To start I’d have ice-cold gin martinis with bowls of salted almonds, massive green olives and my dad’s black olive tapenade. My parents used to have a house in Provence where we’d go every summer. This would bring back all the lovely smells and the warmth ... so gorgeous.
After that, we’d move on to a different memory: skiing in Savoie. We’d always go to a restaurant run by a couple from Alsace who do an amazing onion tart with a big platter of cured meats. Salami, mustard and cornichons with riesling: definitely worth all the falling over on skis and being covered in snow. With a green salad, as a concession to healthiness.
For our main, I’d want a fish by J Sheekey, properly creamy, really rich. With lots of mashed potatoes. My granny was Irish, and my mum hated them, but the genes must have skipped a generation because I love them. With that, we’d have smoked fish, seafood, broccoli and spinach on the side. With a white Burgundy.
I’d love to be in a Georgian house in the Purbeck hills, close to the sea, in the middle of nowhere. It’d be colourful, but sparse; no clutter, nothing fussy. Austere wood furniture, threadbare Persian rugs on battered-looking floors, the walls a deep blue-grey and a huge scrubbed wood farmhouse table that can seat lots and lots of people.
I wouldn’t want any rain, just British winter cold. I’d be with lots of friends and everyone’s dogs. We’d all plop down in front of the fire, exhausted from a long walk.
Dessert is non-negotiable – we’d have a massive bowl of my mum’s sherry trifle. I wouldn’t want to mess with it, nothing fancy. Just lots of tinned raspberries and lots and lots of sherry. No jelly – I’m very anti-jelly. A thick layer of Bird’s custard and a layer of whipped cream on top and a generous sprinkling of silver balls. I might drink a rich, sweet sherry with it.
For our cheese course we’d have Colston Bassett stilton from Neal’s Yard Dairy. We wouldn’t have any bread – I’m quite mystified by the French habit – just lots of seedy crackers, and my mum’s fig jam. And to drink, a glass of damson gin.
After dinner, we’d all stagger drunkenly out into the night, dangerously close to the cliffs. It’d be so dark you could see the stars.
