The sun has made me lazy hence a joint dispatch for the last two days. The sun has also rinsed my appetite which is very unusual for me as a very hungry person. The vitamins and general wellbeing that the sun provides has been feeding my soul to no end. Of course, sustenance has been needed but it has come in peculiar waves.
Day 2
A reasonably lazy start to the day and desire to be underwater meant that the closest beach was the one that we chose to park ourselves at for the day. The closest beach was less than 200 metres away, exploring could wait. Whilst lazing on a sun lounger that we had to pay for, a huge boom went off in the sky that made the rocky beach shake. Confused but too relaxed to move we carried on reading and a few minutes later a waiter came round to take our order. Un café glacé s’il vous plaît. Non, c’est pas possible. Apparently the boom meant the end of coffee service for two hours, a very peculiar fact that we could not get our heads around but did not feel the need to push. Ordered a Coca Cola instead.
For lunch, I attempted to be authentic and to try a speciality which was not the easiest in the establishment we ended up in. Each dish came with two slightly charred pieces of linguini sticking out of it in the guise of decoration but worked more as a choking hazard or eye-poking implement. I ordered a secca chèvre which was a variation on a caprese with dried beef and a little goats cheese toast on the side. A bit much for lunch I think.
Then followed a dozy afternoon in the hot hot sun reading about relationship attachment theory, apparently I am actually more secure than I thought. A late shower and arrival of my sister meant an even later supper at what I will now call my favourite spot in Nice (so far?). A twenty minute amble to the other side of the port and up quite a low-lit street was Rouge Bar a Vin. A small, fluoro interior with a big wino bar with sprawling seats along the pavement, blocking the way for any walkers but making for a joyous and convivial Monday evening. Highlights included parmesan and tapioca croquetas, a raspberry tuna tartare and the most delicious butter dish (as in plate, as in crockery).
Day 3
A day trip to Menton started badly with a missed train and spilt coffee. Menton is the closest you can get to Italy on the south coast without being in Italy. Famous for its lemons, a fact now ingrained after I got that question wrong in one of my culinary exams. (One thing that impressed me a lot about my French cohorts at cooking school was their inherent and innate knowledge of French seasonality, regionality, produce and more about their country than I’ve ever noticed before in the UK.)
The town wiggles along the coast with casinos on the boardwalk but by following the promenade to the port and veering slightly left, you’ll end up in the Old Town. Before we made it to the beautiful part of Menton we again, lazily, chose a spot on the main strip of beach that had no charm but lots of sun. We purchased a parasol and a sweaty plastic bag of doughnut peaches and set about another day of books and tanning.
In a very typical beachside caff, we ate a lunch of a niçoise salad, artichoke salad, and a jambon fromage panini. The panini, though small and served with one lettuce leaf to the side was pretty extraordinary. I credit the Italian proximity, as the jambon tasted more like parma and the mozzarella had an elasticity that only the Italians can do. Salty, creamy, crunchy. For apéro, we had a spritz and a norma arancino, who is to tell me we weren’t in Italy? The architecture didn’t even put up a little French fight, with pastel towering buildings and ornamentation sprinkled on generously. Washing hanging out of windows, it felt more Amalfi than Azur.
A short train back to Nice with a stop over in Monaco (the train station smelt rich), we were too late to choose where to eat and so we ended up at La Petite Maison. An institution just off the promenade with a terrible google rating which I was assured was because of the cunt-y staff. Two bowls of Arrabiata, a watermelon feta salad, a tuna carpaccio, and a serenade of the Gipsy Kings’ Bamboléo ended our day woozily.
I am a writer and cook (chef technically but that often scares me to say) based in Paris. I write an irregular bulletin called Alphabet Soup that works its way through the A-Z touching upon moments of cooking, eating, learning, and writing.