Why I’m proud to be a vacationer

At any time when I journey overseas for work or pleasure, I canvass the opinions of individuals I belief upfront. I would discover a place price reviewing, perhaps even someplace to take the household for a good meal, however I additionally invariably run right into a peculiarity of foodie behaviour: the bizarre culinary Catch-22 you may name the Vacationer Lure Lure.

Let me clarify. I feel my whole adolescence centred on the ambition of sitting outdoors Caffè Florian in Venice, sipping an espresso, with Helena Bonham Carter.

It shaped me. What I learn, how I dressed, the tastes in foods and drinks I developed, my obsession with artwork historical past. And but, when the prospect got here, once I instructed individuals I used to be going, it was like I’d instructed strolling right into a free-fire zone with a goal on my again “Are you mad? You’ll be ripped off there, like some sort of vacationer!” They’d recommend some place else which, once I talked about it to the following ­opinionated foodie, can be shot down as a hopeless, fraudulent clip joint and so forth and on, till lastly it turned obvious that, relatively than go to Venice in any respect, I ought to keep residence and feed £50 notes right into a shredder.

A logical human may suppose it will be enjoyable to go and do the issues which can be distinctive to Venice. Y’know, beautiful structure, museums, gondolas, alfresco consuming in sunny squares, native meals and nice wine. However the minute you get particular, the recommendation turns poisonous. There’s an ingrained dread of really “being a vacationer”. However dammit, I don’t go to Venice to duplicate the expertise of a middle-aged Venetian restaurant-goer who’s lived there all his life. Once I finally sat outdoors the Florian, as a grown-up, unabashed vacationer, it was each bit as bloody marvellous as I’d imagined, although the espresso was execrable. We have to cease denying ourselves on this approach. Let me let you know why.

A buddy instructed I strive La Cambuse du Saunier in within the French Mediterranean city of Gruissan once I was on vacation earlier this month. “It’s a little bit of a drive,” she mentioned, “perhaps a bit touristy, however they filmed Betty Blue close to there and the meals is basically good.”

I used to be travelling with Tris, my greatest mate and longest-serving culinary wingman. He was splendid for the gig. He speaks French fantastically. He’s an editor and cineaste, which makes him a congenial companion on lengthy automobile journeys, and he can pack away extra seafood in half an hour than a Russian trawler.

“Jesus. That is surreal.”

And it was. We walked previous the screaming warnings of a honeypot — the automobile park, the reward store, the bizarre little scooter rent stand — and the sky opened up earlier than us. Cloudless and a deep lapis lazuli, it ran all the way down to a razor-line horizon after which to the limitless bubble-gum pink of the water. Yep. Salt flats so far as the attention might see, the color of a Barbie tricycle. Completely otherworldly and on an unattainable scale. We simply stared, immobilised by its bizarre magnificence.

We have been already late. They wished to shut the kitchen, so we ordered every part directly. Bang! Half a dozen oysters, slurped like they have been attempting to flee. Bang! A giant crab, cloven down the centre line so we might get half every and take it like hyenas cleansing out a giraffe.

We hadn’t mentioned a factor for the reason that meals arrived. The solar was dappling by means of the push matting on to our heads. There was sand and salt underfoot and after we lastly paused, we simply grinned, huge straightforward pleased grins, wiped fish off our chins and jerked the cork out of the wine. It was a white. Chilly, crisp, a bit fruity, am I imagining a bit salty? Wonderful native stuff referred to as La Clape. Remind me to get a case.

“That was unimaginable.”

“I do know. And I nonetheless can’t cease staring on the horizon.”

Then the mains got here. Tris sat and laughed at his for a complete minute.

“It’s about 40 levels on the market and I’m consuming cuttlefish cassoulet. And it’s stupendous.”

The beans have been gentle, easy with cubes of cephalopod lurking beneath the floor in Lovecraftian menace. In case you missed the purpose, there was a spare little cuttlefish, grilled on the facet. We discovered a sausage buried on the backside. God is aware of the way it acquired there. Possibly it was some sort of take a look at.

I like salt cod. I like the way in which the salt tightens the flesh and enhances the flavour. I like the way in which they do it on this a part of the world, Catalan-style, slow-cooked with tomatoes, onions, capsicums and espelette pepper. However since La Cambuse, I like it greatest ladled over a mound of chips. Yep. Olive oil fried potatoes, a wholesome mound of them, buried below a sort of sizzling stew, hiding a bit of fish the scale of a automobile battery.

“You recognize what? The French do cod and chips higher than we do.”

I’m nonetheless getting over La Cambuse du Saunier, however not simply the corporate, the meals, the wine and the bonkers view. No, what’s waking me up within the small hours proper now, startled and shaking, is the realisation that, if I’d listened to the general public I often seek the advice of, I’d by no means have gone close to the place. Identical to they instructed me to skip La Sagrada Família, most of Montmartre, Sydney Fish Market and the whole state of Oaxaca. If I’d listened, I’d have prevented the queues, the autoroute, the automobile park and the reward store and gone to some tight-arsed château.

I wouldn’t have disgraced myself by being a vacationer, however I’d have missed some of the extraordinary, joyous and memorable meals of my life.

Tim Hayward is the winner of greatest meals author on the Fortnum & Mason Meals & Drink Awards 2022

Comply with Tim on Twitter @TimHayward and e-mail him at [email protected]

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