France (part one)

Is there anywhere as simultaneously sexy and uncomfortable as a beach? Lots of hot bodies, all within touching distance, everyone wearing at the most a onesie. Brown skin oiling up brown skin with hot hands and wandering eyes. Just as you drift off into a happy daydream involving you (but a stone lighter sporting an all over tan), the two topless Swedish beauties to your right, and Mr ‘can you tell why I’m wearing these budgie smugglers with such confidence’, you have to swat another fly off your face. In so doing manage to cover yourself in a shower of sand which sticks to your freshly applied sun lotion, and knock your can of sprite over onto the book you’ve just started reading. You didn’t bring another book, you didn’t bring another towel, and you now look like a fish finger. Not sexy (Don’t even get me started on the sand-in-sandwich issue).

Every year, about a week after returning from holiday these memories have pretty much faded and you start to crave the beaches again. You forget the stones, the cold sea, the impossibly irritating flies, and can only remember the Swedish. That’s how memory works. Still, I can say with utter confidence that on my recent holiday to Nice in the South of France, the first for two years, I have no unpleasant memories I hope to forget. Well, nearly. The ten (ten!) mosquito bites I received on day one caused me no small amount of grief. However I ate, as they say, like a King. The choice to come to France for me was based in no small part on its gastronomic potential. It’s France for goodness sake. Undisputed home of the foodie world. The nation that gave us croissants, foie gras, the Roux brothers and to no lesser degree, frites. Our last overseas trip other than a few trips back to Blighty and a week in Croatia (pizza and pickled salad mainly) was a week spent in Taba, Egypt. Great snorkelling, awful food poisoning. Everyone I know who has been to Egypt contracted the same horrendous stomach bug. So with this in mind, I was desperate to go somewhere the food would be brilliant and the potential for food poisoning wouldn’t be 100%.

I suggested Nice, and Diesel agreed. The weather was beautiful and the daily highlight of eating pretty much everything on offer made it all the more perfect.

I had a few ‘If I had to die right now, that would be OK’ moments, and nearly had Diesel stolen off me by a beautiful, stacked French waiter in Monaco*. I kept a record of everything we ate at every meal (It makes terrifying reading, probably equivalent to six months in the gym), but to avoid boring you to death, I’d like to give you the highlights. However, there were so many highlights I’m splitting it into two parts. Part two to follow at a later date. Enjoy.

Chez Michelizza

We were warmly welcomed into the home of Madame Michelizza, the mother of a good friend of ours here in Guernsey, originally from Nice. In the 24 hours we were there, we enjoyed two of the most epic meals I have ever been lucky enough to be invited to. Not only was the food beautiful, it is always such a joy to be cooked for by someone's mum. And despite the fact that we spoke virtually no French and they spoke virtually no English, we all got along just fine. I know I said I didn’t just want to list things I’ve eaten, but I don’t know how else to do these meals justice. On our first evening with them we were treated to: 

Saturday evening (deep breath)

Six types of cured sausage (including duck sausage and wild boar and pistachio sausage).

Nice olives

Fresh French bread

Pissiladiere (Essentially a pizza topped with slow cooked onions and olives. Home made dough and everything. It was every bit as good as I had been promised)

Lamb skewers (brought from Italy. Seasoned only with salt and pepper. Awesome).

Ratatouille (my first ratatouille in France. I know I sound like a twat but this actually meant quite a lot to me)

Cheese (One of the ooziest, stinkiest Camenberts I’ve ever eaten, kick you in the teeth Roquefort, local goat cheese)

Homemade almond cakes and coffee

Sunday Lunch

Sausage, nuts, olives and bread again

Oysters

Foie Gras and homemade fig jam

Homemade beef lasagne (nothing at all like lasagne I’ve eaten before. Brought to the table by a family friend, over the border from Italy, made by two Italian mammas (his sisters), layers and layers of the lightest most delicate handmade egg pasta, bite sized beef meat balls, light tomato sauce, mozzarella and pecorino cheese, and not a drop of béchamel sauce in sight. A revelation)

Roasted duck breast (cooked to perfection, absolutely perfectly seasoned with salt and a locally grown type of chilli pepper)

Cheese (as before)

Homemade almond cakes and coffee

Champagne, Italian white and red wine (including a sparkling red which went extremely well with the sausage and olives and such).

The best bit however was Laurent’s Nephew. I don’t normally go crazy over kids but he was gorgeous. He also thought Diesel was hilarious. And was the subject of my favourite photo of the whole holiday. Yep, we were definitely in France.

Petit déjeuner tous les jours

One of the best things about being on holiday in France/Spain for me has got to be fresh bread every morning for breakfast. What made it even better was Diesel going out to purchase it every morning. French bread with soft boiled eggs and parma ham, french butter and apricot jam, or even on its own with a coffee. One of the most affordable gastronomic luxuries there is.

Our first lunch

Our first venture into Nice, the sun was shining, we were feeling relaxed and happy, and as we wandered past a small Bistro that had tables of French people in suits having business lunches eating delicious smelling food, we decided to stop, try out our French and get something to eat. It was the best decision we made all day. I had the best steak tartare I have ever eaten with a well dressed salad and hot crispy frites followed by a delicious selection of small desserts. The best of which was a mini choux pastry bun filled with soft chocolate ice cream, covered in dark chocolate and chopped roasted hazelnuts. The coffee was strong and the wine lent a rosy tint to the rest of the day. Only problem is, I can’t remember what the restaurant was called (One very good reason why I am not writing a travel blog).

Pressed foie gras

Dinner on day two. The foie gras was only the starter, one part of a much bigger meal that included truffle risotto (with shaved truffle, darling), fillet steak Rossini, a beautiful bottle of Beaujolais, etc. However the stand out memory for me was my starter because it was just brilliant. I only got a thin slice, but as with all great foods, only a small amount was more than enough. Let’s have the foie gras debate another time, but for now just believe me when I say that eating the first mouthful of that foie gras with the caramelised  figs made my eyes involuntarily close and my mind wander. Nothing else mattered. It is moments like those that I live for.

(Part two to follow).

*I thought the amount of attention, constant stream of free nibbles, smiles and compliments on our French were a bit unwarranted (esp. as I was sporting some pretty awful mosquito bites on my Tesco value no-tan legs), but then when Diesel told me with a smug grin that the waiter had given him a ‘cheeky wink’ on our way out, and I clocked Diesel’s tight white T-shirt, I put two and two together – my boyfriend looks like gay bait.