When the weather outside is frightful, says Debora Robertson, a little rustic French chic goes a long way towards warming you up
RECIPES DEBORA ROBERTSON PHOTOGRAPHS HANNAH HUGHES FOOD STYLING EMILY GUSSIN STYLING VICTORIA ELDRIDGE
This time last year, we’d just moved into a crumbling old house in a village in southwest France. It didn’t have any central heating or, in fact, any heating other than fireplaces in the study and one bedroom, both of which smoked alarmingly when the wind blew in a certain direction. The house is right on a harbour (charmingly appointed with incredible views, the estate agent said), so the winds blow in a certain direction with breezy regularity. With incredible foresight, we removed all the old roof tiles just as the evening temperatures dipped to -5°C.
Our friend Vanessa was coming to stay with us for Christmas. I messaged her: bring sweaters and warm slippers. No roof, no heating, absolutely freezing. Undeterred, she came.
We put an electric blanket on the sofa and snuggled under a heated throw while we drank cocktails and watched Christmas films. The three of us – my husband Séan, Vanessa and I – inaugurated The Shuffle Club, named after the shhh-shhh-shhh sounds our sheepskin slippers made as we moved around on the cold ceramic tiled floors.
In the centre of the village, the 12th century marketplace was filled with its nativity scene, including all of the usual cast, plus an animatronic life-size camel, a lavender seller (gold, frankincense, myrrh – and lavender from the South-of-France contingent). There were also live goats, geese and chickens, which occasionally escaped and were last seen walking towards the Spar supermarket.
In the Place de la Republique, encircling the rather homely statue of Marianne, symbol of liberty, was the Christmas market where we warmed up on hot chocolate and paper bowls of velvet swimming crab soup – as good as any I have eaten in a Michelin-starred restaurant back when I still had the shoes for such places, and yours for €4. We picked up our black cherry bûche de Noël in a pretty, beribboned box from our favourite bakery, Les Saveurs d’Eugène tucked away in the rue Claude Goudet, and did our best to save it for Christmas Eve.
My favourite reading for the holiday season wasn’t something by Charles Dickens but the menu from our local butchers. It included poulet de Bresse, terrine d’oie aux girolles, pâté de st jacques au Noilly Prat en croûte, boudin blanc truffé, civet de sanglier (posh chicken, goose terrine with girolle mushrooms, vermouth and scallops in p
