Spectator Life

How do you drink a £37,000 whisky? That’s what I’m wondering as I make my way to Speyside to try the Glenrothes estate’s latest release, the Glenrothes 51. I don’t mean physically; I assume they’re going to pour it into an appropriately expensive glass for me, and I haven’t yet met a whisky I don’t enjoy in some way. I mean: how do you get your head around consuming something so expensive? I’m the sort of person who squirrels nice things away for a rainy day, and doesn’t eat the expensive chocolate bar because it seems like a waste. How do I square this with drinking a dram that must cost £1,300?

The mood music around pubs lately has felt as if it were being played by the band on RMS Titanic while the industry goes down with the loss of all hands. Even before the body blow of the pandemic, people were generally drinking less, and more of what they did drink was from supermarkets. Then the spike in energy costs was particularly grave for publicans, who need to heat large rooms for 12 hours a day. Most recently, in the last Budget, they faced a hike in employer national insurance contributions, a parallel minimum wage rise and cuts in business rates discounts – with all of this offset by an insulting single ‘penny off a pint’ reduction in draught beer duty.

The name can’t help but invite mockery. When Sainsbury’s launched its ‘Taste the Difference’ range 25 years ago this autumn, I wasn’t alone in noting that the phrase almost begged for a question mark at the end. But the British public are (mostly) more concerned with dinner than with sarcasm. The Taste the Difference range now extends to more than 1,200 products, from Pugliese Burrata with Sunsoaked (sic) Tomatoes and Bacon Wrapped Halloumi Sticks with Hot Honey Drizzle to Anya Potatoes and Nocellara Del Belice Olives. I admit to having eaten most of the above products, despite being a keen ‘cook from scratch’ sort who loves to ramble around Electric Avenue in Brixton to buy fish, veg and lamb chops.

I’m driving a dirt road in the wilds of central Sardinia. And I mean what I say by ‘wilds’. This rugged region in the sunburned Supramonte mountains was called ‘Barbagia’ by Cicero – i.e. ‘land of the barbarians’ – as even the Romans never quite managed to subdue it. Centuries later it became famous for bandits, kidnaps, local mafias – and casu marzu, the infamous ‘Sardinian maggot cheese’. I turn to my resourceful local guide, driver and interpreter, Viola, as she negotiates the olive groves and goat tracks. ‘Do you really think we will find casu marzu?’ My voice is slightly falsetto with tension. Viola turns: ‘I hope so, there is a pretty good chance. And maybe we will find something even more unusual…’ But first, let’s rewind 30 years.

There have long been Le Creuset fanatics. During lockdown, John Lewis reported that sales of Le Crueset increased by 90 per cent. And last year, a sale at a Hampshire outlet store brought a crush of hundreds of people; police even had to attend. Then there was the affair of Pauline Al Said over the summer, a Le Creuset burglar who boasted that she was Britain’s poshest thief. Pots and pans have become part of a competitive aesthetic portfolio that not only indicates your degree of stylishness as a cook, but your attitude to the latest trends in wellness and health. The ideal kitchen is now free of ‘forever chemicals’, and exclusively stocked with glass, wood, cork, ceramic, cast iron and stainless steel.

My partner’s mother, Enid, introduced me to duck with 40 cloves of garlic. She told me it originated from an old Jewish Ashkenazi recipe, although the French claim it’s theirs. It doesn’t matter because it’s delicious, with most of the cloves shoved under the crispy duck skin, permeating the meat, and several pushed into the cavity along with half an orange. Because it is cooked long and slow, and the duck is very fatty, the garlic turns mellow, sweet and extremely aromatic. When I asked Enid if she counted the cloves, she held out both hands and said, ‘about this much’. That opened my eyes to the world of garlic as a primary ingredient rather than just a supporting player: I learned that cooking garlic in certain ways can completely transform its flavour.

Long Compton is in the Cotswolds, but to the east, where there are no boutique hotels or shops selling artisan candles to tourists. Banburyshire and its surrounds are actual countryside. Fields roll away in the manner Germans call Kulturlandschaft, meaning landscape shaped by centuries of human care. This is the sort of country that makes people write poetry about hedgerows and choral music about sheep: lovely to live in but, by long British tradition, a dismal place to dine out. Discovering a truly great restaurant in Long Compton – population 764 – feels like finding in rural Warwickshire one of those bucolic la France profonde dining experiences that seemed nostalgic fantasies even when M.F.K Fisher described them.

I love Roquefort, having been introduced to it when I was 16 by our French exchange student Geneviève, whose father was a producer of the cheese. She brought some in her luggage, wrapped in many layers of brown paper so that the unique, pungent smell wouldn’t invade her clothes. My parents, gourmet cooks and gourmands, immediately started incorporating Roquefort into their menus. Back then it was difficult to find a blue cheese on the US east coast (although Wisconsin had been making one for centuries). When a food shop called Amanda’s opened in Westport, Connecticut, my Swedish mother would drive the seven miles from where we lived to buy Roquefort and other international gustatory goodies (kuminost – a mild Swedish cheese with cumin – was also on her weekly list).

Given that almost 1.7 billion litres of beer were poured in British venues in the past year, you’d think we’d be able to keep the country’s biggest beer festival afloat. It is therefore sad to hear that the Great British Beer Festival will be taken off tap next year, its organisers claiming it can no longer afford to get its round in. ‘In the simplest of terms, we did not get enough people through the doors to cover costs,’ according to Ash Corbett-Collins, the chair of the Campaign for Real Ale (Camra), who may well be ruing the decision to move the festival to Birmingham, cited by more sceptical beer fans as a hindrance to the event’s footfall. It’s not the only skunky smell around Britain’s leading beer champions, who appear increasingly tired and emotional.

This summer has been the hottest on record where I live in Burgundy. It could have been disastrous for the grapes as temperatures reached nearly 40°C. Luckily, most of the vineyards in the Côte d’Or were able to move les vendanges to mid-August instead of early September, when they were expecting to harvest. Apparently, it will be a good year nevertheless. I moved to the little village of Meursault eight years ago in October, to help with grandchildren. My daughter Annabelle works for Domaine Roulot and her husband is winemaker for Domaine de Montille. They were busy harvesting the grapes that autumn. Not any more – most vignerons here, and probably elsewhere in France, think cooler summers will never return.

On holiday in the Dordogne, I face an annual dilemma. My weekly Any Other Business column ruminates on the financial world with occasional restaurant tips to lighten the tone – and many readers tell me they frankly prefer the menus du jour to the boardroom dramas. My difficulty is that in a single page of The Spectator there’s never space to do justice to both. Last week, I ended up cramming seven restaurants into one short paragraph, a paltry snack where I’d like to have offered a banquet. So here’s my 2025 tour de France, as I called it, at somewhat fuller length, perhaps one of these days to be super-sized into an entire guidebook. This set of recommendations, I should explain, come mostly from British readers and friends in other parts of France.

It has been a disastrous summer for France’s restaurants. On average, visits have dropped by 20 per cent on previous years, but at many coastal resorts they’re down by 35 per cent. ‘Consumption is well below previous years,’ says Laurent Barthélémy, president of a hospitality union. ‘Restaurant owners see customers passing by, but they don't come in to eat.’ Various reasons have been propounded to account for this decline. Barthélémy points to the cost-of-living crisis as a leading factor, as does Thierry Marx, one of France’s top chefs and president of the restaurant owners’ association.

The best pint you’ll ever have is whatever you can find at 5 p.m. on a Friday. But close behind, and available wherever there’s a willing bartender, is whatever your local brewery has a fresh keg of. That, at least, is what I’ll tell anyone who can’t make a speedy exit. I am a craft beer bore. Dismissed as an early cause of the male midlife crisis, craft breweries have revolutionised beers. Where once you were trapped between mass-produced European lager and lukewarm old man ale, British craft beer has proved more flavourful than anything that came before it – and only occasionally in a bad way. You can imagine my sadness, then, in reporting the decline of the Gipsy Hill Brewing Company, my own local.