RAYMOND BLANC’s SEASONS MY STORY
smiled inanely. Five minutes later the waiter I tended to add an aitch to words that began with fish’. I tell you, it was so battered you couldn’t
returned with a plate. There was a smell on the a vowel. (Still do, in fact. While we’re at it, for the recognize it as fish. Then there was the shape of
plate unlike any other smell I had known. What I say zer. Don’t get me on to anger and hunger. it. The malt vinegar on the ferry had been an alien
worried me was that the plate was still a few And I say here when I mean there, which over smell; the shape of this fish was an alien sight. It
yards away at the time. the years has confused staff and friends when I was square! In France I had seen fish gutted and
Up until that point, when it came to vinegars my have told them I’ll meet them here when I meant grilled and fried and chopped up. But in all my
nasal sense had been treated to the perfumes of there, and vice versa.) The pedestrians, stunned life I had never seen a square fish. Of course, as
beautifully reduced white wine, cider and sherry by the glare of my eight headlights, just looked at I ate I realized it was a piece of processed flesh.
vinegars. Here on the ferry I was hit by the sharp me, baffled. They did one of three things: pretend I tucked in gingerly while customers on other
vapours of malt vinegar. A pool of the stuff had they had not heard me and walked away; stare at tables devoured gooey-bapped cheeseburgers.
been used to drown my piece of fish. I started me, then shake their heads before walking away; I had been looking forward to seeing the
to cough. or try to give me directions that my very poor centre of Oxford as I had read up on it before
It sounds ridiculous, but I have never quite English could not comprehend. leaving France. I was by no means disappointed
recovered from that split second when malt when eventually I got there. It is a beautiful city
vinegar attacked my senses. We all have food
In fact, the food in post-
with a wonderful atmosphere. On the day I drove
we cannot stomach. Malt vinegar is mine.
war England was so bad
through undergraduates filled the streets, milling
I stared at the plate and the ingredients on
that Raymond Postgate,
around with bug smiles on their faces—the end of
it: fish that may well have left the sea a decade term was near. I thought, ‘Wow, what an elegant
earlier and spent the intervening years in a deep the originator of The Good place.’ I had a steak lunch in Le Mitre. In those
freeze; chips that had been cooked beyond
Food Guide, had founded a
days, steak (with a little Stilton to follow) was
crunch texture; and all of it made soggy by one of the few dishes you could enjoy in British
malt vinegar. Curiosity encouraged me to have
Society for the Prevention of
restaurants. They were the only safe things on
a mouthful or two but the dish had been killed
Cruelty to Food.
the menu. Then I set off on the last leg of my
by the vinegar. I looked out to the sea and as I journey to the Rose Revived.
watched the gulls swooping and diving for their I remember fondly the evening when I arrived
lunch I decided I could go hungry. The exhausting journey, combined with those at Newbridge (which, I learned later, derived its
What I later discovered was that, sadly, my hourly episodes when I had my head under a name from when the town’s bridge was rebuilt
pool of fish and chips was representative of the bonnet, helped me build up an appetite. At one about five hundred years ago). In my little car I
standard of restaurant food being served in Britain stage I promised myself I would find a bistro in the zipped over the ancient hump-backed bridge and
in the seventies. In fact, the food in post-war next town I came to. I believed that the big wide there was the Rose Revived, a well-established
England was so bad that Raymond Postgate, the world was filled with little bistros. Sure enough, inn and restaurant with six guest bedrooms.
originator of The Good Food Guide, had founded in the next town I spotted a restaurant that has
a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Food. a façade of red and white—the two colours that
In those days, steak (with
I was about to enter a culture that was so very symbolize a bistro. I parked the car and eagerly
a little Stilton to follow)
different to the one I had known and adored. hurried in for lunch. I could just make out the
was one of the few dishes
Still, I remained upbeat as I left the ferry and bistro’s name: Wimpey.
began the drive to the Rose Revived. I zoomed ‘Wine list?’ I enquired, thinking I would treat you could enjoy in British
through Kent, listening to Elton John singing myself to a glass of something red.
restaurants.
‘Rocket Man’ on the radio. Eventually reality kicked in: it was not a little
At that point Britain was not in a good way, bistro, I was in a burger bar. By the early seventies On the lawn in front of the inn, customers
economically fragile and run by the trade unions. Wimpey had become an enormous chain with were taking advantage of the summer warmth
Unemployment had topped one million for the about two thousand outlets all over the world, and the fading sunshine. They were sitting on
first time since the 1930s. The nation, under the but its global presence had passed by me. There the grass drinking pints of beer. There was the
leadership of Conservative Prime Minister Edward may have been Wimpey bars in London, Paris sound of laughter and clinking glasses. All in all,
Heath, was not a hole, it was in an abyss. Yet (doubtful) and Amsterdam but we didn’t have it was a happy picture. In France I had read up
the countryside was extremely pleasant. When one in Besançon. on England and the sight that greeted me now
I stopped every now and again to top up the When I walked into the Wimpey I was happily was what I had expected from my knowledge of
radiator, friendly women smiled at me and called convinced that I had found a comfort zone, At the country through books. It was quaint. It was
me ‘love’. I thought, ‘Fantastic, I am going to be first I was mystified by the big plastic red tomato fantastic. I parked slowly as the car park was
very popular here.’ on the table. I studied it and discovered that it full, one eye on the merry people on the grass,
Ordinarily, the drive from Dover to Oxfordshire contained ketchup—another new experience for another eye on my steaming bonnet.
would take a few hours. Mine lasted three days. me as it did not exist in Franche-Comté. I ordered As I entered the Rose Revived the sunlight
The problem was that no one understood my the fish, perhaps in an attempt to reassure myself cut beautiful shapes on the perfectly polished
accent when I asked for directions. I’d pull that the ferry food was a one-off case of inedible flagstone floor. The walls were painted red and
up and with a look of fear in my eyes I’d ask, mush. After all, I had good reason to be optimistic: there were red tablecloths on the tables. A few
‘Hoxfor, please?’ I was intimidated by the British Great Britain was surrounded by the sea. more people were sharing their first or last pint of
pronunciation of aitches, and in those early days Wimpey described my dish as ‘battered the day around the beautiful inglenook fireplaces.
www.raymondblanc.com RAYMOND BLANC’s SEASONS 109
RBS16_taste of life.kj.vp.indd 109 28/11/08 5:24:00 pm
Page 1  |  Page 2  |  Page 3  |  Page 4  |  Page 5  |  Page 6  |  Page 7  |  Page 8  |  Page 9  |  Page 10  |  Page 11  |  Page 12  |  Page 13  |  Page 14  |  Page 15  |  Page 16  |  Page 17  |  Page 18  |  Page 19  |  Page 20  |  Page 21  |  Page 22  |  Page 23  |  Page 24  |  Page 25  |  Page 26  |  Page 27  |  Page 28  |  Page 29  |  Page 30  |  Page 31  |  Page 32  |  Page 33  |  Page 34  |  Page 35  |  Page 36  |  Page 37  |  Page 38  |  Page 39  |  Page 40  |  Page 41  |  Page 42  |  Page 43  |  Page 44  |  Page 45  |  Page 46  |  Page 47  |  Page 48  |  Page 49  |  Page 50  |  Page 51  |  Page 52  |  Page 53  |  Page 54  |  Page 55  |  Page 56  |  Page 57  |  Page 58  |  Page 59  |  Page 60  |  Page 61  |  Page 62  |  Page 63  |  Page 64  |  Page 65  |  Page 66  |  Page 67  |  Page 68  |  Page 69  |  Page 70  |  Page 71  |  Page 72  |  Page 73  |  Page 74  |  Page 75  |  Page 76  |  Page 77  |  Page 78  |  Page 79  |  Page 80  |  Page 81  |  Page 82  |  Page 83  |  Page 84  |  Page 85  |  Page 86  |  Page 87  |  Page 88  |  Page 89  |  Page 90  |  Page 91  |  Page 92  |  Page 93  |  Page 94  |  Page 95  |  Page 96  |  Page 97  |  Page 98  |  Page 99  |  Page 100  |  Page 101  |  Page 102  |  Page 103  |  Page 104  |  Page 105  |  Page 106  |  Page 107  |  Page 108  |  Page 109  |  Page 110  |  Page 111  |  Page 112  |  Page 113  |  Page 114  |  Page 115  |  Page 116  |  Page 117  |  Page 118  |  Page 119  |  Page 120  |  Page 121  |  Page 122  |  Page 123  |  Page 124  |  Page 125  |  Page 126  |  Page 127  |  Page 128  |  Page 129  |  Page 130  |  Page 131  |  Page 132  |  Page 133  |  Page 134  |  Page 135  |  Page 136  |  Page 137  |  Page 138  |  Page 139  |  Page 140  |  Page 141  |  Page 142  |  Page 143  |  Page 144  |  Page 145  |  Page 146  |  Page 147  |  Page 148