Chez Bruno

My earliest experiences of French restaurants were of the cheap variety: often (although maybe it was the holiday mode speaking) far far cheaper and far far better than their English counterparts. It was only relatively recently that I started to sample some of the exceptional places, with prices to match. One of them was Chez Bruno, near a town called Lorgues, in Provençe. I was staying with Cousin Pen and this was intended as a "thank you". She was reluctant to accept the invitation and talked darkly of Bruno receiving guests who arrived by helicopter from Italy. I could not resist it. So we went one Sunday lunchtime.

Memories of our meal include: choosing which type of truffle to have from a “truffle menu”; I had no idea; nor did Pen, who left it to me; and I picked one that was neither the most expensive nor the cheapest; there followed a whole truffle in pastry; with the main course we had a kind of Gratin Dauphinoise with truffle (which Pen, rightly, raved about long afterwards) and, to finish, chocolate mousse (also with truffle) which was very good. It all left us feeling a little dazed. Bruno himself came into the darkened dining room and circulated among the guests. His greeting to us was somewhat perfunctory but the meal he had provided us with was one whose highlights I can remember fifteen years later.

Spaghetti alla vongole

This is Part 2 of my trip to Ventimiglia. I remind you of the date: 11 September 2001.

After stocking up with Parma ham and Napoli salami (both to be the subjects of other entries, I predict) and a quick whisk around the covered market, we headed to a restaurant on the coast for lunch.

It was Pen’s treat – and I should add that it almost always is. The only way to prevent this from happening is to agree very precisely with her well in advance that she will in no circumstances be the one to settle up at the end of the meal. Even then, she has been known to slip quietly away from the table and, before you could say “bill”, she has already requested and paid it.

Unusually for me, it was not a meal where starters were in order. I can only recall what I ate which was perhaps as perfect a choice as I could have made at that particular moment: for the very first meal I ate in Italy, right by the coast, outside, at lunchtime on a warm September day. Spaghetti alla vongole. Normally, I avoid spaghetti. If I were being dishonest, I would say that it was because spaghetti are cylindrical and so the sauce falls off which simply does not happen to the flatter types of pasta. But I cannot even explain my prejudice to my own satisfaction.

The shells in spaghetti alla vongole are a good sign. If they are not there, I suspect tinned clams. You need little else other than the clams: a little greenery, some wine, perhaps some shreds of chilli. A plate on which to discard the emptied shells. A fork and people surrounding you who have no objection to your helping the clams out with your fingers. My heart usually sinks when I hear the expression a “light lunch”, but if it consisted of a bowl of spaghetti alla vongole, I’d be very happy.

This golden day ended shortly after we arrived back in Lorgues, at about 4 in the afternoon, French time. We had just settled down on the terrasse, when suddenly the telephone rang. Pen took the call in the house and came outside shortly afterwards in tears. Her friend, Monique, had told her to switch on the television.

Mortadella

I first visited Italy on 11 September 2001. Cousin Pen took us there by motorway from Lorgues in Provence to just over the border: Ventimiglia. The purpose of the trip was to go to the post office to pay a parking fine that one of my other cousins had incurred. It was a good excuse.

As we drove through the tunnel at the border, I concentrated, hard, on the fact that we were entering Italy. On the other side, we descended into the town.

The so-called purpose of going, the post office, was quickly over. Of much greater interest to us all was Pen's favourite food shop.

You know how many supermarkets in England have a cheerful "Try before you buy" sign at the delicatessen counter. I always feel slightly guilty for asking and, when I do, it becomes such a big deal to produce a wafer thin fragment of ham or whatever, presented to me on a cocktail stick, that I end up buying some. Possibly the point.

The lady behind the counter in Pen's shop had a different approach. I would express the vaguest interest in a particular salami or some Parma ham and she would immediately seize the article, rush to the slicing machine and produce enough for all three of us to have a large mouthful. Of course, we would end up buying some. A lot. Possibly the point. But the feeling in that shop was one of generosity. (Later, Pen would reveal that the woman running the shop may in fact have, dishonestly or otherwise, charged us incorrectly and in the shop’s favour – but let me give the shopkeeper the benefit of the doubt. I warmed to her.)

The title of this piece is Mortadella and that is one thing I did not buy at that shop in Ventimiglia. But I saw it for the first time I can remember. Not surprisingly. It was the largest sausage I have ever seen. Slightly off-putting.

Since then, though, I have grown to love it. As cousin Pen told me later, it is great picnic food. Folded into good bread, with slices of tomato, lettuce and a little mayonnaise , its moist slightly bland saltiness is welcome at the edge of the road on the way, say, from Rome to Lorgues.

But be warned: there is plenty of rogue Mortadella out there. I would say as general rules:

Only buy it loose, never in packets.

The bigger the better.

It should be studded with peppercorns and either pistachios or pieces of truffle. If not, avoid it.

If it looks particularly dry, don't bother - one of the exceptions to the rule of dryness in sausages. Having said that, once the outer slice has been removed, it may be better within. It will be a good test of the integrity of the person trying to sell it to you: does that person try and include the first slice in what you're being sold, or discard it?

Ask for it to be sliced thinly.

Eat it quickly.

If you are disappointed, don't give up on it. It is variable.

Part 2 of the trip to Ventimiglia to follow.

Grenadine

When Coleridge wrote about "a witch's oils", was he thinking of something like Grenadine mixed with Sirop de Menthe? For a long time, I was uncertain of what was in Grenadine: passion fruit, said my mother. Pomegranate, suggested my French dictionary. When, many years later, I looked at the bottle, it seemed to be a concoction of various red fruits.

It was my great aunt who introduced me to the drink at her house in Lorgues. She also introduced me to brandy at a similar age but that is another story. She will crop up again, I suspect, in relation to Oranzini and chicken with tarragon.

Although I remain fond of Grenadine, sugary drink though it is, I was very nearly put off it for life when given a glass of it by Mademoiselle Sagnier, an old lady in St Pons de Mauchiens, the village in the South of France where my parents owned a house. She lived next door and invited my mother and I in for a drink. There was mould growing on the grenadine - presumably attracted to the sugar - and out of politeness, I sipped the drink but through closed lips.