Almost everything here has a formula. Lunchtime closing - still very much a thing in plenty of towns and villages. Salad after the main course, not before, don’t ask questions! The rule exists for a reason even if nobody can fully explain it. And at half past four in the afternoon, you just know it’s snack time. Something sweet and snappy is required.

Le goûter. The after school (mostly!) snack. Except calling it a snack doesn’t really cover it, because in France it’s practically a fixture. It’s in the schedule. Children come out of school and the first order of business - before anything else, before the bag gets dropped, before anyone asks how the day was - is goûter. And if you think adults don’t join in too, you haven’t spent enough time in French company at this particular hour.

In its simplest form it takes about two minutes to put together and costs next to nothing. A quarter of a baguette, split open, plenty of salted butter (or a fancy vegan alternative works!) and a square or two of dark chocolate tucked inside. The kids tend to like something a bit more gentle on the palate, a milk chocolate. Let’s say a famous Swiss milk chocolate! So, pain et chocolat, which is not the same as pain au chocolat.

That’s a whole other debate and one the French have fiercely Strong Opinions about depending on which region you’re standing in.

This version is the childhood classic. The thing that gets handed through kitchen windows and unwrapped from scrunched up paper bags at school gates and eaten in three bites on the way to art club or wherever. The baguette can be a real one, same day, from an actual boulangerie OR a pain au Lait from a bag of eight at the supermarché. The simplicity becomes the whole point.

If you want to be REALLY French, leave it out one in the sunshine so the chocolate melts into the bread!

But goûter sits on a broad sweet spectrum. At one end, it’s a packet pain au chocolat or baguette and chocolate in under two minutes. At the other end - a trip to the pâtisserie with no particular budget parameters in mind.

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The inside scoop on French apero hour, it’s a very serious occasion! Plus 2 x downloadable recipe book sheets for paid members.

Apéro? Drinks and nibbles? Apéro dînatoire? Quite frankly, I don’t ever remember being invited out for drinks and nibbles only in the UK.

Often it was tea and coffee, afternoon tea, tea and cake. Yes, that was something we did often. Dinner, sure. “Come round for dinner, come and have dinner with us. We’re just having something simple.”

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But drinks and nibbles had a whole different meaning in the UK. You were never quite sure what you were going to get. Would it be enough? Would we need dinner afterwards? Are we supposed to bring anything? How long will it last? So many questions.

This is why I love France.

Something I’ve learned since living in France is that almost everything is regulated. There’s a formula for practically every part of daily life. There are rules, and we must abide by the rules. Whether it’s lunchtime closing, salad AFTER the meal when the clock hand hits 4.30 pm, you just know it’s time for cake. But when it comes to apéro, drinks and nibbles, there are no rules. None. Not that I’ve noticed to date!

It’s practically assumed that you pitch up at a particular hour, you may not leave for home for another four hours, you will be sufficiently fed, and you will not require dinner when you get home. Whether you have dinner or not is another matter. That’s up to you. I remember my Dad ALWAYS expecting a meal if he’d spent the evening without a set of cutlery and a decent-sized dinner plate! It’s a generational thing.

But drinks and nibbles etiquette in France - how do we do it? What do we do? What’s expected?

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I’m an absolute hoarder when it comes to things like trinkets and charming vintage bits and bobs. Here, where I live in France, I can rock up to the nearest recycling centre and not only leave my bags of ‘not worn or used in 2 years’… but I can wander home with whatever I want and can potentially (I use the term extremely loosely) make great use of stuff I can find from the kitchen and crockery section.

Dangerous, right?

So you see, every time I spy a dainty little teacup that doesn’t have enough room for my pinkie, a beautiful side plate embellished with gold or ornately with flowers and elegant intricate patterns… I give in right there on the spot. I melt. I’m taking all of that ‘someone else’s junk’ home, in the knowledge that whatever it is that makes it into the boot of my car, through my front door and onto my dining table for later inspection, can ultimately be returned from where it came.

On this occasion, however, it was my very gorgeous friend who gifted me the champagne coupes which I used as a delightful vessel in which to serve my red wine poached pears. You see they’re wide enough and tall enough by the stem, to display this elegant dessert and the interior volume of the coupe is still deep enough, to support the base of the pear and pool of syrup, with a good dollop of whatever makes your heart sing. In this case, it was skyr yoghurt because that’s what I had in my fridge. But you go ahead, mascarpone, whipped ricotta, Chantilly cream or even ice cream. Heck, why not all of the above at once? If you’re going to do something something,, let’s go in 100% both feet and do it properly, shall we?

I was convinced I was in the middle of the Indian Ocean, when I first made red wine poached pears for a client. There’s something not quite right with that, geographically speaking. The Indian Ocean groceries trip was more mangoes and avocado, than orchard fruits and ripe pears. But then I remember… we provisioned in the Mediterranean, Malta as I recall. We had large cold storage rooms. To suggest they were ‘walk in stores’ doesn’t exactly conjure up a realistic image. Let’s say… ‘swing in like a chimp’ stores! By the time I’d got used to the set up, I could hook my fingers over the top of the hatch frame and pivot in on a single swoop. I was nimble back in the day. We’d keep some produce in cold stores and some would be plotted around the vessel and stashed under the floor in dedicated baskets and nooks. Logistics was key. I had to know what I was going to need first, and stow it based on speed of access and shelf life. If we bought the pears underripe, they stood a good chance of making the journey down through to Suez and out the other side. Just in time for dessert.

This was my very first yacht gig. Not only was I navigating life as new young chef, but also life aboard with private clients. It’s a job like no other. You have to think on your feet and plan 10 steps ahead followed by 4 of those in reverse. We could never predict exactly how stable the galley would be for service. We’d adapt the menu to suit the diners and the weather conditions. It was all so unpredictable, which at that age (my early 20s) was exciting and thrilling and terrifying too!

It didn’t matter. The food always worked out. Some of the best dishes are born of the most disastrous culinary accidents. The key is, to pivot and adapt. Above all, don’t panic! My greatest concern was whether the sauce was going to stay on the plate, during its transit from galley to guest! That was always a gamble on a yacht.

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We used to make something called ‘damper bread’ when I was a young girl. It was essentially nothing more than flour and water with nasty food colouring added - what did we know! I was obsessed with all things back garden camping, and that included making a campfire and cooking my own dough wrapped around twigs (don’t ask!), and shoved directly into an open fire (oh my lawd it’s a good job Dad didn’t know what I was up to!). I thought I was the real one and only all the badges Girl Guide.

More accurately, I was a bit of a tomboy clambering around in the fruit bushes and apple trees, imagining I had an extra role on the set of ‘Chips’. If you’re seventies born child, this will make sense.

Growing up, I had several culinary role models. We had the iconic Delia ‘where are you’ Smith, teaching singletons how to boil an egg. She was truly ace. We had early days Masterchef, and lunchtime cookery club at primary school - how lucky jammy was I! We had a full on home economics room kitted out with several double oven and hob stations for lunchtime classes AND afterschool club, as I recall. That was rare in the seventies. The room had been constructed in a rather underused corner of the playground. We cooked in there and even had choir practice. Yep, I was a member of both choir and cookery clubs!

We’d make cornflake tart, syrup sponge, sausage rolls, quiche, Victoria Sandwich and… soda bread! Back then, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around why, we didn’t make bread rolls or a classic white tin loaf. We did as we were told, mostly. You didn’t ask questions, you followed the instructions and that was that!

How things have changed since!

The biggest and most famous influencer of all, in my life ever, was my Mum. She was wholly - or at least 95% responsible for my curiosity and interest, in all things kitchen and cooking. What ever she made, I wanted to make it too. Whatever we made at school, was my freshly carved channel into independent kitchen practice. The combination made for excellent foundations, and the beginnings of a reasonably promising career in cooking.

Back to the bread, in the school cookery club and why we didn’t make the real thing. This only truly came to light much later on, and became clear when I started getting more adventurous in the kitchen. It turns out, and you’re never going to believe this, but real bread takes TIME! That was the missing ingredient at school cookery clubs. We had an incredibly short window both at lunchtime and after school, to get our pastry bottoms baked and cakes and biscuits cooled. It was either that or have your Tupperware steam up so much on the way home, that you ended up with a soggy inedible ‘but we’ll have a crack anyway because darling daughter made it’ mess!

So you see, soda bread is super quick to make. No kneading as such, and definitely no yeast or ‘warm spot with a damp tea towel’ proofing, and knocking back required. It’s a straight forward flour, buttermilk or slightly curdled milk / plantbased drink replacement (not allowed to call it milk anymore), bicarbonate of soda and a few other bits and bobs. It lends itself happily to being deliciously sweet or savoury, depending on your breakfast or afternoon tea snack preferences.

The version I’ve made this time is a low refined sugar and quite high fibre, deliciously scrumptious, chocolate and raisin loaf. I’ve had a couple of slices already today, whilst still fresh and warm. Especially good with a little butter or even peanut butter if you’re feeling fancy.

Next time you cast your mind back to why we made what we did in school cookery class… or whatever it was you made on the campfire to get your Brownies / Guides / Scouts cooking badge (see the campfire relevance?!) this is why… it WASN’T a white tin or a round of baps.

So let’s get to it… so you can make it too. I hope you love this as much as I did! I shared some, ate some and the rest got sliced up and portioned and packed into my already overfilled freezer drawer.

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Being vegetarian (still a bit weird in France!) and living an alcohol free lifestyle in France is a bit like rocking up to a cheese tasting festival with a dairy intolerance: so many awkward smiles followed by the onset of scrambled the panic.

What do we feed the new ‘veggie no wine’ woman?!

The country that put duck fat in potatoes and wine in practically everything is still catching up with the idea that some of us want to spend the evening without saucisson, oysters or indeed and possibly the worst of all…a hangover.

But here’s the hack and probably the only way you’ll have a chance of fitting in: once you stop apologising for your mere existence and arrival (albeit announced and anticipated), France actually comes up smelling of roses and becomes brilliant for plant-based, alcohol-free living.

I never thought I’d be able to say that. In fact, they’re well ahead of the zero percent game. Vegetarian stuff is there. It’s always been there. We couldn’t find because we’d been look too har.

Markets and those potager subscription boxes overflow with vegetables that actually look and taste like real vegetables. The produce is a whole unexpected (if you’re new to the concept of fresh veg that is) sensory experience - vibrant, fragrant, and possibly a little bit intimidating if you don’t know what to do with celeriac or a spaghetti squash. Every apéro dinatoire has at least one sad bendy neglected crudité plate that needs rescuing. The trick is to see it as chance to bring in the good cook ;my mum taught me’ expertise rather than being an overhanging liability. Bring a small dish, something you make on loop and love every single time you make it… and the room transforms. It has to be something that you wins over the meat eaters, tried and tested. It’s a sure thing, I bet you never expected that could be possible as a veggie in France?

The mumbles shift from “oh god, the Brit girl can’t eat anything, can’t drink anything” to “wow, she actually brought the goods.” You go from outsider to ‘inspired’ and cool in a nano second. My time to shine and spin my best French with rolling RRRRs to boot. I do however..need to work on that.

Case - point: my vegetable beignets. Call them fritters if you have to, pakora (I guess), call them the party-saving fried heavenly thing of crispy batter. Keep your fingers crossed the host has the oven fired up, these would go down like a lead ballon if you try serving them next day cold.

Crispy and hot? Yep, you can bet they vanish in minutes, before the meat eaters even realise they’re vegetarian. That always happens. The non vegetarians’ curiosity gets the better of them, they don’t like to admit it. Fried crispy stuff is familiar enough for French guests not to overly flinch, but a big enough statement to make you look like you actually know what you’re doing.

They… weren’t expecting that.

Light, crunchy, warmly spiced (don’t overdo the spice, trust me. DON”T), and designed for dipping, they’re a tiny win in a great big space dominated by cheese plates, dried sausage…. and wine. A LOT of wine.

You’re going to need to step up the game here. By all means take the Nosecco. Someone will have supplied a 6 pack of Heineken 0%. You’re safe. Don’t panic.

BUT…

…this is where the bucket of make-ahead Virgin Mojito comes in. Let’s call it that, for now. It sounds fancy. Everyone knows it’s alcohol-free, but the cool thing is, those who want to add to it - can. You get to glide through the room, pour discreetly, and look like you have your shizzle together. It’s a subtly elegant entrance, and has the added benefit of making your sober choice feel completely normal and totally grown up, which is half the battle in France. Own your vibe.

Make-Ahead Virgin Mojito (1 litre bucket or recycled empty Badoit bottle)

Ingredients:

• 3 limes, thinly sliced

• A big handful of fresh mint

• 3 tbsp sugar, a few cubes of stevia or 2 tbsp agave

• 300 ml apple juice

• 700 ml sparkling water (add last)

• Plenty of ice

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Method:

1. In a jug or bucket, mix the lime slices, mint and sugar. Press lightly with the back of a spoon or smash with the end of a rolling pin. It’s the muddling phase.

2. Add the apple juice and stir well. Cover and refrigerate for up to 24 hours.

3. Just before serving, pour in the sparkling water over plenty of ice.

4. Pour into tall glasses and throw in extra mint sprigs and lime slices.

5. If you really want to come over all pro, freeze mint leaves into your ice cubes.

6. Who ever wants to add something alcofrolic to the genius potion can go ahead and do so.

Serve this alongside your vegetable beignets and watch things come together. See? You' smashed it. This all sounds so fancy, I might make it again for my next French apero ;)

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Okay okay, I get it it isn’t French. It’s not even the slightest bit French. Should I even be including it in my French culinary culture column?

Well, the answer is yes and I’m going to include it because of the following:

You see, baking bread is kind of universally appreciated and celebrated no matter where you live. In fact, It’s all about the cooking method, the ingredients and of course the people who you delight with whatever recipe concoction you come up with.

In my case it’s nearly always what I have in my fridge, as opposed to what I need to go out and buy.

I’m sure somebody once told me that those are the skills of a true chef. I’m not entirely sure I can agree, I just think it’s resourcefulness.

I make this recipe often and I’ve made it recently with fruit and even more recently with ingredients that are more known for and akin to pizza toppings.

I’ve been known to incorporate wild garlic, because it’s there in magnificent abundance all around where I live. I simply cannot get enough of the stuff it’s like combining all your favourite flavours if you’re into that. Onion and garlic are the cornerstones of everything that feels like Friday night TV dinners. It’s garlic bread, it’s garlic butter, it’s green so it makes you think of pesto for some reason yet there’s no basil in it. It does happen to make jolly wonderful pesto by the way.

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But anyway, squish some of that into those little doughy dimples whilst your base layer is rising in the rather warm French humid summer sun (see I told you it was a little bit French) and add some pasta, awesome over ripe squished tomatoes, black olives of course (take the stones out for goodness sake or you’ll be paying for everyone’s dental bills and that isn’t fun in France or anywhere) maybe some confit onions and of course cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. I have to say the most delicious version of this I made was with fresh rosemary from my little balcony garden, thyme because it seems to go with everything, and a ton of goats cheese.

The thing that you have to do with this and this is whether it’s sweet or savoury, it’s odd I know, but you have to oil and salt the tray before you add the dough to it.

So I usually line my tray with some baking parchment paper. not because I want my photographs to look fancy. It’s because I simply can’t be bothered washing and scrubbing the tray after. It makes such a mess when everything gets gooey and sticks to it.

Also it makes it easy to wrap up and carry if you’re taking it somewhere, which inevitably I usually am. It’s an absolute crowd pleaser and everybody seems to like it.

Little note here: use scissors to cut it, it’s a darn site easier than using a knife. So if you’re taking a large tray of this deep dish, wonder to a local village party fête des voisins then pack your scissors. Your diners will thank you for it.

No that’s the savoury stuff out of the way, it’s the norm it’s what we expect don’t we. We expect either olive oil and a ton of salt or pizza toppings. But let’s move onto the sweet stuff, there’s absolutely no reason why you can’t squidge in some chunks of fresh rhubarb with brown sugar cinnamon and then finish with a little sweet vanilla syrup at the end. Cor doesn’t that sound nice , with whatever the seasonal fruits are. With raspberries coming in soon over her, and , I’ve been invited to my absolutely delightful friends edible garden to pick raspberries, I usually put them into a cake but I think I’m going to make some raspberry focaccia. I’ll probably make some raspberry tarts as well with vanilla custard, but how about raspberry vanilla custard Focaccia.. that’s what we’re could to do next. But for now I want you to make this too so let’s get started on that dough shall we?

Now the great thing about this is, there’s no work involved at all. Well, there’s a little bit, you have to weigh out the ingredients and wash the dishes at the end. But essentially you whip up your ingredients either early in the morning or the night before, create a kind of a sloppy cake batter and make sure that all the dry ingredients like the flour and salt is blended well but also make sure that that’s beaten well into the liquids so that you have no dry bits left on the bottom. Nobody likes dry bits on the bottom.

The secret ingredient is apple.

I know I bet you weren’t expecting that were you, neither was I until I tried it. And that was the result of another lazy day when I didn’t fancy going to the shop to buy more brown sugar which I usually add just at the point of blooming the yeast. Yeast likes sugar. Remember not to use water that’s too hot or too salty because that will stop the yeast from working.

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Two Potato Dishes… 1 x shepherd’s mountain lantern lit refuge Vs 1 x “would you like potatoes with your cream?”

In the mountains of Haute-Savoie, where winters are long and kitchens were once more a community necessity than fancy and fashionable, Péla was the kind of dish that fuelled the soul and stuck to the sides on its way down - it was a dish with purpose. Péla was made from potatoes, onions, a little fat to fry off the skin on potatoes and…. cheese. Reblechon. Extra pungent. Loads of the stuff. You get the picture, the cheaper ingredients that were easy to store and simple to prepare.

I guess… The UK has the ‘toastie’, the ‘roast’, the….. ‘fry up’. Um, mixed grill? I suppose if we look at why these dishes are so-called, it’s largely related to how and it what vessel they’re cooked.

In some ways, the dish we’re talking about here is kind of similar.

The word Péla comes from the long-handled pan (poêle) it was traditionally cooked in. I wonder if that was a design, meaning the young enthusiastic sheep herder avoided scalding his digits!

It’s a simple enough stovetop dish: cubed skin-on waxy potatoes and onions, slowly cooked down until the onions are caramelised and gooey.. and the potatoes are practically teak in colour at the edges and all ragged and crispy. If you’re picturing anything fancy, wind that thought in - this was kryptonite for farm work, not something served with a rubbed sprig of thyme and a glass of chilled dry white.

Here’s my version. No… your eyes are NOT deceiving you, and nor are they running the image through your Spidey sense, random ‘should not be in the packing area’ ingredients scanner.

It’s the one and only wild garlic. Ail d’Ours if you’re a French and AKA Bear’s Garlic. I bet bears don’t even like garlic. Do they?

The wild garlic flowers bring your salad game up a level. Use tweezers to place them with precision and well… YES MADAME CUISINIER, you’re hired.

I can do fancy. But what I like preparing most and writing about all day long, is the true cuisine. The traditional dishes and their history.

Reblochon: it pulled the woolly bobble hat brim and maybe even a balaclava over the eyes of the taxman.

Reblochon, now inseparable from Tartiflette, has a rich and extremely stinky history all of its very own.

Fun fact :

The name comes from reblocher, meaning to “milk again.” In the 13th century, local farmers would partially milk their cows when tax collectors came, then finish the process after they’d left. That second milking gave creamier milk, perfect for making a rich, washed-rind cheese that eventually became THE Reblochon of Aravis.

But what MASTERS of tax evasion! That’s stealth farming if ever there were such a thing!

Reblechon d’Aravis is creamy, nutty and just funky enough to stand up its own rind! But leave it out in the warm for long, and it’ll be running off the table and making a bid for freedom. I know. Trust me. Chalet cheffing taught me a lot back in the early ‘90s!

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This really simple and frankly doesnt truly require a written recipe. Let’s go there anyway, build up that French summer salads repertoire. Are you in?

Start with your cucumber — peel, slice and salt, then leave well alone for 20 minutes. A mandoline is great for this, though you can even spiralise or hand slice. You want nice crisp slices and a creamy undiluted dressing. That part matters. No one likes a soggy salad.

Then, in a bowl: fromage blanc and / or natural yogurt (or the non-dairy soya version, if that’s your style), cracked black pepper (I go heavy with the stuff), lime juice, and a spoon of hot Dijon. Mix it all up. Add a load of chopped herbs — lemon balm, parsley, wild chives or shop bought.

Here’s me trying to sound like a seasoned forager which of course… I am not. Far from it.

Drain your cucumber slices. When I say drain… I mean squeeze tightly with both hands. Squeeze and squeeze some more. Then, fold through the yoghurty mix. It should smell fresh and taste good and zingy.

Something green and cold and creamy — the kind of thing you eat before a of saucy lentils and sausage or on the size of a nice slice of wobbly cheese quiche . Good home cooking. Not fancy, not trying to be ‘edgy’. Just tasty plates that remind of you of childhood.

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And here’s the thing: this kind of dish is turning up again. In cafés, at markets, even in foodie publications trying not to look like gastro food mags. France is having a moment with its traditional food — La Belle Époque, 1970s-style cafés, and yes, the institutional-style meals some French households grew up on and perhaps others tried to forget. I think there’s an element of this going on in UK too. We seem to be cyclical creatures when it comes to fashionable stuff! That goes for dining too.

Why? Maybe because people have less cash in their pockets. Maybe because the whole “reinvent everything” era is tiring. I know it fatigues me! Or maybe, underneath all the trends, frills and faff…the French still just want their dishes done RIGHT.

I’m open to criticism and debate here. I’m certainly not a food historian or expert in gastronomy heritage. But I do love to dig around and research food culture, and the stories behind dishes.

This isn’t nostalgia marketing. It’s comfort. Reclaiming what worked and ultimately what people here in France AND elsewhere are craving.

Cucumber Chive Salad

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Download the recipe card and print with or without the image and keep in your favourite summer salads foldersection!

Come with me on a journey from Leeds to the Seychelles

1988 to be precise, the first year of my hotel management HND at what was Leeds Polytechnic, North UK. Not only was it the first year of my diploma, but it was my first year away from home and that meant my first year as a full-time student looking after myself and taking my turn in cooking for a house full of 5 students.

No, I considered myself pretty darn lucky given three of us out of the five happened to be hospitality and catering students. Hurrah we weren’t going to starve but we were going to eat a great, great many lentils in various forms of soup, Dahl, curry and chilli not to mention patties and in “burgers”.

Oh boy did we embrace this opportunity to live up the life of student culinary discovery via the local corner shop and occasional trips (if we could be bothered moving all behind at the weekend) to either Safeway or Morrisons for a day trip to fill up the cupboards and assume the role of sensible, responsible young adults.

We were, a little bit responsible and sensible.

No, we were about 20 years too late to be pioneers of the hippie vegetarian movement protesting against the industrialisation of food. Lentils however were then and still now are nutritious, cheap unreasonably good sources of protein for vegetarian diets. Given it was our first year of being full-time students away from home, gravitating towards piercing studios, student nights, Indie bands (that are now mostly famous) and lentils, beans and rice were to be expected.

Little did I know that some 35 years on I would still be in love with the little green and orange dried beans and peas. This is odd considering I couldn’t stand anything remotely beanie or pea-like as a child. I was completely repelled by the colour, texture and flavour. Not up my street at all. I couldn’t tolerated beans on toast let alone a chickpea curry.

Did you know that when you combine lentils or pulses with a whole grain, it makes a whole protein with the full compliment of amino acids? I think that’s pretty cool.

Listen, I’m no nutritional expert but I studied the shenanigans for long enough. Nothing for certain, research changes and evolves. New findings pop up whether on the news or social media or a white paper somewhere. The thing to remember, at least for me is that why not cook and just what we like? Why don’t we just do that?

Once I finished my studies in the UK, I didn’t let too much time pass and packed my bags pretty quickly to move abroad and start working as a chef in my very early 20s. I never really returned to the UK after that, not comfortably anyway. I was always much happier roaming with very few belongings compared to what I’d grown up with.

My very first job at sea was on a complete and utter rust bucket of a private vessel, that was in much need of renovation maintenance and and go to him containers full of TLC. Nevertheless, it was indeed a great adventure. I learned a lot, some of the lessons were tricky, but the thing I’m grateful for to this day was the opportunity to explore markets in Townsend villages where I’d never normally have the chance to discover.

Our mission as crew was to take the vessel (not on our own silly, we had a Captain) from Malta in the Mediterranean around the islands down through the Suez Canal and on to Tanzania and the Seychelles. Luckily for me as Chef for 10 crew, I think and up to 12 guests I was able to go assure quite frequently to provision and pick up ingredients.

I have great memories of leaving the yacht by tender with a shopping list, and a bag full of dollars. I’m being greeted by a local guide on the dock to assist me (okay chaperone me… at 5ft 2 tall who was I to argue) with the grocery shopping trip. Doing the yacht provisioning locally on the islands with locals meant that not only did I get to pick out truly authentic ingredients and produce, but also I could indulge myself culturally. I could experience the vibe of a local market and the people behind the stalls and small businesses. Chatting to the vendors meant pulling up a water butt, grabbing a Sprite and yarning out your life history together.

That was the magic of my job. Total immersion.

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It’s different today chefs and clients have their produce flown in or delivered to the dock and provisioning lists are created based on preference. What the island or village, local fishermen and farmers had to offer didn’t matter as much as the caviar brand of champagne label from ‘home’.

It’s not always the case and I’m not making any kind of authoritative statement here. I’m in no position to do that and am certainly not tall enough to fit off the agents. I share my own experiences. After all… I can only really reflect on what I’ve lived through. The rest is nothing more than an assumption of how others plan their menus. Produce availability, client preference or a blend of both.

I preferred it the old way. Called me a dinosaur.

So it was during my time navigating the Seychelles both with and without guests on board that I was able to learn a little bit about creole cooking and cuisine.

I met locals who lived on island nature reserves like Bird Island and lived a frugal, simple life. They would fish and collect their staples from the markets on the larger islands. On one occasion I was advised by a local lady who would come aboard quite often to use HP brown sauce in my recipes! It made sense. Aside from it being super processed, the flavour profile was ideal for bringing veggies and stews to life. A decent tang and deep strong umami flavours rich, deep and sour. Tomatoes, dates, tamarind and spices. I don’t doubt there are a few ingredients you wouldn’t usually include on your weekly shopping list but hey… just a spoonful right?

These are the kinds of flavours that make your mouth water just thinking about them… like pickled onion Monster Munch! You may need to look those up and if you haven’t yet had the pleasure of trying them… it’s something you need to do at least once in your life.

Creole flavours are an almighty fusion of African, French, Spanish, Caribbean, and Indigenous influences, creating rich deeply flavoured aromatic dishes.

Spices and herbs like cayenne, paprika, bay leaf and thyme (always ALWAYS in my kitchen) are the culinary ‘bricks’ of Creole cuisine. Ginger and turmeric are the sand and cement. That leaves the “Holy Trinity” of onions, celery, and peppers, no dish is complete without these. Garlic, parsley, and oregano add further depth and goodness knows we need the green stuff to make our plates pretty. Right?

Creole cuisine balances heat with sweetness, using ingredients like tomatoes, citrus, and fruit. That’s my kind of sweet and sour.

Vegetables and pulses are widely used in Creole cooking adding substance and texture. Lentils, kidney beans, rice and black-eyed peas provide earthy heartiness in stews.

Top table tip before diving into that recipe-if you’re going do hot sauce, make sure you check in with your diners first. If they’re down for spice and a slight forehead perspiration episode then go ahead and add some in. If in doubt, leave it out and present the bottle to your guests. Let’s test their limits.

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Dairy Free Ricotta

Hard to believe it’s possible, right? Ok…here’s the thing: many recipes look like they’ve been conjured up behind the grand Oz curtains of the Wizard himself. Relax. Most cooking is…

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Let’s get straight to the point! This is where childhood tiffin meets the somewhat sophisticated Italian (ish) dessert or post dinner sweet… a…

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Back in the mid-90s, and I may have mentioned this before, I was a private chef on board yachts, spending much of my time in the Mediterranean and th…

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