On a school Cadet Force camp in the Lake District in April 1973 we walked from Seatoller (the wettest place in England at 123” per year) to Ambleside around Scarfell Pike. The idea was to camp overnight at Ambleside. Inevitably given the time of year and start location it rained on us the whole day. A group of very wet cadets sloshed into the campsite with the prospect of erecting tents and cooking up our evening meal in the cramped conditions of dripping canvas. Recognising potential mutiny and collapse of morale the Cadet leaders bundled us into a mini-bus and we drove to a café in Ambleside. Etched into my memory is the steaming mound of cottage pie and gravy that was devoured by the “steaming” mass of damp cadets. It was and remains the best fifty pence I have spent. Haute cuisine it was not but the time, place and circumstances have made it one of a handful of memorable meals.
Other memorable meals include the lunch from the table d’hote menu in a shabby restaurant near the Perpignan station of grilled salmon and hollandaise sauce for 11 francs enjoyed by Carol and I as we waited for a train on our first holiday together . In the open air on the foothills of Mount Kenya eating grilled trout followed by fresh fruit salad, tinned cream and fresh Kenyan coffee. All these meals have in common a simplicity of ingredients and place.
Travelling with Betsy we rack up a some memorable meals. On the first day we arrive in Verdun hot and road weary. The plan to walk into town is ditched in favour of the small campsite restaurant which has an open air terrace. A goats cheese salad starter is followed by herb omelette for me and chicken kebobs (straight taken from the menu) for Carol. All accompanied by salad and frite and washed down with chilled local rose and cold beer. Our first long journey, warm evening sun and Betsy set up to welcome us to bed gave the sense of place with simple fresh cooked food.
On a boat trip along the Istrian coast of Croatia we served another simple meal. The day long trip is around some the bays which are in accessible from the land. There is the promise of grilled meat and fish. I watch with interest as the the crewman/cook methodically arranges hundreds of small fish on the grill. He spreads chopped parsley, garlic and salt liberally over the little fish. The result is served with fresh tomatoes and bred which we eat from our fingers flinging the tails and heads to greedy gulls who stalk the boat.
A feature of Croatian cooking is grilled meat. Near Zadar we watch fascinated as a whole cow is roasted on a spit to celebrate a national holiday. Most restaurants have an open spit outside the entrance, it is a must try. By the gate of the campsite there is a piggy turning on the spit all day. Despite assurances that we didn’t need to book the restaurant is crowded and we are given a seat inside – it’s hot and there is a long wait. One of the waiters, an old gent who moves between the tables in a stooped running shuffle secures us a table on the terrace and eventually the suckling pig arrives. The decision to forgo starters proves to be a wise one. There are 3 huge chunks of meat, recognisable as coming directly from the pig. Dark seared skin, moist tender meat and perhaps more fat than than we would normally choose, it is gorgeous. The piggy did not die in vain. The old gent apologies profusely because he can’t remember what one of the deserts is called, he explains he is 70. He is charming, humorous and part of the evening.
It is coming to the end of our journey. We meet Emma and Tom at Venice airport then drive north into Prosecco country. We are heading for a campsite Riva D’Oro near the small town of Revine. The campsite is dilapidated but the welcome is warm and we are offered an evening meal. On the journey up every shop and restaurant is closed and the only refreshment we can find is an espresso and Pringles in a betting shop cafe. We are hungry and Betsy has no provisions. Several menu options are offered, one of which is porchetta, a taster is proffered. The lovely lady running the cafe sets to work on a giant slicer and produces a large plate covered in thin slices of porchetta. It is moist, salty with strong flavours of pork and herbs, it melts in the mouth. The choice of supper is made. We have a convivial evening each with a large plate of the porchetta, with large bowls of salad and frites washed down with a beautifully dry but soft processo. It is a memorable final night of our holiday and first night in Betsy for Emma and Tom marked by excellent simple food.
Carol and I are are avowed foodies who have eaten in some fine restaurants. While we have memories of these culinary establishments we can rarely remember what we ate. The meals we remember are those with simple ingredients, freshly cooked in memorable surroundings of time place and events.
Rolling Into Retirement With Betsy 