France

The beauty of the French Riviera came to us at the end of a rain. We are eating in, a bowl of roast chicken in front of us, as the rain pours in curtains of greys and whites. Soon, the rain slows… then it stops. So we abandon our roast chicken and head out. As we drive out, the greys and whites melt into a bright blue. It’s all sunshine, miles and miles of it.

BEACHES

We are on the road to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat when we stopped just before entering Villefranche-sur-Mer. Many have already stopped to gaze at the scene. This is how I’ve always imagined the French riviera: a Harley revs past peach-tinted houses that cascade across the sea. This day, the water is strikingly clear at Paloma Beach and Mala Beach. I can’t help but dip my toes in the cold, clear water. I remember thinking, “Something is different here, different from the Amalfi Coast.” In the Amalfi Coast, everything is vertical. Here, everything is flat, spread out across stretches of land. It’s less dramatic, but serene.

NICE

Walking in the Old Town of Nice after 6 pm is drifting through alleys of assorted aromas. Dried apples, pears and melons are arranged in metal containers next to jars of spices, flavoured salts and peppers. Socca is scraped from a large pan and placed on paper plates. Pissaladière is cut and wedged between square-cut napkins for casual takeaways. For us, dinner is escargots and daube at Marcel Bistro Chic. The Niçoise are proud of their daube, a beef stew with gnocchi. Like every French bistro, the dinner ends with something sweet – the profiteroles au chocolat. Something indulgent to finish an already indulgent meal. We are in France after all.

Nice in the morning gives off a different light. Palm trees line the promenade where people are sprawled under the sun. It’s mid-day when we reach Le Rocher. Some people are already having moules mariniere, a French dish that really came by way of Belgium. There is something therapeutic about a slow lunch of deshelling mussels to get a morsel and dipping the fries in their juices seasoned with white wine and parsley. The best French summer food at any time of the year.

ANTIBES

I love markets, only to see the colours of the land’s produce, or sea since we are at the riviera. The market at Antibes is brimming with carts of oysters, mussels, savoy cabbage, chanterelle mushrooms and grapes. “Look at that, and that, and that,” is all I ever hear at a market stroll with Roy next to my ear. The cafes at this stretch are open for breakfast or brunch. The jambon-beurre at Aux Amoureux Des Pains is always sold out by 9 am. There is Le Pescheria, everything is freshly sliced or shucked by the poissonnier. As we sit there with small plates of sea bream carpaccio, ayaba prawns and urchin tartinables, older French women are smoking a cigarette while sipping champagne in front of a plate of a dozen oysters. An aperitif, but French. After our light seafood brunch, we are off to Èze for Le Jardin Exotique where the view from the tip of a hill is just mesmerising.

CHATEAU SAINT ROUX

My eyes are dozing off as Roy drives to our hotel, passing by the Massif de l’Esterel where the mountains and rocks are burnt a reddish orange hue. I shake off my sleepiness, most likely from the jambon-beurre I had for breakfast earlier at the only place in Antibes that still had the French baguette at 9 am, the Copenhagen Coffee Lab. Whenever we step out of the car for views, all we see are blues and ochres.

When we finally reach the hotel, the day has already settled into an early sunset at 5 pm. We are eating in, at the Château Saint-Roux. Roy, always charmed by the idea of an organic vegetable garden at the hotel, goes for the seabass with roasted vegetables. The steak tartare with greens and cheese is for me the perfect dish to start, something to open up my appetite for the beef with dauphinoise potatoes and dessert of cheeses from the farm. Bright and early the next day, we can’t help wandering the grounds to see the chickens roosting, the boulangerie and fromagerie. The gardener is proudly showing off his vegetables, their colours painted a thousand times brighter by the sun. Now I wish I had the seabass with roasted vegetables.

SAINT-TROPEZ

Saint-Tropez has always been something mystical to me. A place where the well-heeled go for their summer tan. But now I know why. The cream-coloured parasols loungers at the beach at Cheval Blanc. The little cafes sitting on top of boutiques. The cherry red tables and chairs at Sénéquier. The brioche filled with pastry cream and buttercream at La Tarte Tropézienne. The pastel avenues that lead out to the sea. The vista where yachts are resting at the bay. Everything is beautiful. Made even more beautiful by a coat of shine reflecting in the water.

LA ROUTE DU MIAM

Every bistro has a story. For La Route du Miam, theirs go all the way to Bergerac outside of Bordeaux where Monsieur Jean Michel learnt a duck recipe from his mother who had learnt it from her mother, and so on and on. I love duck, any duck. When I heard of a restaurant serving only duck in Nice where seafood reigns supreme, I had to go. It only opens 4 days a week and at 8 in the evening. “Isn’t it a little late?” Roy had asked. It’s late for us who eat at 6 or 7, but I knew it must be really special.

The monsieur’s wife Marie talks of her husband’s duck recipe with a glimmer of a child who had discovered a secret. They are certain no one else does the exact same duck as theirs. A family recipe that is not duck confit, or even duck a l’orange. The monsieur’s is two types of duck. “You have to try both,” Marie insists. And so, with a glass of Bordeaux wine that had the aftertaste of dark cherries, we had duck de Jean Michel. The table near ours is coming back the next day for seconds. We have no such luxury, we are going to Provence the very next day. But still, we will always have this memory of the Riviera.

I once heard a memorable saying in Lyon. At work you do what you have to, in bed you do what you can, and on the table you do what you must. Since then, I know that food and dining is everything in Lyon.

Paris and Lyon have always been the two great French cities. Forever rivals vying for the title of the food capital of France. To me, Paris will have the most beautiful, decadent restaurants. Chandeliers in the dining hall, caviar on potatoes, champagne flowing into crystal… But Lyon will always be the most delectable city, the one with everything that characterises French cooking.

LE BOUCHON

The most delicious meals in Lyon always, always begins and ends in a bouchon. This dining institution is heavily guarded by the community as it preserves the most quintessential Lyonnaise dishes. In Le Vieux, there is a very large painting that stretches from end to end. As I sit opposite Roy while the waitress huffs in and out of the kitchen carrying armfuls of plates overflowing with frites, I stare wide-eyed at the painting of gourmands eating at a dining table. There’s meat, sausages, cheese and jugs of wine. It’s a picture of revelry in eating. I can think of no better painting for this bouchon where we spent the hours enjoying saucisson lyonnais, pork tenderloin and tarte aux pralines with chantilly cream.

The bouchon can be a very addictive experience, and so we are off to another the next night. That Lyonnaise saying about eating in Lyon came from Yoann, the owner of La Tete de Lard. Like every other bouchons on Saturday, dinner at La Tete de Lard is fully booked. It seems like Saturday is bouchon day for the Lyonnaise. There is no menu. Yoann likes to do his rounds in the restaurant sharing with people what’s on the menu that day, and a laugh or two. “For the mains, we have tete de veau, the pork head. Andouille, wrapped pork tripe. Quenelle, something like a pike fish souffle. Then there is the steak… But you didn’t come to Lyon to have a steak!” Yoann declares. No, we did not.

We feel so pampered by the meal that followed – a steady procession of roasted bone marrow dusted with fleur de sel, eggs poached in red wine sauce, quenelle, pork neck and mushrooms in cream sauce, pears poached in red wine, baba au rhum. It’s true what they say. In Lyon, you eat and you eat. We ate until we are beyond satisfied, without a care for any sort of decorum. Yoann comes over and eyes the remaining gratin dauphinois left on the table. He cocks an eyebrows and shakes his head, saying “Hmmmm why is this still here? Come! Let me help you!” With that, he splits the french potatoes on our plates. We are defeated. Everything on our table was emptied by the end of the night. Even as we left the bouchon that night, more people are streaming in. The laughter and chatter never end at a bouchon.

LYON

Everywhere we go in Lyon, we see churches and buildings that are the stuff fairytales are made of. There is the La Basilique Notre Dame de Fourvière, the Église Saint-Nizier de Lyon, the Eglise Saint Georges, the Église Saint-bruno-lès-chartreux. Along the Saône River, Romanesque, Gothic and French Renaissance architecture shimmer in the warm light. In the old town, crepe stands are set up and everyone wants theirs with nutella. At Le Sirop de la Rue, Frederic is handing out cups of sweet wine and saucisson cuts to anyone who dares venture into his tiny shop. Inside, we are surrounded by jars of jam, foie gras and rillettes. As we head off into the night, the street lights still twinkle for Lyon.

CHATEAU DE LA CHAIZE

When we drive out of Lyon in the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes region, fields and fields of vines and chateaus pass us by. It is through these fields that we come to the doorsteps of Château de la Chaize. The garden looks like a Monet painting and the château is dressed in the most beautiful coat of paint. “The owner likes to preserve old things,” Annaëlle tells us as we breathe in the smell of oak in the 18th century cellar where the Beaujolais is created. In a bouchon, there is only ever the Beaujolais. The Beaujolais comes in different crus – Moulin-à-Vent, Morgon, Fleurie, Juliénas, Saint Amour, Côte de Brouilly, Brouilly, Chiroubles, Régnié, Chénas. They are the many iterations of a single Gamay grape. “That’s the best thing about the Beaujolais,” Annaëlle says in quiet awe. The château has the Côte de Brouilly, Brouilly, Fleurie and Morgon. My personal favourite is the Fleurie. Annaëlle gives me a knowing look and sighs, “Very delicate and feminine. Women really like this wine.” So much so that she forgoes the food and wine pairing rules and reaches for the Fleurie for any dish.

AU BON CRU

Before going to France, I find myself chasing the French countryside dream. This dream is one of French country-style furnishings, a more than 40-year-old bistro and plates of butter and bread. That dream became a meal at Au Bon Cru. Our first encounter with Au Bon Cru was a fully-booked lunch. We arrived close to two in the afternoon, thinking that the first seating might just be finished and we could savour a delicious meal. A silver-haired lady, Bernadette, looked stunned when I strolled in and she said, “Nous sommes complets.” She continued speaking in French and I knew nothing of the language. That was when Patrick, who has been at Au Bon Cru for decades, told me, “We’re full” as he carries plates of coq au vin to the tables in a flurry. French restaurants in the country rarely have more than one seating. Such is the joie de vivre in France. We looked around in envy as everyone had their food and wine. So we wasted no time in making a reservation for another day. Two weeks later, the plates of coq au vin are sent to our table at Au Bon Cru. Andre is making cake for dessert as he takes a swig from the wine bottle. His brother, Christophe, is helming everything else. Every now and then, guests who had just arrived would go to the kitchen and hug Andre before engaging in idle chitchat. It’s the weekend of Armistice Day. Every table is full, once again. Right there, we savour the Burgundy classic that has been replicated all over the world in the midst of Andre and Christophe’s friends and loved ones. French country cooking has never felt more special.