Gastronomy in Bar

When we bought a house in Bar sur Loup almost five years ago, it was a sleepy little mountain village with a few shops, popular mainly with walkers and summer sports enthusiasts and despite the name, no bar. Today it is fast turning into a mini centre of gastronomic excellence. This usually happens to places just as we leave. Docklands was a vast expanse of yuppie (remember them?) housing developments surrounded by wasteland when we bought our first flat there in the late 1980s. Crouch End was starting to buzz in the early 1990s and Totteridge waited until we moved out before allowing a string of very decent eateries (not forgetting M&S) along the high street. When le Donjon opened last week, I thought it was cute to name it after the owner Donald and his better half Jonathan, but it derives from the building's first purpose as a 14th century village jail. There is nothing prison-like about the food however, with a blackboard of local seasonal specials, in much the same way as Ecole des Filles do things, but for half the price (€30 a head for two courses and wine, I kid you not.) Added to which the owner and chef, a charming man called Thomas, used to cook at EdF with their chef extraordinaire Stephane. The atmosphere is cosy and intimate, the setting is a wine cave-like space and service is prompt and friendly so it deserves to do brilliantly. Handyman is especially pleased as it also serves as the village bar. Thomas and his wife Christine have a daughter called Norah who is obsessed with dogs - mine had three extra walks each with her during dinner after which they ambled home and promptly crashed out. As did we after a delicious meal of fresh asparagus in a cream reduction, arrancini (little fried balls of rice with a ragu sauce), prawn risotto and the best home made cheeseburger Issy has had in France. Along with Ecole des Filles, which I have waxed lyrical about many times before as it is my favourite restaurant in the world where you can play a game of boules before or after dinner, Le Jarerrie, Michelangelo pizzeria, run by the delightful Eric and Corinne, and the stunningly situated Michelin starred Hostellerie du Chateau next door to Le Donjon, Bar sur Loup is making a name for itself as the place to eat, whether it's fine or casual dining you are looking for. People now drive from Nice and beyond to have dinner here, giving nearby Mougins a run for its money where quality and innovation are concerned. And best of all, there is not one tourist shop, it is a real, working village in the heart of a valley (see above) famed for its oranges with a brilliant community spirit. Now if we could just get someone to take over Boulangerie Maia and open a butcher and greengrocers, we would be laughing. Coming back from Barbados last week was always going to be a comedown but with Cannes Film Festival around the corner and the promise of great films, a glittering A list in attendance and some seriously amazing parties, I can't feel too down. While I was away, Earl, our visiting rabbit on hiatus from Tony and Shan's, managed to tunnel out of his hutch on the terrace below the house and scarper. We have changed his name to Steve McQueen and first thing most mornings, he can be spotted hopping about among the olive trees enjoying his new found freedom, as long as he avoids the kestrels and eagles which fly overhead. He can already outrun the dogs much to their frustration, which is encouraging.

Whoo I'm going to Barbados

Actually I'm already here. I'm sitting by an infinity pool on a hill above the west coast during a shoot.....I know, I know, it's a bum deal but that's work for you. Sometimes you just have to take a deep breath and get on with it. At least I'm able to share it with you in today's photo. We have hung out with Dannii and Cilla watching Bajan drag queens in Holetown, belted out My Way and Sweet Caroline at top volume with Cilla at Lexy's piano bar and yesterday it was a chatty lunch with Elle Macpherson about the new season of Britain and Ireland's Next Top Model. So far, so gorgeous. Bumped into Bradley Walsh at breakfast, who is taking a well earned break after finishing the most recent series of Law and Order. You can easily see why Barbados is such a popular destination. The laidback manana vibe makes you relax instantly, the friendliness is legendary and the background noise is the chatter of parrots, cicadas and gently lapping waves. There is also a pretty amazing choice when it comes to restaurants....Lone Star offers a tasty menu on the site of an old garage with an open verandah for dining that looks straight onto the beach. It's chi chi and cool and rare that you don't spot a celeb at some point during lunch or dinner. Daphne's, the sister to the London outpost, serves spectacular Italian food with a Caribbean twist. Then there is Ragamuffins in Holetown, a Bajan institution which offers simple West Indian fare, including blow your socks off curries and spicy stir fries as well as the aforementioned drag act on a Sunday night. The queens were at least 6ft 5 in their heels and blasted out Madonna, Shirley Bassey and numerous other disco anthems including Kylie's Love at First Sight, much to Dannii's delight. Other delights include sundowner pina coladas on the beach, a pod of whales including a mother and baby visible just off the shore and barefoot beach runs in the morning. Mmmmmm. The trip came hot on the heels of a fun few days in London mixing work with pleasure and Livvy's 18th birthday weekend, which went with a bang. Highlights included cooking an Indian banquet for a dozen of her best friends, which started with a bang as Handyman joined them for tequila shots before we were forced to leave them to it, a blistering performance at Cody Chestnutt's Nice gig and a birthday lunch at my favourite Italian in Cannes, da Laura. Thank goodness for Cannes Film Festival next month as there just isn't enough glamour going on right now!

Spike

This is the story of Spike. As a naughty cheeky kitten, he used to run up the sides of my dressing gown while I made breakfast looking for trouble (him, not me.) Half Abyssinian, he grew into a beautiful sleek grey feline who liked to chat all day long. If you said 'Spike', no matter what your tone of voice, he would answer with a 'yes?' type of miaow. Spike's greatest passion was hunting. The times I arrived home to find all manner of dead wildlife be it mouse, vole, rat, once even a rabbit on the doorstep are too numerous to mention. He also liked to bring me a present when I was least expecting it, like the time I was lying on the floor of my office doing a phone interview with a supermodel in Paris and a little grey dormouse popped its head up inches from mine, leading to a mid interview meltdown and me leaping on my desk screaming while Spike tried in vain to catch it. I like to think we saved as many small creatures as he killed, so inept was he at keeping them as soon as he brought them through the catflap. I would get Handyman to set a humane trap, catch the little blighter and let him go in the paddock at the end of our garden, while Spike looked on to see if he could make a better effort second time around. When we made the hot interminable journey from the UK to the South of France with Spike and his sister Lottie, who is as quiet and calm as he was crazy, he spent the entire journey howling in his cage in the back of the car. He hated being cooped up or trapped and was in and out of the house dozens of times a day. On sunny days, he would come and sit by the pool, perched on the end of my sun lounger, stretched out lapping up the rays. When it got too hot for him, he had a den in the bushes by the palm tree where he would curl up in the dust for a siesta. He even loved rain, as the myriad of muddy footprints from our back door testified. Last night, as we laid by his side waiting for the vet to come - he had recently developed chronic arthritis, an unfortunate result of his very active 11 years, which had moved into his spinal cord and was having trouble walking so the time had come to do the right thing - we recalled our favourite memories of him. Mine was the fact that whenever we went on holiday, no matter how long we were away for, when we arrived home and drove up the drive, Spike would always be sitting there waiting to greet us effusively. The girls loved the memory of him being regularly tucked up in Issy's doll's pushchair when she was a toddler, wrapped in baby blankets with just his head visible, and wheeled around the house. Bizarrely, he loved this and never tried to escape, lying there like a swaddled newborn, until one day he decided he'd had enough and leapt out of the parked buggy and landed on Issy's head while she ate breakfast. Handyman remembers him shinning up the bamboo last summer like a very fit squirrel. When the dogs arrived five years ago, Spike still ruled the roost, and took to lounging on the top step of the staircase, superior in the knowledge that Tallullah, our mini schnauzer, wouldn't dare to try and come past for fear of a swipe. Oscar, on the other hand, had plenty of spats with him but never managed to get the upper hand and grudgingly conceded defeat on being top dog. Top dog was always Spike and he knew it. He is already much missed, so much so that I can't bring myself to mop away the last of his muddy footprints. The house feels quieter and emptier without him. We are going to bury him today under the olive tree that he used to love climbing, while he explores whatever new turf he is now king of.

Sloping Off

Rain of biblical proportions over the last few weeks has had one phenomenal upside....huge late falls of snow in the mountains, extending the ski conditions in the local resorts well beyond half term. As a newly addicted snowboarder (stop sniggering) this has been manna from heaven because it hurts a lot less falling over or face planting in fresh deep snow than in the crispy icy sparse stuff. Take last week and my third day as a boarder...God I love saying that. The snow was crisp and crusty to start with but snow flurries that started mid morning meant that by lunchtime, the whole resort of Greolieres was covered in a few centimetres of fresh powder. I was having such fun gliding silently through the soft white stuff that it didn't occur to me that I would somehow have to drive myself home through a raging blizzard. I was forced to quit when thunder and lightning closed the resort mid afternoon and having struggled to attach snow socks to the Jeep, I set off on the hair-raising journey home. On the hill leading out of the resort, cars were slipping and sliding backwards towards me but the snow socks held fast and got me up in one piece. Seeing a white van hanging over a precipice hundreds of feet high a couple of kilometres further on was a sobering sight, although the driver didn't seem unduly worried, and I crawled home steadily, in fact I could have snowboarded home faster. This week's session was a different story. Close to a metre of snow has fallen in the last week and it was blue skies, sunshine and a balmy 7 degrees when I arrived for possibly my last day on the slopes this season. Mid-week if you see six other people it's a busy day. There was barely a soul to be seen as I clipped on my board and hopped on the chairlift. Every time I go...and this was only my fourth outing....I think that any skill in staying upright the previous time must have been a total fluke and prepare for the worst. I got off the lift fully expecting to wipe out but reader, somehow I glided down to the bottom WITHOUT FALLING OVER! To clear up any confusion, the picture above isn't me (although this is what I aspire to.) On the next ascent, a seasoned 20-something dreadlocked boarder offered me some of his Snickers bar and started chatting. I confessed I was a beginner and he offered to take me off piste cutting across several different runs from the top. I was tempted but sensibly I declined. We both agreed that it's the most fun you can have in the snow. It's like catching a wave, except this wave is huge and you can stay on it for 15 minutes and travel several kilometres without being knocked off it. My next companion on the lift, a Parisian businessman, told me he stopped skiing 30 years ago because he was so smitten by boarding. I can see where he is coming from. He gave me some tips on using my body to direct my path and keeping balance on my turns with my arms outstretched and nodded approvingly as I caught him up halfway down the slope saying: 'Quatrieme fois? C'est pas mal!' I feel like I have joined an exclusive club, one which I used to think I didn't want to belong to (there is an unwritten rivalry between skiers and boarders) but now that I have been welcomed in, I'm rather enjoying my membership (even if I have knees the colour of mouldy aubergines to show for it.)

Thought for Food

Reading the papers on my iPad in bed yesterday morning, I noticed a proliferation of articles about food and health......horsemeat DNA found in Ikea's famous meatballs (the same ones Iain and Issy rush to order at the cafe as soon as we make a visit to the Toulon branch of flat pack heaven.) I bought two 1kg packs the last time we were there a couple of months ago, and just half a pack remains. The whole house, apart from me, fights over who gets the most and when I'm stuck for a menu choice, the suggestion of spaghetti with meatballs and ragu sauce goes down a storm. I read the report out to Handyman, who without missing a beat, retorted 'Don't throw them out....I will eat them, even if Issy won't.' Personally I prefer my horses to look like the ones above, and frankly horsemeat is the least of the problems in so-called minced beef but that's another argument altogether.... A different report talked of Overeaters Anonymous and the food obsessions of the clinically obese (one woman used to dream of a spare room filled with Smarties.) A third report talked of the well known value and magic of a Mediterranean diet and why a food intake rich in nuts, olive oil, fresh fruit and vegetables is better for you than medicine in lowering statins and cholesterol, minimising the risk of serious illness. So far, so old hat and certainly not rocket science. And yet.... When I started my four month course of chemotherapy, 18 months ago. I consulted a Harley Street nutritionist. I was urged to eliminate fats, apart from olive oil and a couple of other good oils, meat, alcohol, gluten, refined sugar and dairy. Sounds harsh doesn't it? All the goodies we look forward to. It wasn't easy but faced with the stark choice of being sick all the way through chemo or fine tuning my already fairly healthy diet, it was a no brainer. I had substitutes (dark chocolate instead of milk chocolate, xylitol and agave syrup instead of sugar and two glasses of champagne a week when I didn't cheat and sneak a few more.) The treatment could also have made an impact but I went from my lifelong weight of 54 kg down to a mere and very scrawny 47 kg. Too thin for me and yet I felt as good as it's possible to feel while undergoing major drug therapy, was able to run, play tennis and ski occasionally during treatment and was not sick once. I came out the other side and relaxed my food plan a little (while continuing with the general principles) and went back up to a healthy 52kg, which is my current fighting weight. What I'm saying is that a lean, clean food plan (but not branded low fat or low sugar, which are usually stacked exhorbitantly high in other areas) can help you lose weight permanently, look great and feel energised without resorting to quick fixes, fads or starvation. I certainly don't recommend the chemo diet to anyone, but it was a valuable lesson in how to get through a life threatening illness and treatment feeling as good as it's possible to feel whilst retaining some element of control. I'm writing a book about it, but the concept works outside of illness and treatment. What's more, when Handyman embraced some of the same principles after a particularly rich and indulgent Christmas, he lost 6 kg without even really trying. Of course, one week long trip to Blighty and the 15 takeaways/roasts/liquid lunches proved an annoying blip. And the Ikea horseballs probably aren't helping.... Without doubt, it helps to live in the Med. My local market is bursting at the seams with small producers selling fresh seasonal produce. Certain things are much harder to source here....gluten free is expensive and rare.....but I have found a couple of boulangeries that sell pain au seigle and pain de petit epeautre (gluten free bread) although sometimes a Provencal or baguette finds its way under my arm. In the land of bread, cheese and fantastic wine, I regularly go off piste. Whether you make the changes because of illness, weight loss, lack of energy or a desire to get fit, one thing I can promise is you will never look back.

Three Bathrooms and a Wedding Dress

The two most used words when texting on my phone this week are ‘On way.’ Yes, it’s the school holidays and I have turned into Karen’s Kabs as I get random messages from the teens about where and what time they need to be dropped off/picked up on any given day. Sometimes this doesn’t even involve a conversation, I will just receive a text from one of them from the depths of their bedroom to give me my orders. And woe betide if I am so much as one minute late on a pick up, I get a brief blunt ‘Where are u?’ flashing up on my phone as I hurtle to the bus stop. It’s all part of the joy of school holidays….not getting up before 11am, staying in a onesie all day long, making a den on the bed surrounded by copious supplies of drinks, snacks, screens (an iPad, phone and PC all being used at once to max out connections) and only surfacing to ask what is for breakfast/lunch/dinner. That’s enough about me though. I’m sure I’ll miss it when they have both headed off to uni. At least, I think I will. While the girls relax on their much needed break from academia, Handyman and I are busy trying to keep pace with work and the endless list of household and garden jobs that need to be done. I mean, who knew you had to prune a palm tree? I didn’t, but it turns out that if you don’t take off the lower fronds and remove the berries, you end up with a top heavy tree blocking out light and a pool full of hard round marble like fruits. The palm has been done and now the olive trees beckon, as they also need a hard prune back to the barest minimum every two years. My day today started with a visit to my favourite DIY store Leroy Merlin to haemorrhage even more cash on our third bathroom, while picking up the furniture for our second soon to be completed one. I am facing the prospect of a Saturday where instead of skiing or lazing in bed reading the papers on my iPad, I will be rubbing down and painting before the final fix goes in, transforming it from a bombsite to a haven of minimalistic beauty (well, until the girls move all their stuff in there.) The best news is they won’t need to barge into my lovely new bathroom at all hours of the day and night as they currently do, leaving used make up wipes, mascara and wet towels in their wake. I didn’t feel guilty about taking a day off work this week to take Issy snowboarding. It was her first time, and it might as well have been mine, as the last time I tried it was 11 years ago in Banff. However, we exceeded our low expectations, as you can see above, not only managing to stand up on the board but mastering turns and the horrors of the drag lift (one spectacular wipe out from me nothwithstanding) but I would be lying if I didn’t own up to a fair few falls. Luckily we have had record amounts of snow this season at regular intervals so the landings weren’t quite as hard as they could have been. Watching small children gracefully whizz by as we meandered down the nursery slopes was a reality check, but it’s the closest you can get to surfing on dry land so I think my skis will be swapped for a board once I’ve had a bit more practise. Being upright on the board and swooshing down the slopes was the most amazing, liberating and addictive feeling. After four hours, we retired, comparing bruises (I won, my butt and knees are attractive shades of green and purple) and high fiving our efforts as we drove home (thank goodness Issy doesn’t read this as she would be cringing at the use of ‘high five’.) I haven’t had so much fun since I went to Cannes with Milly to try on wedding dresses (her, not me.) She is getting married in October and is looking for something a bit special. We exhausted the high end and indie stores and decided to go to a meringue speciality store in le Cannet boasting rail after rail of very expensive looking net curtains. We should have got the message that we weren’t welcome when we were told not to touch any of the dresses. How do you know what to try on if you can’t even touch the fabric? Easy, according to the bossy and bad tempered assistant, who frogmarched Milly into a changing room and delivered one after another hideous monstrosity for her to try on. ‘Mais il faut essayer,’ she kept repeating like a mantra every time Milly shook her head. There was no discussion on what style Milly might like to try, Wedding Monster’s word was law. I wanted to take photos but of course, that was forbidden too. So I had to try and keep my smirk buried while Milly was poured into several frou frou confections that would not have looked out of place on My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. As WM disappeared to fetch yet another horrific tulle and nylon extravaganza with matching diamante tiara and veil, Milly poked her head out through the curtains and silently mouthed: ‘Help me!’ We decided the best course of action was to say that one of them was just perfect but that as Milly’s mum was paying, she needed to come back to the store with her and see it for herself. (She lives in New Zealand reader, so we were safe with this plan.) But WM must have smelled a rat and did not want us to leave without putting down a €200 deposit, telling us: ‘This is the last one, you will be so disappointed if it gets sold before you return.’ We beat a hasty retreat, unable to curb the giggles any longer. Thankfully, that last pit stop was purely for entertainment but it’s horrifying how badly we were treated considering they were looking at taking €2 to €3,000 euros from her. We weren’t seriously looking for a good wedding dress experience from that store but we had to admit that it would have made a great Cutting Edge style documentary.

Monday Morning Blues

Monday morning and I should be in productive spirits. The sun is shining and I’m about to organise my accreditation for the Cannes Film Festival and Monte-Carlo TV Festival (so expect celebrity snippets on both soon.) I have had a restful and chilled weekend, gardening all day on Saturday (for gardening, read pulling up my own bodyweight in weeds from the stone walls around the pool and the side terrace…my fingers are still stained from the soil.) A long soak in the bath was followed by a delicious Champagne supper at Neil and Helen’s, where we laughed and swapped salacious gossip (all of which has already disappeared from my rubbish memory, meaning it is no longer a threat to anyone.) It was too cold yesterday to spend too much time outside so I took the dogs for a stroll on the plateau above Magagnosc, which was still covered in snow and ice. I have just discovered this walk, a 10 minute drive from the house, with its spectacular views across Grasse and down to the coast as far as Theoule and the dogs love it too although the freezing sleet that started to soak us meant that we had to cut short our ramble and leg it back to the car. The afternoon was spent listening to Edith Piaf, which the girls bought me for Mother’s Day last year, while cooking a roast in front of a roaring log fire. Followed by Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, in which Bette Davis was at her mad, bad best. Can a weekend get any better? Possibly only on the ski slopes, which were forsaken this weekend, although I couldn't resist taking the picture above of a rather exhausted tot in mum's sunnies last week. It was back down to earth with a bump this morning, however, when, waiting for some work calls and emails, I decided to make a list of the materials we need to finish off the top floor. Inexplicably, our builders threw away the empty pot of paint for the doors, and I have no idea what colour or brand it was. With a further four doors still to paint, I have spent the last half hour going through all the receipts we have collected since work restarted five months ago, in the vain hope of stumbling across a serial number next to a pot of paint. What is horrifying is the realisation that we have spent the equivalent of the GDP of a small country in Leroy Merlin, Castorama and Briconautes since the latest phase started. Flicking through a mountain of crumpled receipts with €1400 here and €3,000 there is a sure fire Monday morning mood dampener and begs the question why did we decide to keep them in the first place? And it’s not like we are anywhere near finished. The only slight consolation is that the novelty of lying in a hot scented bath with my Neom and Anthropologie perfumed candles burning and being able to see all the way across the valley from the newly finished master bathroom (of which I am mistress) has still not worn off, nor will it for many months to come I suspect. It is especially comforting after lugging one third of a tonne (yes, you read that right) of tiles, tile cement and grout single-handedly from the bottom terrace up to the top floor so that on the ground at least, I can pretend that I live in a desirable, comfortable non-building site of a home. And joy, I have just found the correct receipt for the paint, so the mental torment of seeing thousands of euros worth of bills has been somewhat alleviated. In other good news, I have just heard that I have secured a spread in Hello and a feature in the FT for two of my PR clients, so am feeling rather chuffed about that. Maybe Monday won’t be so bad after all.