An American chef once said, “A gourmet who thinks of calories is like a tart who looks at her watch.” I considered this at Christmas while ploughing through a free-range, grain-fed [privately educated] turkey and washing it down with half a box of Quality Street. After a week of stews and pies in London, I then got the train back to Camembert. Hello quiche! Hello magret de canard! Did you miss me?
A friend of mine spent the holidays in Marseille and wasn’t so food fortunate. She ate at this café. Check out the translations. Crunch-mister? Salted Softness? Districts of fresh butter? Sounds like the kind of thing Nigella would fix herself for breakfast. She wrote the name and number of a translator on a napkin and secured it to the menu with a hair clip.
