Like many Britons, Felicity Cloake lost her passion for steak frites and creme brulee when more exotic options appeared – so she embarked on a tour of France to find it. Plus: five recipes that fanned the flame

I can measure out my childhood in creme brulee. Every special occasion in the early 90s was celebrated with a trip to the same Soho brasserie in London for onion soup and steak frites, always culminating in the same pièce de résistance, a little pot of custard with an eminently smashable sugar top. In the summer, we would go over on the ferry and eat the same thing at the source, to a Johnny Hallyday soundtrack.

In this, we were part of a fine British tradition. Long before Elizabeth David shook up domestic cuisine with French Country Cooking in 1951, 19th-century cookbooks were peppered with recipes “in the French fashion”, while the continental restaurants of Soho and Fitzrovia in London were a magnet for Victorian artists and bohemians.

Yet although French food has maintained its traditional status at the top of the tree – think of a fancy restaurant and I bet your mind conjures an image straight out of Ratatouille – our passion has been cooling since the turn of the millennium.

It was the pesto I noticed first, a sludgy green interloper in the door of the fridge at home, the vanguard of an Italian invasion that would eventually see the Naked Chef cosy up to Keith Floyd on the kitchen bookshelf, and the butter dish on the dinner table replaced by extra virgin olive oil (which, my dad’s anxious face suggested, was expensive stuff, not to be wasted on teenagers).

It wasn’t only Italian food elbowing the French stuff out of the picture. Suddenly, every pub did Thai or Tex-Mex; next to fiery green curries and technicolour chimichangas, all that solid, bourgeois cooking started to look very vieux chapeau. Who wanted to sit demurely spreading chilly pate on toast when you could eat chilli-spiked nachos with your hands, or tear into a gourmet pizza topped with rocket and parma ham?

The food writer Diana Henry remembers the moment well: “I was cooking out of Raymond Blanc and loving French bistro food and then it all changed.” She attributes this partially to the influence of places such as the River Café, but also to a collective move away from the cream- and butter-heavy school of French cooking historically popular in this country in favour of lighter, sunnier flavours.

At university, free at last to choose for myself, I too rebelled, scorning the creme brulee on offer at the local branch of Pierre Victoire in favour of a Japanese restaurant called Edamame, where I saved up for weeks to nibble bright-green soya beans straight from the pod. Needless to say, this – and the raw fish that followed – blew my tiny mind, just as the accompanying wasabi blew my sinuses. French food felt beige and bland in comparison. Familiarity breeds contempt, however unfair that may be.

Nostalgia eventually saw me crawl back into its buttery embrace, however. Last year, I decided to write a book – One More Croissant for the Road – just so I could spend the summer cycling around France in the name of “research”, the latest in a long line of Britons hopelessly smitten by French culinary savoir-faire.

But those six weeks pedalling around l’Hexagone made it clear that I wasn’t that familiar with French cuisine after all. For one thing, it took a while to re-adjust my palate – so thoroughly acclimatised to hot sauce and kimchi, anchovies and miso – to the quieter, subtler pleasures of the provincial restaurant menu, characterised from Brittany to Burgundy by fish in white sauce with stewed green beans (I don’t think I even tasted garlic on my trip – I mean really tasted it – until I reached Marseille).

Then there were the myriad hyperlocal specialities I had never even heard of, such as spicy tomato macaroni with braised beef and sausage in Sète on the south coast, or the creamy deep-fried tripe eaten with relish in Lyon. These are now as much a part of my mental image of French food as old friends such as the moules marinières or cherry clafoutis below. New discoveries were as thrilling as the classics were comforting – I thought I was au fait with French food, when I had barely scratched the surface.

I am home again now and happily reunited with my collection of chilli oils. Fortunately for my further education, though, I am not the only one with a renewed appetite for French flavours: Olive magazine tipped new-wave French as a trend to watch in 2019, a prediction borne out by restaurant openings including Flamboree!, an Alsatian tarte flambée joint on Old Street in east London; Bob Bob Cité, which serves up steak tartare and snails in parsley butter a mile away in Leadenhall; and La Guingette, a little piece of Paris in Bristol. Bistrotheque, in Bethnal Green, east London, is due to open a Manchester outpost later this summer.

With French food firmly back on the British menu, this feels like the right time to get back in the kitchen and remind ourselves why we fell in love with it in the first place.

Five French classics from One More Croissant for the Road



Omelette soufflée à la Mère Poulard

For all its carefully cultivated mystique, the world’s most famous omelette is surprisingly easy to reproduce – it just takes a bit of elbow grease (or an electric whisk). I haven’t suggested any fillings, as adding extra ingredients to the pan will knock the air out of the eggs, but a few chopped herbs on top are very welcome. You can serve fried potatoes, cured ham, sautéed mushrooms or foie gras, if you must, on the side.

Per omelette

3 eggs

A pinch of salt

Oil, to grease

Generous 1 tbsp cold butter, cut into small dice

Crack the eggs into a large bowl with the salt and begin whisking vigorously. Once they are fairly foamy, oil a heavy-based frying pan, about 20cm (8in) wide, and put it on a medium heat.

Keep whisking the eggs until they are very thick and bubbly, almost like a mousse. This will probably take just under four minutes with a hand whisk.

Pour the mixture into the pan and leave to set until it begins to come away from the side of the pan, then gently loosen the edges with a spatula and slide the butter underneath, shaking to distribute it evenly beneath the omelette.

Once it is deep golden underneath, but still foamy and wet above, carefully shake the omelette on to a plate, fold it over and serve immediately.

Moules marinières

Such a simple dish, but such a delicious one, with the added theatre of the shelling operation, of which I never tire. I like to use Norman cider and drink the rest with it, but you can use a dry white wine if you prefer. Chunks of baguette or (or preferably and) hot, salty fries to mop up the liquid are, however, mandatory.

Serves 2

1kg mussels

4 long shallots, finely chopped

300ml dry cider or white wine, eg Muscadet

50g creme fraiche

A small bunch of flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped

Baguette or chips, to serve (or both)

Rinse the mussels in cold running water, then give them a good scrub and scrape to remove any barnacles or dirt. Discard any with broken shells and give any open ones a sharp tap; if they don’t close, throw them away, too. Pull out the beards – the fibrous appendages with which the mussels attach themselves to ropes or rocks – by pulling them sharply towards the hinge end of the mussel. If you want to prep them ahead, leave them in a sink of cold water until ready to cook.

Put the chopped shallots and the cider or wine into a large pan and cook gently for 10 minutes, then turn up the heat to medium-high.

Drain the mussels and tip into the pan. Cover and cook until most of them have opened – about three minutes.

Add the creme fraiche and put the lid back on for 30 seconds to allow it to melt. Add the parsley and shake the pan well to distribute, then season gently and serve immediately, discarding any mussels that remain closed.

Salade Lyonnaise

Most of the ingredients for this bistro classic are readily available, although you may have to go to a greengrocer’s for a frisée lettuce. (Other bitter leaves, such as chicory, or the traditional dandelion greens, would also work well. At a pinch, you could use a crunchy mixed salad.) Leave out the lardons if you would prefer to keep it vegetarian– fry a finely chopped shallot at that stage instead, to flavour the vinaigrette.

Serves 4

½ a slim baguette (ficelle, if you can get it)

Olive oil, to drizzle

1 garlic clove, cut in half

150g smoked bacon lardons

1 tbsp dijon mustard

2 tbsp red wine vinegar

4 eggs

2 heads of frisée lettuce/curly endive, washed and dried well (see above)

Preheat the oven to 200C/180C fan/gas mark 6 and cut the bread into thin slices. Drizzle with oil and arrange on a baking sheet. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes until crisp, then rub with the garlic and set aside.

Fry the lardons in a dash of oil over a medium-high heat until bronzed and crisp. Stir in the mustard and then the vinegar, scraping the pan, and set aside.

Bring a large pan of water to the boil. Crack the eggs into ramekins, then slide them into the water and reduce to a simmer. Cook for three minutes, then scoop out and drain on kitchen paper.

Rub a salad bowl with garlic and tear in the salad leaves. Add the contents of the pan and toss together. Divide between four bowls and top each with a poached egg.

Cassoulet

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Photograph: Felicity Cloake

This dish is the star turn of Gascon cuisine, an apologetically rich gratin of beans and animal fat, studded with various meats and served hotter than the southern sun. The great food writer Richard Olney called it “a voluptuous monument to rustic tradition”.

Serves 8

1kg haricot beans, soaked in cold water overnight

1 onion, peeled and halved

1 large carrot, cut into chunks

1 head of garlic, unpeeled, plus 4 cloves

2 sprigs of thyme

2 sprigs of parsley

1 bay leaf

1kg slab of pork belly, bone in

4 confit duck legs and their fat (reserve any jelly you find in the tin)

6 Toulouse sausages

300ml white wine

Salt, to season

Drain the beans well and put them into a very large, ovenproof casserole dish. Pour in water until it comes about 3cm above the top of the beans, then add the onion, carrot, whole head of garlic, herbs and pork belly (if you need to spoon out some water at this point, that is OK – you can top the dish up during cooking). Bring to the boil, then cover and simmer for about two hours until the beans are just tender, but not falling apart.

Meanwhile, fry the duck and sausages separately in plenty of the duck fat until crisp and golden.

Once the beans are ready, remove the onion and herbs and discard. Scoop out the pork belly and, once cool enough to handle, cut into chunks, discarding the bones.

Squeeze the garlic cloves from their skins and mash to a paste with 4 tablespoons of duck fat and the fresh garlic cloves. Preheat the oven to 160C/140C fan/gas mark 3.

Drain the beans, reserving the liquid and seasoning it well – this will be your sauce. Grease the bottom of the casserole with a little of the duck fat mix, then tip in the beans, the rest of the duck fat and all the meat, plus any jelly from the duck confit. Mix well, then top with the wine and the bean cooking liquid to cover.

Bake for about 2 hours, keeping an eye on it – once a crust has formed, stir this back into the cassoulet, repeating as necessary. By the end of the cooking time, you should have a thick, golden crust.

Allow to cool slightly before serving with a simply dressed green salad.

Cherry clafoutis

This is the creamy, chunky version that you will find in Limousin bakeries, rather than the crisp clafoutis served hot for dessert in restaurants and after dinner. Sturdy and surprisingly portable, it is a good choice for a picnic at the height of cherry season, although make sure you warn people to watch out for stones. Leaving them in may seem like the height of laziness, but in fact it adds to the fruit’s flavour, as well as making life considerably easier for the cook. (The use of demerara sugar is a tip from the food writer Sarah Beattie, who lives in the south-west of France.)

Serves 6-8

Butter, to grease

3 tbsp demerara sugar

600g cherries

4 eggs

100g caster sugar

A pinch of salt

100g plain flour

500ml whipping cream

150ml milk

A dash of vanilla extract

50ml rum or brandy

Grease a deep roasting dish about 25 x 20cm (10in x 8in) wide with butter and sprinkle with the demerara sugar. Preheat the oven to 180C/160C fan/gas mark 4.

Remove the stalks from the cherries, but don’t bother to stone them unless you are feeling very energetic. Put them in the base of the dish – they should cover it in a single layer. Eat any extra cherries.

Whisk together the eggs, caster sugar and salt, then whisk in the flour until smooth, followed by the cream and milk. Finally, stir in the vanilla and rum or brandy.

Pour on top of the cherries, carefully put into the hot oven and bake for 50 to 65 minutes until firm on top with a slight wobble in the middle.

Allow to cool to warm before serving – although it is also very good cold.

One More Croissant for the Road by Felicity Cloake is published by Mudlark. To order a copy for £11.49 (RRP £14.99), go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK P&P over £15; online orders only. Phone orders minimum P&P of £1.99.