Come to Corsica!

Hallelujah! There is light at the end of the tunnel. I think we've got planning permission (again!). Still haven't received the final papers but they've very kindly given us the go ahead to recommence works. So after three years of stop, start nonsense we're back on track. In the end it was the miraculous collapse of the PLU law brought about by our architect's ex-wife that did the trick. Incredible saga. The mayor was exposed as an incompetent (possibly corrupt) administrator as well as some of his colleagues who will have to face a judge at a later date. So there is a sort of justice in this world!

Our architect says the project should be complete by the end of June. Given that no work seems to take place on Mondays or Fridays then I am less optimistic. One thing is sure. It had better be ready by the end of July when we make our annual excursion to visit the Corsican clan. We've booked the ferry crossing. Not sure I could face a month with the in-laws even though we've bonded rather nicely during these traumatic times.

When it all starts to look pretty and less dusty, I'll post a photo of this problematic house. It will be available to rent from September 2008 onwards. Unless you hear otherwise!

Mad Mayors, Crazy Corsicans

I promised news on our Corsican house build project; well we're back from our annual Corsican excursion with the latest developments hot off the press. It's a nightmare project that is becoming increasingly rocambolesque. If I told you that in France you can have your planning permission taken away from you even when the house is almost completed, that someone can declare the house 1m50 too high, have all works stopped and then two years down the line admit that they were wrong (we are in fact 60cm higher than the plan) - would you believe me?
We're in a situation where the planning authority (the DDE) very kindly decided to rectify the height discrepancy with a new planning permission, allowing us to continue the build, only to realise 2 months later that the Mayor should have been the signatory and not the DDE. The planning permission is swiftly removed once again. No problem you're thinking, just get the Mayor to sign it.
If only Corsican life could be that easy! The Mayor will not sign the planning permission.
Here are some of the reasons:
1. He doesn't like the modern design of our house and there's alot of wealthy, influential voters in the area who don't like it either
2. He wants us to saw off the roof and lower the entire house by 60cm! - he refuses to believe our engineeering expert who repeatedly tells him this is structurally impossible without demolishing the lot and starting again.
3. He has now introduced a new building law for the area (called a PLU) which doesn't allow buildings higher than 6m (ours is 7m20!)
So we're now caught up in a catch 22 situation. Where do we go from here?
Well we've had to resort to the courts. We did try to placate the mayor, build relations and rationally plead our case during our summer holiday. Not easy when faced with an explosive character who's ego is immense, who's temper is even bigger and who can scream, shout and bully as well, if not better than my 9 year old son. So it's the expensive, time consuming legal route UNLESS Stephane's Dad can work his Corsican charm on the head of the DDE or our architect's ex-wife can win her case to bring about the fall of the PLU! I did say it was rocambolesque! But I'll save all of that for another time.....

Best Small Restaurant 2007

We're officially an award-winning restaurant. I have always dreamed of attending an award ceremony - the Oscars, Baftas - so an invite from the Nottingham Restaurant Awards threw me into my glamorous dream world of memorable speeches, gorgeous dresses, champagne and more champagne. Well the reality was pretty close to the dream apart from the speeches. I had prepared my acceptance speech - apologising for Stephane's absence, thanking everyone and anyone, wondering why recognition had taken so long coming, maybe a tear before kissing the award and taking my seat. Oh yes, I had always fancied myself as a Hollywood actress. However, The Restaurant Awards preferred to hand over quickly the prize with no opportunity to even say a very quick thank-you. I should have grabbed the microphone anyway.
If we win next year, I'll be ready. An award ceremony is not an award ceremony without speeches!
French Living - Best Small Restaurant 2007. We prefer to drop the small and declare ourselves best restaurant 2007. We deserve it. 13 years of hard graft, dedication and sticking to what we do best has finally been recognised by the people who hand out awards. As Stephane says, we have the best recognition of all in the loyalty of our customers so "Who needs an award?" In some ways I know he is right. We have never won anything before but we have always had a full restaurant, complimentary letters, smiling faces and loads of regulars. But I'm proud anyway. And I could dress up and pretend I was an actress at the Oscars for one night!

Foie gras

We've had a few agressive and rude calls just recently, mainly from youngsters who are getting worked up over foie gras. Yes we stock it and we don't hide from the fact. However we have done our homework on this issue and as with ALL our ingredients -chickens, eggs or beef - we refuse to use suppliers that have little regard for humane farming practices. Force feeding a duck is not humane I hear you cry. Ducks and geese have a natural tendancy to over feed to prepare for their migrations, this is probably how the concept of foie gras was discovered by the Egyptians centuries ago. The birds are force fed in the last month of their lives, having had a life of freedom in the open air. Take a closer look at battery hens or chickens packed into henhouses who never see the light of day but provide cheap meat for Kentucky Fried Chicken. Personally I feel animal rights activists would do well to focus on the chicken. In fact if you want to push me further I would say we should all be battling harder for the human cause and the removal of poverty in the world. This is why French Living has chosen to be an active supporter of the charity Restaurants Against Hunger for the last few years.

Here are a couple of links to contributors to this subject (who are not involved in the business of producing foie gras)

foie gras: pleasure, or murder most fowl?: Food + Drink: mensvogue.com

WorldTable - Foie Gras Redux

Finally my advice to animal rights campaigners would be to use a less abusive and more tolerant language when you speak or write to people, however sensitive the subject is to you.

Bon Appetit

Two headlines in the news caught my attention this week – the first dwells on the on-going obesity epidemic in the UK and the second talks about the ever-decreasing foreign language skills of our youngsters. It’s true that we Brits are certainly not renowned for our linguistic abilities, and our culinary reputation, perhaps rather unfairly, is not our greatest claim to fame. I believe the two could be linked. I have a sneaky feeling that a greater knowledge of foreign languages and culture could help demonstrate the importance of food in different countries.
I start to listen more closely to Nina and Pierre at the table, as they flit and fly between French and English.
“Bon appetit” they chorus
“Bon appetit” I answer back politely.
“How do you say bon appetit in English?” asked Pierre
I thought long and hard before giving up.
“I don’t think we have a bon appetit in English” I replied sadly
Perhaps this is part of our obesity problem. Maybe we should start developing a more food friendly language. We should have a bon appetit equivalent.
Bon appetit is an instinctive French phrase that everyone, young and old, will say before picking up their knife and fork to eat. If someone walks past a table of diners, they will offer a “bon appetit”, naturally, instinctively.
“A table” shouts Stephane as he switches off the oven and serves up dinner.
Everyone comes scurrying in to the kitchen as those two simple French words – a table (aah taah-bl) - echo throughout the house. Come to the table is the English translation but it doesn’t have quite the same appeal or effect. It doesn’t work either if used to get Pierre to come to the table to do his homework.
I’ve noticed that French is full of food related phrases and terms - aperitif, digestif, amuse-bouche - and then there are all those culinary terms such as coulis, puree, vinaigrette. Surely this has become essential vocabulary for interpreting the menus of many of our city centre restaurants!
Yes, learning how to cook and speak a foreign language does go hand in hand.
“I can speak Italian” Pierre announced proudly
“Minuti” he spurted out in his very best Italian accent.
“Well done” I said encouragingly.
I was used to Pierre’s eclectic conversations.
“I’ve been making pasta” he went on, thrusting a packet of tagliatelle in my hands.
4 Minuti tempo di cottura.

Cafe Food

It’s been a whirlwind week, squeezing in a buying trip to Paris, as well as a complete overhaul of our shop and café.
Paris was an adventure. The car was stuffed to bursting point with new café furniture but all Pierre seemed interested in on our return was the food.
“So what did you eat in Paris?” he asked enviously, trying hard to hide his anger at being left behind.
“During the day we ate some wonderful café food – charcuterie platters, goat’s cheese and tomato on toasted pain de campagne – just like at French Living”
“Yuk, I don’t like goat’s cheese” added Nina, in an attempt to show that they really had not missed out on much.
“And what about at night?” continued Pierre
“Well, we ate some delicious meals just like the dinners you eat at home” I explained comfortingly, trying to ease the envy.
And it was true. We chose unsophisticated restaurants that served real tasty food with no flamboyant pretension. Nina and Pierre seemed happy with that.
And so from a beautiful Paris we returned to a dusty, unrecognisable shop and café, filled with joiners, electricians and plumbers.
“Oh my goodness, this will never be ready for next week” I exclaimed in horror at the chaotic destruction of my precious café.
The next few days felt like I was playing a role in one of those make-over programmes where the count-down begins, the problems accumulate and everyone is thinking this will never be ready on time.
But as in all these TV formats, miracles happen. The shop and café opened on time, with the fridges bursting with cheeses, hams and salamis, baskets brimming with croissants, brioches and baguettes and customers flooding back in to take a look.
Unfortunately at home, the fridge was empty.
“Oh well, you’ll just have to come to French Living for lunch” I declared.
“Do children go to your café?” asked a curious Pierre
“Sometimes. Now we have more room, maybe more children will come in” I added optimistically.
Being an astute eight year old, Pierre’s concern was not the space. He was doubtful that his school pals would even try French filled baguettes as a quick lunch-time option.
“I’m having the salami comte baguette, with salad and vinaigrette” quipped Nina confidently
“I’m having a charcuterie platter like you had in Paris” said Pierre throwing me one of his cheeky grins.

Fresh Fast-Food

I’m racing against time at the moment. I wake up in a panic as I realise there is nothing left in the fridge. Oh well, it’ll have to be tuna sandwiches again. My early morning lunchboxes are hastily scrambled together while trying to hide from Pierre the contents of his box.
“Have you forgotten to go shopping again?” he enquires quietly.
There’s no chance of hiding anything from my observant son.
The children are deposited outside school and I sprint off to work. It feels like the old days when we first set up French Living - a time when we left the children in the care of au-pairs while we worked every hour to persuade the people of Nottingham to visit our fledging French business. It was such an intense time that I cannot recall how or when mealtimes happened. Today, I find myself thrown back to this chaotic yet exciting time as French Living expands. We have acquired the next door shop unit and it’s now a race against time to transform it into a Gallic haven.
Why do schools end their day at 3.30pm? I scrape off the Provencal blue paint from my finger nails and dash back home to collect the kids.
“What’s for dinner?” squeals Pierre
“Why do you have blue hair?” asks a puzzled Nina
Dinner, oh yes, dinner!
It’s true that these last few years I’ve had the luxury of time to plan, organise and indulge in cooking for the family. Consequently, this week has been a shock to the system. To my surprise, however, I’ve found it remarkably easy to keep up the mealtime reputation - even without the kids noticing too much of a difference.
I think fish. Salmon, trout fillets, chunks of cod, hake. Twelve minutes baked in the oven with a drizzle of olive oil, herbes de provence. Lamb chumps are Stephane’s favourite fast food dish. Browned in the pan and then left in the oven for fifteen minutes before slicing into a fan of pink succulence.
OK so there’s a bit of a wait, the service is not quite as fluid as usual but over the years I’ve learnt not to be frightened by fresh. Fresh is quick and there’s no need to resort to expensive, salty ready-meals.
“Is it tuna again tomorrow?” asks Pierre
“Why is your hair blue?” asks Nina
OK, so they have noticed a few changes.