It’s tricky eating really well outside major cities (and, London aside, frequently within them. Sorry, but it’s true). Even so, in a sad piece of irony, the worst meals I’ve had lately haven’t been in provincial Britain, but provincial France.
Poor old France: it had a hissy fit when the World’s 50 Best Restaurants über-listicle didn’t name a single French restaurant in its top 10. (They then produced their own list, which was heavily Gallic-flavoured. How splendidly French of them.) But my recent chomps around the French countryside have been little short of painful: the Michelin-starred small-town joint whose tables featured intricate sugarwork sculptures of Smurfs – sorry, Schtroumpfs. Or “le Welsh”, which turned out to be a lava-like vat of seized, oily orange cheese, the kind of thing you hack off a block the size of a girder. Or the restaurant in the picturesque river town run by two Scottish blokes – man, the hubris! – whose idea of haute cuisine involved painting elaborate curlicues on each plate with balsamic glaze, and scattering redcurrants, whitecurrants and strawberries over everything from fish to foie gras.
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