This was heavy duty coal face stuff – first class Eurostar then TGV to Dijon, for three days in a 13th Century Abbey that has been taken over by Relais & Chateaux, to sample the Michelin starred food, wine taste and hob nob with local sculptor Paul Day, who is responsible for the kissing couple at St Pancras. Yep, it’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it.
Naturally, the sun came out, the countryside was idyllic, there were little Shetland ponies on the grounds which included topiary, fountains and a small lake. The bathrooms had Jacuzzis, the restaurant featured fine wines of the region that just happens to be, Burgundy and….well you know the sort of thing – champagne and lobster canapés in the lounge before dinner, chocolates in the bedroom with more champagne in an ice bucket.
The usual.
I discovered there’s more to Dijon than mustard. It’s where the Kir Royale was invented by the Mayor of Dijon who in an amazing coincidence was called Kir. The local food is Jambon Persille (last time I had this, I had been to see the chef Simon Hopkinson and he gave me the leftovers of a terrine of it, together with the accompanying sauce gribiche to take home for my supper) and boeuf bourguinon (the last time I had this, I forgot about it on the stove and burnt the meat to the bottom of the pan, so we only had gravy). They also do eggs poached in beef stock - Oeufs en Meurette. Come to think of it, this is all basic Simon Hopkinson fare, and more my kind of thing than all the Michelin morsels where vegetables, in particular, seem to be specks, usually arranged like a discrete logo on the side of the plate.
Anyhow. It was all very fine and fancy, and though I kept hold of the reigns of the diet, I did, nevertheless, let the horse have its head a little. It would have been churlish not to.
Unusually also for these sort of trips the company was quite pleasant. Some other friendly journalists, the photographer up the road who looks like he's stepped straight from Where's Wally, all slightly mad hair and fluting French accent, bounding around with the camera stuck to his face, sounding off knowledgeably and opinionatedly on everything from the wine choice to the shower height.
What's not to like?
Well apart from the snails, that is?
No mobile phone reception, perhaps?
That is not something that usually worries me, but with my kids scattered hither and thither, I do like to be able to be contacted so I know they are just ignoring me rather than calling frantically from a Peruvian prison, say, while Juan slips on his rubber gloves outside the cell.
But nothing. Not a peep. No signal. Mr French Photographer had the same problem, as did some of the other guests on other networks so that we all spent our time shaking small handsets and wandering round the grounds with one hand outstretched or in the air as though we had suddenly got religion, or an urge to join the National Front.
There was wifi but the signal kept dropping so it was sporadic to say the least.
Then my phone died, unexpectedly so I couldn't get any of my numbers from it to use on the land line (and of course I am the kind of woman who can easily remember 11 digit strings of numbers off by heart - not. It all got a bit farcical, though without any trouser dropping. Well on my side of the pond anyway. I was less sure about this back in England, thus my desire to get in touch with my daughter and remind her not to speak to boys until she was 45 and not to have them in the house while I was gone.
Eventually I tried calling the house phone remotely.
You have no new messages.
Then in Baume, I got my mobile working again.
3 messages:
I play them:
1. Editor at Waddling Duck re the copy edit (that's a less palable story of turmoil, violence and fear that I shall not go into here).
2. Friend asking if I want to go to the cinema last Wednesday.
3. Hang up.
...and three texts:
1. Orange update
2. This person called and left no message
3. Orange update
(Why all the freaking updates when you can't even get a signal in bloody France - I mean it's not outer Mongolia?)
My goodness, my popularity is unsurpassed.
My goodness, my popularity is unsurpassed.
So nothing from any of my children. I wondered what the PR in Scotland wanted, and then I switched on my laptop and checked my email:
1 message:
It's was a forward from the Scottish Daily Record saying that James Stocks, chef at Balbirnie House, who claims to be protege of celebrity chef Marco Pierre White is a sham. White says he doesn't know him and his entire CV has been, shall we say, somewhat elaborated? He has been suspended from his post at present re further investigations.Darn it, this was one of the places we visited on the gourmet tour of Fife.
So now, not only do I have to clear up (I may be exaggerating here, but only slightly) 2,326 (and I quote the copy editor) "insidious errors" in my novel, then type up all my notes on the French trip, write 1500 euphemisms for food and hold down the office job at Pedantic Press where Mr T is away all week in South Africa, but now I also have to rewrite the Scottish piece and scrape Mr Stocks into the bin.
It quite makes you lose your appetite.
So now, not only do I have to clear up (I may be exaggerating here, but only slightly) 2,326 (and I quote the copy editor) "insidious errors" in my novel, then type up all my notes on the French trip, write 1500 euphemisms for food and hold down the office job at Pedantic Press where Mr T is away all week in South Africa, but now I also have to rewrite the Scottish piece and scrape Mr Stocks into the bin.
It quite makes you lose your appetite.
