piles of shrimp and tiny winkles that remained impervious to all shellfish excavation equipment. Or that the chef did not think it necessary to scrub the shells of the mussels or winkles. Or just that overall, the quality of the whole thing was, well, shit.
Now I’m no expert, but I have been shown how to make a fruits de mer platter by a great chef (Paul Wilson, one of the best chef’s I have and will ever be lucky enough to be taught by). I know exactly how long to cook lobster for from live to get it perfect, and that the tail and claws need to be cooked separately because their cooking times differ. I know how important it is to steam mussels until they are just opened, and to dress them well in a simple vinaigrette while they’re still warm so they absorb the flavours, and I know that something as simple and perfect as an oyster only needs the most basic of accompaniments*. I also know that if your only accompaniment to a whole plate of food is one sauce, you should have the decency and respect for your customers to make it fresh. A monkey could make fresh mayonnaise, and we were in France!
However, we’re the fools here. We went to this place by choice when we should have known better, and we got everything that we deserved. To make matters worse, Diesel was suffering from tonsillitis, and whilst not really wanting fruits de mer, shared it with me anyway. Being sickly, he wanted a side order of chips, and being the angel that I am, I gallantly suffered the shame of ordering the chips alongside our fruits de mer. On so doing, I received a disgusted and quizzical look from the waiter (understandable I suppose), but then to add insult to injury, when the chips arrived they had to go on a raised platter to make room for everything else (thus enabling all passersby and other diners to see what utter chumps we were), and to top it, all they made a big performance of presenting us with a cheap bottle of tomato ketchup** THAT WE DIDN’T EVEN ASK FOR. The shame. Diesel thought this was all hilarious, and decided to take a photo for posterity. At least one of us had a good time.
Most annoyingly, it had all been my idea. The fruits de mer, minus the oysters was a total disappointment. It was so bad, when they took the plates away we even turned on each other:
Patronising French Waiter (PFW): ‘Was everything good Sir?’
Diesel: ‘Ah, oui oui! C’est magnifique!’
Amy: *silently bristling*
PFW number 2 (brilliant communication between front of house staff at this place): ‘Can I clear your plate Sir? Was everything good for you?’
Diesel: ‘Oui, C’est magnifique!’
Amy: ‘Diesel! Stop telling them everything was magnificent. It fucking wasn’t.’
Diesel: ‘Why don’t you tell them it was shit then??’
Amy: ‘Don’t be ridiculous’
PFW: ‘Madam, did you enjoy your meal?’
Amy: ‘er, er, , Oui, c’etait bien, merci’
Diesel and Amy: *silence*
Amy: ‘I think we should leave now’
We smashed the bottle of wine and left. Remember, never eat where the locals aren’t, my mum was right.
*If you are going to try and improve on the simplest form of perfection that is an oyster by using a squeeze of fresh lemon juice or adding a bit of chopped shallot in red wine vinegar, then the least you can do is use a good quality vinegar and ensure that the shallots are FINELY chopped. I seriously wanted to walk in the kitchen, throw the bowl of onion chunks in cheap vinegar at the chef, snatch his knife and demonstrate how to cut a shallot finely. I’m far from an expert, but even I can do that right. If you can’t pal, do us all a favour, pack up your knives and fuck off home.
**All of you will by now know that I love tomato ketchup - but even I have limits.
