Just enough time to look back

It’s the time of the year when, according to tradition, a look back over the preceding 12 months is in order.

And who am I to buck such a trend?

Sometimes this is a general review, but it can be specific to a subject too.

So here – but in no particular order – are a few of my favourite food-based memories from the last 360-odd days.

Meal of the year

It has to be that charity dinner in the spring at The Zetter, with Raymond Blanc and Bruno Loubet cooking, for pretty much obvious reasons.

Memorable it most certainly was – perhaps particularly because we could spot, easily, who was behind which course. And because it was clear that Blanc had brought with him produce from his kitchens at Le Manoir – the baby vegetables that somehow managed to be jam-packed with flavour and the air-dried duck that he’d been demonstrating on the television only a week earlier.

Single course of the year

The marrowbone at 7e Vin in Paris. Utter fabulousness.

I called it food for the soul then – I’m sticking with that now. My first experience of marrowbone in Carcassonne in July was good: this managed to be even better.

Restaurant of the year

Bistrot Bruno Loubet. No longer a discovery for us, but now a firm favourite – consistently wonderful food.

But also a mention for Au Casot in Collioure – not least because it’s wonderful to eat such simple but fresh and first-rate seafood right next to a beach, overlooking such an incredible scene.

Restaurant discovery of the year

Three really.

L'Amphitryon in Collioure. Finally, a genuinely memorable ‘posh’ eatery in our favourite place.

The cod with aïoli (pictured left) was quite superb, while the cassis sorbet re-introduced me to blackcurrants – I could happily have eaten it by the bucket.

Never mind Ribena: this was something very grown up.

Then there was Two Fat Ladies at the Buttery in Glasgow, which came up a really excellent – and stunningly good value – Sunday lunch, and Michael Caines @Abode in Manchester, where I enjoyed an excellent tasting menu.

Best fast food of the year

Fish and chips, done properly, in dripping and with proper mushy peas, in a small cafe on the dock side at Scarborough. It took 10 minutes to cook from the start – so that's 'fast' in my book.

And it was gorgeous.

Book of the year (recipes)

This might be about to be Michel Roux’s Desserts, but otherwise, Raymond Blanc’s Kitchen Secrets.

Book of the year

Raymond Blanc’s A Taste of My Life, for the reasons explained here.

But special mentions also for Matthew Fort’s Eating Up Italy, Nigel Slater’s Toast and the very, very important Shopped: The shocking power of Britain’s supermarkets by Joanna Blythman, which also made me take stock and adjust my life.

Personal achievement of the year

Christmas Day – lunch and dinner, not least for the presentation, but also for managing to plan it effectively enough to stop it being a trial.

And realising that I can now cook a few dishes without constant recourse to a recipe. That felt like a sort of culinary coming of age.

Gadget of the year

The mandolin and the mincer attachment for my mixer are good, but it has to be my potato ricer, which is just fabulous because it makes really fabulous potato purée.

Investment of the year

After umming and erring about it for some time, I finally shelled out for some Le Creuset – and realised instantly why it was worth it.

And after mentioning it here, a number of readers told me that they wouldn’t be without it.

Quality pays off.

Ingredient discovery of the year

Lard. Simple as. After Oliver Thring’s article on the subject in the Guardian early this year, I started exploring the issue – not just of lard, but of natural fats.

And I started cooking with them too, with great results. Lard and dripping are cheaper than the over-promoted artificial, so-called ‘healthy’ fats too. Any connection, one wonders?

But honorable mentions also go to the Bath Soft Cheese Co for Bath Soft and Wyfe of Bath, plus pigeon breasts, which are an all-year pleasure, and frogs’ legs, which were a very pleasant surprise.

And I can't forget blackcurrants – but that was less a discovery and more a re-discovery, as mentioned above.

Favourite ingredient of the year

Rhubarb still rates highly. One of these days I'll manage to create something really special with it, but in the meantime, I edged closer with a number of experiments – some more successful than others – in the early part of the year

Non-eating culinary moment of the year

Meeting Raymond Blanc. Charming and passionate. I’m afraid I was close to being rendered speechless.

Not quite – but it was a close-run thing.

Food TV of the year

Masterchef: The Professionals and Service, both of which saw Michel Roux Jnr soaring in my estimation.

Thank goodness we’ve left the era of chefs having to be shouty bullies. He treated people with respect and understood the difference between objective and subjective criticism.

Both programmes were not just competitions, but were also about giving people real opportunities to develop. And his demonstrations of classic dishes on the former programme were just an education.

The former too was about real people with real talent and skill – something sadly lacking in so much so-called 'reality TV' these days.

But let’s not forget Kitchen Secrets with Raymond Blanc – educational and enormously entertaining.

Cultural surprise of the year

It came late in the year – Christmas Day – but the Disney/Pixar animated feature Ratatouille is a delight – and a big surprise, not least because it champions food as pleasure over food as fuel, and it also links memory and food.

And it’s funny and gloriously animated. The kitchen scenes are extraordinary, full stop. But the realisation of food in an animation is nothing short of astonishing.

I've been fond of animation since I was child – this brilliantly brought this together with food. A wonderful combination!

Simplicity and sensuality: a Paris match

You could be forgiven for thinking that French cuisine is a complicated beast – there are all those sauces, for starters.

But while some Gallic food might be on the complex side, a lot of it is pure simplicity. And simplicity demands quality.

A long weekend in Paris was the perfect opportunity to muse on this matter – and to follow up on my culinary experiences in Berlin in May.

There’s something quite special about boarding a train in the revamped St Pancras and being in Paris two and a quarter hours later. This is travel in a quite old-fashioned way; travel that’s enjoyable in itself – none of that soul-destroying sitting around in airports for hours. And when your train departs at 4.25pm, you journey in the knowledge that you’ll be able to dine in the French capital.

Which we did. At Septième Vin, a charming restaurant in the seventh arrondissement, which has become our place to stay when we’re visiting.

As we walked down the road toward the restaurant, the joint owner and maître d', recognised and welcomed us. If we had to wait a few minutes for a table, he made sure it was an easy wait, with glasses of kir on the house, plus a small plate of very good saucisson.

We’ve been very partial to rosé for the last year or so, and the choice of one from Provence or from the Languedoc was met with an: “Oh, the Languedoc!” that must have instantly revealed us as visitors to that region of the country too.

I had scallops with salad, which was very pleasant, followed by sautéd veal kidney with a mustard sauce – which was also very pleasant, although it could perhaps have done with being cooked slightly less. On the upside, it was served – surprisingly, given the season – with root vegetables, but very nice they were too. My appetite failed me at that point and I settled for a cognac (on the house) but no dessert.

And so to a little cultural diversion. It has crossed my mind, more than once, to wonder why scallops are known as Saint Jacques in France. But there we were, wandering around the Louvre’s section of early northern European painting on Sunday morning, when we noticed a scallop shell on the cap of a figure standing to the right of Jesus in a rather old picture. Sure enough, the figure, so the accompanying text explained, was Saint Jacques. The Other Half pointed out the link and I remembered that Jacques – or James – had been one of the fishermen who became disciples.

Now, I have no idea why a connection was made at some time between that particular disciple and the gorgeous little shellfish in question, but clearly it’s been around for years, and it’s probably fairly safe to assume that it’s behind the naming of the delicacy in France.

Satuday was an anniversary, so we ate at the rather smart Café de l’esplanade in the evening, outside and under a canopy, with a view across the road to Invalides, where Napoléon is entombed. It might have been al fresco (we didn’t eat inside during the entire trip), but that didn’t mean anything less than perfectly ironed tablecloth and napkins.

We had Kir Royals to start, and ordered a rather nice (if very pale) rosé from the Campaux vineyard in Provence.

I opted for haricot vert as a starter, and my plate duly arrived piled high with the fine beans, dressed delightfully in virgin oil and Balsamic vinegar. It was an object lesson in cooking vegetables – crisp yet perfectly cooked. And as with anything so strikingly simple, it’s absolutely crucial that the ingredients are top quality.

A chateau-briand followed, ordered au point, thus ensuring it was seared and little else. The knife might as well have been a hot one, slicing through butter, it was so tender. Again, you’ve got to have top-notch meat for this. And the sauce – a classic béarnaise, served in a tiny ramekin on the side – was a sensation, with fabulous tarragon coming through wonderfully (that was the most complex bit).

Both our meals were served with puréed potato on the side, creamed with oil and arriving in a bowl with a teaspoon of virgin oil in the centre. ‘Mere mashed potatoes’, I hear you cry. But honestly, it was gorgeous.

And we finished with a plate of tiny wild straw-berries, each hardly bigger than a finger tip but absolutely bursting with flavour. It seemed almost sacrilegious to dip them in the pot of Chantilly cream, but such reservations are there to be overcome.

Not that everything was as good. On the Sunday, we thought we’d amble down to a rather good restaurant called Le Bosquet, only to find it closed. Instead of sensibly turning back, we carried on walking in the direction of the Seine in a languorous manner.

Eventually, we found ourselves opposite a rather old-looking restaurant. Deciding that we should try somewhere new, we went and got ourselves a table.

I ordered foie gras and toast, followed by a brandade of salt cod. The Other Half ordered a French onion soup – rather forgetting that it is classically served with cheesy croutons. And he doesn’t like cheese.

We opted for a carafe of house rosé.

The foie gras was reasonable, the toast very basic. And so to the brandade. Okay, it’s not a local Paris dish, but salt cod is used all over the country. This is salt cod, pureed with olive oil and milk. Or it should be. Sometimes, it has potato added too.

This had flaked cod, potato and, err, lots of salt. I wouldn’t swear that any olive oil had been seen dead near it. An unexpected bone came away as I ate and actually pierced the roof of my mouth: there was blood on it when I managed to pull it clear. The salad, served on the side, was fresh but utterly lacking in flavour. And that’s what you get when you don’t use the best ingredients. And when you eat at tourist venues with nary a local in sight.

We didn’t bother with dessert, but walked back to La Terrasse du 7eme, at Place d’École Militaire, where we tend to start Paris days (with a croissant, coffee and glass of water) and end them (with something rather more alcoholic). That night, we washed away the flavour of culinary disappointment with several drinks.

There is, of course, an argument that the occasional disappointing (or poor) meal is a good thing – if only to sharpen up one’s culinary critical faculties.

But one such experience per trip is quite enough. And fortunately, on the Monday night (our last), the previously mentioned Le Bosquet was open.

After mediocre (at best) foie gras the night before, I decided to have rather better stuff. And much better it was. Just a slight complaint – the toast was perhaps a tad overdone.

Then on to Bar grille au thym – or sea bass, grilled with thyme. Never mind ‘with thyme’, it was stuffed with the delicate herb, giving off a beautiful aroma as it arrived on the table, accompanied by a nice selection of well-cooked vegetables in a bowl. And jolly good it was too, washed down with a carafe of Chateau puech haut rosé from the Languedoc.

Next to us was seated a couple, barely acquainted. A young man from New Zealand, entertaining a young woman, freshly arrived in Europe from the US, on behalf of a friend. He gabbled away – possibly nervously – about his achievements and ambitions. She, stick thin as it was, munched her way through half a bowl of leaves, although she did wash them down with a couple of mojitos. It reminded me of Patsy in Absolutely Fabulous; barely able to remember how to masticate, and living off Champagne and vodka, the antithesis of sensuality. And her we were in this most sensual of cities.

And I remembered all my own dieting, and thought again, just how wonderful it is to really enjoy good food – to enjoy life.

It was, therefore, a perfect, celebratory end to the meal to order crème brûlée, with a fine, vanilla custard and a wafer thin crust of caramelised sugar on top.

So in terms of a ranking, Café de l’esplanade came just ahead of Le Bosquet, with Septième Vin just behind that. And the tourist venue a very long way behind. And it worked out at as reflective of cost. So there are two lessons to remember: you really do get what you pay for, and avoid tourist haunts like the plague.

Oh, and simplicity – with the best ingredients – beats everything else into a cocked hat.