Gourmet Luxembourg continues to delight with Toit pour Toi

Three visits to Luxembourg have yielded three magnificent restaurant experiences. I remain amazed by the culinary heaven offered by this little-known, rarely-visited bit of Europe. Take the best of traditional French cooking, overlay Germanic, Swiss, Belgian and Austrian touches, fire it with a hip, modern sensibility, and you get a Northern European fusion that’s hard to beat.

Friday night we headed for Toit pour Toi, tipped by the VLM airlines in-flight magazine. Well, almost. Its sister restaurant La Table des Guilloux, owner of two Michelin stars, nabbed the review as one of Luxembourg’s greatest restaurants. Turns out the son of the proprietors, Katell Gillou, has opened his own place across the courtyard from mere et pere. Though lacking its own stars, I find it difficult to imagine being more satisfied than we were with the junior experience.

Both restaurants occupy a converted farm complex in the suburb of Schouweiler. La Table occupies the old manor house, Toit pour Toi the barn across the wide courtyard. Both have expansive walls of glass allowing a view into their warm interiors. The former is all classic elegance, the latter cool, quirky and modern. There’s a flat-roofed, rectangular, glass-walled addition at the barn’s back that, I suspect, looks out over quite a magnificent view. It was dark, but the complete absence of lights implies one of Luxembourg’s typical field and forest vistas. We, however, ate in the main barn building.

Rarely have I seen such a delightful conversion. You ascend from the stone-paved ground floor up a wide wooden stair, currently overhung by a 20-foot Christmas tree suspended upside down and covered with blue lights and red and clear glass ornaments. The peaked roof, held by substantial wooden beams, towers above, showing off venerable stone walls. A bright fire roars in a fireplace the size of a small car. The décor is quirky: a series of oversized profiles of grinning pigs on one wall; a portrait of a wild boar in 18th century formal wear over the hearth, a black, spidery chandelier looking like a prop from a Tim Burton film; ridiculously formal silver candlesticks, blazing with white tapers, contrasting with the simple country-style wooden tables.

We started with the house cocktail, presumably designed to match the quirky interior. A mix of champagne, grapefruit juice and violet liqueur created a brew that was, rather disturbingly, exactly the same shocking purple colour as the legendary “skull juice” served at the fraternity I haunted at University. This, however, tasted a lot better and looked fantastic in its champagne flute, topped with a floating red rose petal. A trio of amuse bouche included a frothy soup of petit pois, slices of saucisson and a cold, marinated white fish with onions, all served on a doughnut-shaped white platter that encircled the candles in the middle of the table.

The menu was more traditional than the décor, but cooked to perfection and presented with great flair. I started with the ravioli of foie gras with a celery cream sauce. Not strictly ravioli, rather pieces of pan-fried foie gras slid in between a long, accordion-folded sheet of pasta; this was rich, satisfying and filling enough to be a meal in itself. My main course of venison with forest mushrooms and red currants, served with Austrian spaetzle and a small poached pear filled with more red currants, was a perfect complement to the tastes in the first course. It would, of course, be almost impossible to consume dishes this rich without a hearty red wine. Having indulged in this much hearty tradition, cheese seemed the necessary finish. The plate was a pleasant but unexceptional trio, the best part being the vinaigrette on the side salad. I would have been a tad disappointed had I not been able to reach across the table to sample a few bits of Cora’s chocolate fondant as well.

Reports on, and tastes of, the other dishes around the table were excellent. Cora’s starter of shrimp scampi was a particularly elegant take on this old favourite, with a batter so light it was almost approaching tempura, and served with a generous salad. Both Cora’s Bresse chicken and Didier’s fillet of beef fell into the satisfying comfort food category. Didier’s dessert of waffles seemed a bit extreme in heft after all that substantial food, but he looked happy.

Only two complaints. The service was spotty, being excellent at times and then ignoring us for long stretches. Particularly irritating when it took three separate requests and 20 minutes to procure water. The wooden farmhouse chairs with their thin cushions are remarkably uncomfortable as you push past two hours at the table. These are problems that are easy enough to fix, and can be forgiven considering the delight engendered by everything else.

At 87 euro per person (71 pounds, 110 dollars) including the cocktails and an excellent bottle of wine, Toit pour Toit is a bit cheaper than restaurants of similar quality back in the UK, though not much of a deal for Americans. It is another proof point in my growing conviction that if you want to plan a gourmet weekend away from London, Luxembourg may actually be your best bet.

Giving thanks for the simple things … including your basic pumpkin pie

It’s one of the year’s richer ironies that I’ve spent both quintessentially American holidays in Luxembourg.

Back at friends Cora and Didier’s for an alternative Thanksgiving, the evening found me alone in the kitchen whipping up turkey cutlets and cranberry sauce while the kids slept and their mom and dad toured the maternity ward of the local hospital. (Baby no. 3 arrives in less than a month.) We sat down to dinner at the terribly continental time of 10pm, fulfilling my objective of getting some variation of the traditional dinner in place before the day closed.

The most important element, of course, isn’t the food but what it commemorates. There is no holiday quite so noble as this one, which encourages people to pause, evaluate and be grateful for all that is good in their lives. And perhaps it’s never been quite so needed as in this grim year, with markets tumbling, uncertainty rising and the entire world in an edgy bad temper. So time to put aside, temporarily, the angst over the future, raise a glass of Didier’s fine Bordeaux and count our blessings.

The scourge of breast cancer remains at bay: Mom’s discovered and eliminated, mine now two years gone and the statistical chances of its return tumbling by the day. (Women over 40 reading this: Have you had your mammogram? The difference between death and inconvenience is early discovery.) I’ve just passed the 50 pound mark in my weight loss, while still managing to eat and drink my way through many a notable evening (as this blog attests). My 70-year-old father is so fit he’s training for an inline skating marathon. Beloved spaniel Mr. Darcy, approaching a venerable 10 years next March, still has a spring in his step (thank you, Pedigree Joint Care) and shows no signs of leaving me any time soon. My friends continue to be a blessing without price. Work offers intellectual challenge, stimulating colleagues and the ability to pay the mortgage. I live in an exquisite little corner of the world and am fortunate to see other lovely bits of it. Sure, there’s plenty to worry about. But in the overall scheme of things, life is remarkably good.

Thank you to all … living or dead, mortal or divine, friend, family or stranger … who’ve contributed.

And so on to the pumpkin pie, the requisite completion element in this worthy ritual. You only have to spend one Thanksgiving in Europe to realise how uniquely American this dessert is. Most Europeans have never tasted it and, if they have, they find it vile. That is because most Europeans, mistakenly thinking this is some gourmet holiday dish, start with fresh pumpkin, follow recipes with a bewildering number of steps and add all manner of odd ingredients. The results, on the few times they’ve been inflicted on me, have been vegetal, too savoury and downright odd.

Pumpkin is one of the few things in the world that is significantly better out of a can than fresh. Most pumpkins sold in stores are intended only for carving, not for cooking. The European habit of substituting other types of squash is equally disastrous. It just doesn’t taste right. Leave the pumpkin sourcing to the fine people at Libby’s.

Pumpkin pie shouldn’t be over-thought. It is a dead simple recipe from the ‘50s and should be kept that way: a tin of Libby’s pumpkin, two eggs, sugar, spices. Dump in pie shell. Bake. The result should be custardy, sweet and the embodiment of the taste of autumn. Didier and Cora ventured their first tastes this Thanksgiving. After a show of horror, Didier admitted that it was very pleasant and polished off the whole thing. A victory for American cuisine. And another thing for which to be thankful.

Unexpected jaunt to Monte Carlo is the highlight of recent Cannes visit

"I know a great little pizza place in Monte Carlo. Shall we go?"

Lines this good rarely turn up in life, much less on a business trip. Or maybe I just don't work enough in the South of France with charming Italians in possession of good local knowledge and a car. In any case, that was the trigger for the most interesting, if slightly sleep-deprived, evening of my recent stint at Gartner ITxpo.

The famous principality of Monaco is about an hour down the coast from Cannes. We'd worked a full day and needed time to change into casual clothes before leaving, so it was well past 8 and very dark by the time we got on the road. Thus we only had elusive hints at what must be spectacular views along the way. Moonlight shimmering on bays far beneath the snaking highway, the lights of towns stretching along the coast, white cliff faces glimmering above the highway lamps. The road is of excellent quality, but clearly a challenging drive with lots of curves, climbs and tunnels. I was very happy, especially given the rain the hit us on the return journey, that I wasn't driving.

Upon entering the outskirts of Monaco's capital city, you immediately notice the prosperity. If Cannes in a flashy, slightly tawdry and very overdressed girl, Monte Carlo is an elegant, tasteful woman who's mature yet still sexy. In fact, think Princess Grace as architecture and you get the idea. Every piece of trim is freshly painted, every building in perfect repair, every sign bright and fresh. I didn't see a piece of litter, a pile of junk or a badly parked vehicle. The whole scene had the eerie feel of a stage set, freshly constructed by the Disney team and waiting for Julie Andrews to waltz through. Of course, it might have just been the cover of darkness. But I doubt it. This place gives new meaning to the concept of "tidy".

The road, bounded by precise stone walls and trim little villas, snakes downward toward the coast. Approaching 10 o'clock on a Wednesday night, traffic was non-existent; evidently in addition to keeping their country in fine condition, the Monegasques go to bed early. While the boys in the front seat got increasingly excited that the twisting roads were exactly the same as those in the Monaco grand prix computer game, the hungry girls in the back were starting to worry that this elusive pizza place would be closed.

We circled the bottom of the citadel of the princes of Monaco, catching glimpses of their fortress palace high above. We drove along the sea front, where a cheerful carnival was illuminated, but clearly closed for the season, and palm trees swayed. Our grand prix drivers showed us where the start and finish line of the famous race was, and, thanks to their virtual experience, explained which hairpins we were cornering were particularly treacherous as we started to climb up another hill. Impressive yachts filled the harbour now falling below us, while the world's most recognisable brand names filled pristine buildings on every side. Flower beds and road verges were landscaped with such artistry they hardly looked real. I never saw a weed or a dead leaf. And through all of this, we saw not another soul. Could any place still be open to serve food in this exquisite ghost town?

But Enrico, bless him, had honed in on the authentic Italian pizzeria like a homing pigeon returning to its nest. Il Triangolo was not only open, but well populated with staff and customers watching football and consuming the delights coming out of the wood fired oven. Simple and unpretentious, I felt more like I was in the local hang out of some unassuming Southern Italian town than in the heart of one of the most elegant resorts in the world. Everything we'd seen thus far suggested pretension, caviar and champagne. Thus it seemed not only a bit odd, but faintly rebellious, to be here consuming a perfect pizza capricciosa and an ice cold beer. And, compared to Cannes, the 25 euros each we paid for the meal was reasonable. Should you ever find yourself in Monte Carlo in need of a common touch, do check the place out. (With your back to the casino, walk into the public gardens and then exit to the right. The road along the side of the gardens will twist to the right. Il Triangolo is in the curve, on your left as you walk up hill.)

After dinner, and now approaching midnight, we took a stroll through the heart of this playground of the rich and famous. The public gardens were well lit and, despite it being November, still lush and green beneath their serried rows of palms. Impressive fountains continued to play in the otherwise-silent night. Below the downward-sloping gardens sits the casino, a grand Belle Epoque building designed by the same man responsible for the Paris Opera. The apple didn't fall far from the architectural tree: it's classical yet bombastic; elegant yet wildly over the top; forbiddingly opulent yet, at the same time, beckoning. No matter how tempted, none of us were dressed for or had the energy to go wandering about such a place, so we had a look through the glistening plate glass doors and let the Russian babes who pulled up in the black four wheel drive head inside to play at being in a James Bond film. Instead we had a wander through the slightly less opulent, and free to enter, smaller casino on the main complex's right flank. Past the lovely architecture and the interiors looked pretty much exactly like the casino on a cruise ship. I suppose one slot machine is much the same as another, no matter how good the architecture surrounding it.

We continued our wander around town, heading to the terrace behind the main casino where we had a view of the yacht basin and, across it, the palace of the princes. Below me sat the boat I would surely buy if had obscene amounts of money; 70 feet at least with a towering mast, gleaming wood and old fashioned lines, she's exactly the kind of sailboat that you expect the rich and famous to dock in these places. I wonder, do they know how lucky they are?

Probably not. But I'm well aware of how fortunate we were to carve such a great night out of what might have been a deeply unexceptional evening in the hotel bar, drinking overpriced wine and wondering what company claimed the guy who just did a deal with the hotel prostitute. Grazie Mille, Enrico, for a far better class of evening.

As business trips go, Cannes isn't half bad

People who don't travel on business always believe business trips are glamorous, exciting and worthy of envy. Most corporate road warriors would rather be home on their own couch. The nice hotels and nights out on expense accounts rarely compensate for the long hours, tedious air travel and personal time lost forever.

If you have to travel on business, however, heading for an industry trade show in the Mediterranean resort in Cannes is amongst the better options.

Cannes is an odd place. As the dear friend who originally introduced me to it always says, it is a town built by the French to extract the maximum amount of cash out of the English. (Although to be fair, it was an English expat aristocrat named Lord Brougham who actually developed the place and started the Anglo influx.) It has a louche opulence reminiscent of Rodeo Drive. The world's most expensive brands face the beach across the palm fringed main street. The architecture is mostly grandiose Belle Epoque, the interiors dominated by gold gilt, crystal, velvet and brocade. The natives wear designer clothes, immaculately coiffed hair, big jewelry and accessorise with small, equivalently attired dogs.

Despite all that, or maybe because of it, Cannes is a bit seedy. Get very far off La Croisette (the main street along the beach) and streets can look positively tatty. In Cannes there are a lot of dodgy clubs and unexceptional restaurants, clearly forgoing quality in their assumption that the tourists will never be back, so they don't need to impress. Meanwhile the hotels all provide food and drink at heart-stopping prices with supercilious waiters right out of central casting. The modern bulk of the convention centre is ugly and unpleasantly industrial, seriously diminishing what once must have been a near-perfect vista of the old town and the mountains beyond. And while it may bring in the glamorous for the film festival once a year, the hulking Palais du Congress is responsible for that other oddity of Cannes: the corporate conventioneer. In strange contrast to all the opulence, this place is filled with business people attending trade shows, meetings and sales kickoffs.

For all these reasons I would never spend my own money to go to Cannes. Neighbouring San Tropez or Antibes both manage to be elegant and have loads more charm. But on business, life could be a lot worse.

To get real pleasure out of Cannes you need to do one or more of these three things: wander through the old town; walk along the beach; have a great hotel room.

At the western end of La Croisette the original Cannes climbs a steep hill, complete with remains of its citadel, a medieval church and atmospheric winding streets. It is amazing how few business visitors ever get here, despite the fact that it's barely a 10 minute walk from the convention centre. Climb all the way up to the courtyard beside the church and you'll have a magnificent view of bay, city, mountains, sea and islands. There's also the wonderfully eclectic little Musee de la Castre up here in what's left of the old castle. The collection comprises American Indian, South Seas native and ancient Middle and Near East artifacts, plus a pretty gathering of French paintings including a whole room devoted to portraits of Cannes throughout the centuries. The paintings confirmed my earlier assertion that the Palais du Congress, while bringing in business, raped the aesthetics of the place.

Even if you don't make it for the view, the old town is worth the walk for the best restaurant in Cannes. The Auberge Provencale bills itself at the oldest restaurant here, in continuous operation since 1860. It's located up the steep Rue St. Antoine and occupies a warm, timber-beamed set of rooms that feel more like a farmhouse than a restaurant. The menu is heavily local, with lots of seafood. I highly recommend their traditional fish soup, served with croutons that you're intended to smear with garlicky, high-fat rouille and float on top, then coat with shredded cheese. Well, the fish is good for you. They do a fantastic dessert crepe, prepared traditionally at the table, flamed with Grand Marnier. And I can also vouch for the sinfully luscious chocolate fondant. (No, I didn't order both. I had a generous dining companion.) Reservations are strongly recommended if you're trying to get in here for dinner, though it was almost empty when we arrived for Friday lunch.

Second Cannes pleasure tip: Walk La Croisette. And I don't mean the inland side with the posh shops. Stroll the mile-plus length of the promenade along the beach. Breathe in the salty air. Look to the watery horizon. Appreciate the distant mountains. You may even be lucky enough to be kissed by the sun, which shines a good deal more here than it does in England. There's no doubt that Cannes is at its prettiest along this walk, especially from the viewpoint of the end of the breakwater on the Eastern yacht basin. From here you get the long stretch of the beach, glistening blue water, the elegant parade of hotels skirted by palm trees and the distant vision of the old town.

Third: Try to get a good hotel room. Most corporate visitors stay in one of the Belle Epoque hotels along La Croisette, and their rooms vary dramatically. For every one that looks out onto the bay, there are two or three that are tucked in odd corners or look out over the inland town. I seem to have an odd kind of luck when it comes to Cannes. It's always worth trying to flatter the hotel staff into a room with a view. I have been there three times and have lucked into an absolutely magnificent room each time. My introduction was a lovely room with balcony, dead centre of the front of the Carlton Inter-Continental. Second trip I was an honoured guest of the event organiser and ended up with a mini-suite on the top floor of the Majestic, complete with wrap-around balcony. This time, back to the Majestic. No balcony, but maybe something better. A room in the corner of the C-shaped front of the hotel, with generous French doors that opened up on the perfect angle to take in the spectacular view. (Ignoring, of course, the Palais du Congress.)
Recovering from four grueling days of work, my colleague and I were too tired to even venture out of the hotel on the last night. Instead we moved two arm chairs in front of my French doors, opened a bottle of wine and contemplated the view. If you have to spend time working away from home, moments like this remind you that there's plenty of good to balance the bad.

Locanda Locatelli retains its top spot as my favourite London restaurant

Locanda Locatelli. After my week-long flirtation with Burgundy, it was a bit like returning to the arms of your loving husband after a torrid affair and realising that, as enticing as the variety was, he has always been the love of your life. Just one bite of Giorgio’s papardelle with wild boar sauce, accompanied by a luscious Sicilian red wine, brought me to my senses.

Locanda Locatelli has held its position as my favourite restaurant in London since I first dined there five years ago. While I’ve been there four or five times since, I haven’t made it since the inception of this blog (and owe thanks to my friends at The Economist for resolving that grim situation), so I was curious to see, after so many other spectacular dining experiences, if it would hold its place in my heart. Yes. It does. Resoundingly.

I am extremely particular about my Italian food. It is my ancestral cuisine, what I cook most often myself and something with which I believe, without flattering myself too much, I create some real magic. If I’m looking for something better than my own creations I think not of restaurants but to my cousin Mildred Carbone, whose eggplant parmaggiana would pull tears of delight from the most sober critic. My evaluation of an Italian restaurant has always, therefore, been: “is this significantly better than what comes out of Ferrara family kitchens?”

In the case of star chef Giorgio Locatelli and his kitchen staff the answer has always been, and remains, a resounding “si”. Giorgio doesn’t do pretension or fuss. His menu is, at its heart, quite traditional. But he manages to bring something exemplary to every dish he touches. I’ve sampled some of my own best dishes here … sea bass baked in a coffin of rock salt, tiramisu, of which everyone usually says mine is the best they’ve ever had … and Giorgio takes them to a new plane. I don’t know how he does it, but every menu item is infused with a magic that makes it the finest example of that particular dish you’ve ever tasted.

It is, quite probably, his passion. Watch Giorgio Locatelli live, as I have been privileged to do at several events, and you see a man who clearly believes that good food is the foundation of everything from personal relationships to world peace. His cookbook is the only one I’ve ever actually read cover to cover; it’s not a book of recipes, it’s a religious tract on the possibilities of food and love, time and attention, to transform the planet.

This visit, in addition to the boar, I went on to venison with a fig compote, followed by white chocolate ice cream sitting side-by-side with a decadent hazelnut and chocolate biscuit. The sweets were perfectly balanced by a gently sparkling Moscato which proved to be one of the best dessert wines I’ve ever tasted. Yes, it’s all gourmet, but it’s also comfort food. It’s the culinary equivalent of everyone who’s ever loved you wrapping you in their arms and humming a Mozart lullaby. The Fat Duck was more theatrical, the Restaurant la Distillerie in Luxembourg more inventive, but nobody tops Giorgio’s place for the sheer impact of taste on tongue.

The food itself is complemented by an establishment that has maintained its style and service despite the fact that it’s outlasted many another famous London establishment. The décor in shades of mushrooms and taupes, dominated by big, round, convex mirrors that let you check out the crowd without looking too obvious, is elegant and understated. The staff is comprised of adept, cheerful native Italians who are mostly male, extremely good looking and smoothly flirtatious. (This has always been an added benefit for female diners.)

Locanda Locatelli is, of course, both expensive and difficult to book. With its long-standing reputation and its Michelin star, you’re unlikely to get out of here for under £75 per person, even if you are not drinking. But the fact is, if you’re not privileged enough to get an invite to dinner at my cousin Mildred’s, consider this a worthwhile investment. Whether you’re looking for fine Italian cuisine or inspiring comfort food, you’re not going to do better.