MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH KISSING

Wiping my floury hands on my black apron which I have donned in mourning for Floyd, I am now going to make a neat segue from cooking to blogging.

American blogger Julie Powell first turned her blog into a book, and now the book has been made into a film. Julie and Julia tells the story of how Ms Powell managed to cook all 524 recipes from Julia Child's seminal 1961 recipe book "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" - in 365 days! That translates into 10 dishes a week, including 9 ducks and 2 geese, whilst simultaneously holding down an office job and writing a blog. One detects an absence of husbandly attention here, not to mention a little artistic licence. However, Meryl Streep's superb portrayal of Julia Child will no doubt carry this film, and help sell both her book and Julie Powell's, and I think it may be a suitable comforter to help us through the immediate post-Floyd period.

Another blog-to-book success story now. Parisian blogger Catherine Sanderson, alias Petite Anglaise, has just published her second book, and her first novel. The cover sings out chick lit, but in fact it's a highly good read, I was pleasantly surprised.

Anyone who knows her story will immediately twig that it's quite autobiographical, but it's well paced and Catherine, unlike Dan Brown, knows her Paris. Anyone who has lived in France will love the way she sprinkles the prose liberally with French expressions, without always translating them. Her observations on the little quirks of Parisian life brought back fond memories. Her account of going home to England for Christmas and being chided by her mum for her fancy French ways will ring a sourly familiar note for some.

All in all, it's a faithful account of life in Paris of a British expat. Just be careful not to mix it up with "The Art of French Kissing" or "French Kiss" which are also romantic tales of life and love in Paris with drawings of the Eiffel Tower on the cover. Honestly, publishers are so unimaginative. If you haven't got a bookstore close by, I recommend ordering from The Book Depository whose prices are excellent and who ship anywhere in the world for free. I had my order in less than a week.



Vi Hornblower has managed to blag herself a job in Paris, as lingerie editor of Elle or something, so I'll be renewing my acquaintance with the City of Lights with some alacrity before too long. Vi and I have had some fun in Paris before (see Wayne-Boughs World passim) and share a taste for macaroons and shopping. I can see I shall be up and down on the Thalys more often than Carla Bruni's knickers. I've sent her my copy of French Kissing as appropriate reading on the Eurostar when she makes her triumphal entry into the Gare du Nord.

THERE GOES ANOTHER ONE

I was deeply saddened to hear of the death of Keith Floyd at the beginning of this week. It appears he was the subject of a documentary on Channel Four broadcast the very night he died, which is rather spooky. I was hoping this might have been the first in a series of 'Keith meets Keith', but I doubt anyone else will give Keith Allen an interview now. - Keith Richards might be the only bearer of the name brave enough to take on the Grim Reaper of broadcasting and his cameraman.

K. Richards will no doubt be tuning in to BBC1 next Friday evening, along with the rest of the band, to see how Ronnie's ex missus gets on. This is surely the sweetest revenge a scorned wife could have inflicted on a wayward Stone - reduce him to watching Strictly. I hope she sent him a briar pipe and tartan slippers to wear while he's watching.

But back to Floyd. He was that rare animal, a TV presenter who couldn't give a toss. About anything. Including his own career. And quite often, about his cooking. He had a natural nonchalance, that mixture of raffish rakish rogue and impeccably-mannered public schoolboy that is so irresistible. His enunciation, even when sloshed, was so much better than his cooking, although the food was not really the point. He had never done any cookery training. The point was his joie de vivre, his banter with Clive the cameraman, and to see if he could get the dish finished before he got completely bladdered. He was everything that Delia Smith is not, and never will be. Jonathan Ross would never be able to wear braces, bow tie and panama hat with such natural flair. He was the kind of Englishman that even the French like.

I have a book of Floyd recipes, "The Best of Floyd - my greatest hits", in which each recipe starts off like a newspaper column. He sets the scene, recounts an anecdote, usually involving consumption of alcohol, and finishes off with the instructions for preparing the dish. His recipe for gazpacho has three pages of preamble and one page of recipe. He was one of the people I would have had as a guest at my fantasy dinner party. He still is, in fact.

I can imagine him strolling up to the pearly gates in his white suit, bow tie and waistcoat, and scrutinising the menu before he decides to go in. Then sneaking in the back door of the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of very fine Chablis and giving the ambrosia a stir while having a sneaky slurp.

Keiths

He did not age gracefully, and was starting to take on an odd resemblance to another Keith - K.Rupert Murdoch - in his old age. His appearance on the Channel 4 programme apparently involved some extremely strong language, but let us remember him as the dapper, handsome, irreverent and unhygienic fellow he was here, licking his fingers before poking them back into the mixture, and swearing in impeccable French:




This weekend Brussels has its end-of-summer last mad weekend, with lots of street parties, no-car Sunday with free public transport, a grand fête-champêtre (country fair) in front of the Royal Palace, and the grand opening of the "Square" a transparent cube leading to a "spectacular new venue" in the newly-landscaped gardens of the Mont des Arts. Brussels' answer to the Pyramide du Louvre, only without the Louvre. And the weather, for once, is glorious!

DANCING QUEEN AT SIX O'CLOCK

If you're passing by Trafalgar Square around 6 p.m. tomorrow, check out the fourth plinth, where Mike Atkinson of Troubled Diva is going to disco dance for an hour! Mike kindly included a post of mine in his anthology Shaggy Blog Stories a couple of years ago. His playlist was compiled from suggestions from his readers. To catch a glimpse of him on his plinth go to the website of Anthony Gormley's One and Other project between 6.00 and 7.00 UK time Thursday evening. You can download his playlist here and dance along if you want.

If I were to get up on the plinth to shake my maracas, what would you suggest I use as my backing track?

Here's little Kylie in one of my old costumes and a couple of dancing queens in a routine that has something for everyone, and gives a whole new meaning to the expression "Keep your socks on". I hope Mike is going to be wearing a bit more than that, otherwise he will find himself dancing the Nutcracker Suite.

ONCE BITTEN

OK, enough Scotland already. Gyppo Byard has tagged me to produce a list of things I have done which I never want to repeat in my life. In his case it was swimming with dolphins. I don't normally do tags. It feels like an invasion of privacy, like I'm being interrogated in a Stalinist dictatorship, their nostalgia for which Gyppo and Boyo have already made plain. It's not that I'm paranoid, I just spent a lot of time in diplomatic circles, hemhem, if you follow me. Mrs Pouncer will know what I'm talking about, being a Mossad agent.

But as it's you, Gyppo ...

1. Joining a gym (or anything else)

It wasn't so much the activity, as the lugging the gear around, the getting ready and the getting dressed again afterwards. When I came face to face, so to speak, with a Brazilian in the changing rooms (and I do not mean a Carmen Miranda impersonator) I knew this was not for me. In fact joining any kind of a group or association is anathema to me. I am with Groucho Marx on this one.

Not a club man

2. Theme park ride

The first and last ride I went on was at Asterix Park near Paris in the 1980s. A fairly gentle-looking Pirate Boat, from the ground at least. By the time I got off, my psoriasis (which had stopped years before) had returned with a vengeance and I was shaking so much I could hardly walk. I had to be taken to look at the dolphins to calm me down. Which is where I think Gyppo came in.

This is not photoshopped, it's really at the top of
the 1000-ft high Stratosphere tower in Las Vegas.

3. Share ownership

I had some shares once. They took a hit. It felt a bit like the picture above. Psoriasis is caused by excess adrenalin. I think I've had all the adrenalin I'll ever need.*

Share and share alike

4. Mussels

It's not that I don't like them. I love the smell. But when you've done a projectile vomit from the top of the grand staircase in Geneva central station, you think twice about seafood. It's unfortunate that they happen to be the national dish of the country I'm living in.

Couldn't find a picture of the grand staircase in Geneva station

5. Stockings and suspenders

Not for anyone. No man is worth that. I am so old that I remember the advent of tights, to the applause of women all over the world. And even them I only wear if it's really cold, under trousers. You can throw in thongs while you're at it, not that I've ever even contemplated that. They're just plain unhygienic.

If they're so great, boys, why don't you wear them?

6. Tags

I think I'm supposed to tag someone else now, but I'm not playing that game, pal. I'll never implicate my fellow travellers, you totalitarian pig-dog! Do your worst - I'll take the names to my grave. Oh - what's that? Me go swimming with dolphins? Well, now I come to think of it, I'm sure that Dr Maroon has a subscription to "Private Eye" ...

* I realize that I inadvertantly revealed something about myself which I would not have chosen to share with you. Still, psoriasis isn't as embarrassing as folk dancing, is it, Gadjo?

TWO DAPHNES FOR THE PRICE OF ONE

My dance card was pretty full in Scotland. My first rendezvous was with Uncle Aubrey McChe who is an urbane and charming retired legal eagle. We had dinner at QUA, an Italian restaurant in the trendy revamped East end of Glasgow, renamed the "Merchant City". It's a regeneration along the lines of London's East End, with old warehouse conversions and covered markets turned into continental style brasseries. I had one of the best pizzas I have eaten in years, although to be fair, Brussels isn't pizza capital of Europe and doesn't even have Pizza Express.



Qua is owned by the Martones, one of Glasgow's oldest Italian catering families. The Scottish-Italian community has certainly punched its mark on Scotland's culinary and entertainment world. Actress Daniela Nardini (her off This Life) is a chip off the Largs ice cream dynasty. Tragic Lena Zavaroni's family still own a chain of chip shops in Rothesay on the Isle of Bute, which might or might not have something to do with her developing the anorexia nervosa of which she eventually died. Gorgeous young Paolo Nutini's family still have a chip shop in Paisley. Comic writer and broadcaster Armando Ianucci, actors Peter Capaldi (pictured above), Ken Stott and Tom Conti, footballer Lou Macari, impressionist Ronni Ancona, Holyrood politico Linda Fabiani and film director Anthony Minghella, singer Sharleen Spiteri, painter Jack Vettriano and Monsignor Mario Conti the Archbishop of Glasgow are all Scots of Italian origin, although not all of them grew up in chip shops.

Mount Stuart House, Bute

I had an unexpected call from Dr Maroon, with whom I have been "en froid" for several months. Having been tipped off that I was in his country, he was desperate to get back into my good books, and drove all the way over from Perth to escort me to the Isle of Bute, where my dear friend the Marquess has a little place. Maroon is actually quite bearable when he is not in drink, and was on best behaviour, opening doors and throwing down his coat over puddles for me in an obsequious manner reminiscent of the early Edmund Blackadder. Bear in mind the first Archbishop of Glasgow was called Robert Blacader, so that might be no coincidence.

Dr Maroon

We were lucky with the weather that day, and the clouds parted long enough for us to take a turn about Rothesay, which didn't take long, as the place is, quite frankly, a bit of a dump. Quite a shame really, they need to find something to attract tourists back, like a monkey sanctuary or something. It rains enough in Western Scotland for the monkeys to feel like they're in the rainforest. And if they don't survive the winter they could replace them with a bunch of larrikins from Sauchiehall Street - I believe they're known as "neds" up there - and let them loose in the trees for the amusement of tourists, I believe a similar scheme was cancelled in Glasgow so perhaps they could move it out to the isles.

It was approaching lunchtime when we rolled off the roll-on roll-off ferry from Wemyss Bay ("Weems, Daphne, Weems") and we considered sharing a bag of chips from Zavaroni's in memory of poor Lena, but thought that might be a bit tasteless, in more ways than one. We opted for the Waterfront restaurant in the Rothesay Discovery Centre on the prom, mainly for the view. It was empty, but clean and the manageress was as welcoming as she could be while sorting through her laundry. We weren't too optimistic about the quality of the food, and I played it safe with a macaroni cheese, while Maroon interrogated the waitress about the origin of the fish and chips. All local, she assured him. I cast an eye out over the harbour, visibly bereft of fishing boats or paraphernalia thereof, but did not wish to shatter his illusions. That's all the poor man has left. He got the hump again for some reason during the return journey on the Rothesday ferry*, and in consequence is still staying clear of my box.

On the Thursday I drove through hell and high water - almost literally - to keep an appointment with Kim Ayres, society photographer. There has been a gap in the market since Lord Snowdon retired, and I feel that Kim is the man to take his place. He served me delicious soup made by the lovely Maggie, after which we did a photoshoot in his vast studio, where I postured and grimaced like Naomi Campbell under the direction of Austin Powers. The result was this iconic portrait which could give Annie Leibowitz a run for her money.

Not related to Joan Sims but thanks for asking

Before returning to Brussels I managed to squeeze in a Sunday in Edinburgh where the Festival was in full swing. This was my first "Edinburgh" and I was enthralled by all the goings on on the Royal Mile. You could have a week's free entertainment just watching the street performers. There are seven festivals going on at the same time, and the city is a total madhouse. Exhibitions, book readings, films, dance, music, comedy, even body art - I think that's what the Tattoo is about. The whole city - which is picturesque and lively at the best of times - turns into a complete circus.

I met up with my old flame, comedian Arthur Smith, who arrived resplendent in sports jacket, trainers and shorts. He carried this outfit suprisingly well for a man in middle years, and I couldn't help but notice he has not bad pins for an old geezer. We lunched at the North Bridge Brasserie, in the old Scotsman building. No, not a building named after an old Scotsman, but the place where the Scotsman newspaper used to be published. It is now a boutique hotel, and the food was extremely good. We had two starters each, Arthur had a bowl of gazpacho, and I had the terrine of pork with pear chutney, followed by two duck salads. We chatted and gossiped and talked to Arthur's mum on the phone. It was all very nice and warm and chummy.

Arthur had to shoot off to a show and I had to rendezvous with another old pal, Hamish McGillicuddy, who used to be our lights man at the Folies Bergère in Paris. Like Kim Ayres, he has made me look better than I felt on more than one occasion. He arrived with one of his two beautiful and clever daughters in tow, which only served to make me feel old as she was but a wean (as in Buff) when I last saw her and now she's answering obscure quiz questions on David Mamet. We went for drinks at The Dome on George Street, formerly the foreign exchange division of the Royal Bank of Scotland, now an extremely swish and glamorous cocktail bar/cafe, with a jazz trio tootling unobtrusively in the corner, palm trees, chandeliers, a magnificent dome and toilets so grand I had to take a photograph.


We met up with Arthur again later in the afternoon, his Edinburgh schedule being so packed that I had to catch him between shows. Hamish took a snap of us. Unfortunately he didn't get the shorts in. The Waterstones bag I am clutching contains Arthur's autobiography, "My name is Daphne Fairfax" which he had just dedicated for me. I like to think the title was a little hommage to yours truly. It's not, but I like to think it is. We are standing outside a place called "The Hotel", which is not a hotel, where a performance had just taken place.

Two Daphnes: Wayne-Bough and Fairfax

If you are so inclined, you may read a fuller account of what and where I ate in Scotland at my companion food blog, "Daphne's Dinners". Next week I'll stop blathering on about my hols and bring you up to date with what has been happening at Wayne-Bough Towers while I've been off gallivanting.

* see previous post