SUMMER WINE AND FOOD
Picnics as they ought • to be
Jennifer Paterson
Sitting on a stinging nettle eating a wasp is as good a description of picnics in my memory bank as any other, add ants, rain, mud or sand and disgusting jam sand- wiches and you have the whole ghastly British childhood treat. I first realised how splendid a picnic could be in Portugal two years after the war. I was au-pairing with a half-Portuguese, half-English family. One fine day a picnic was announced and a fair amount of friends were invited to join in the jollities. I imagined it would be the same sort of thing as in England but with good weather; I remember a Dutchman bringing a small packet of sandwiches in his pocket as his contribution to the feast. Off we went in various cars, children, dogs, rugs and nannies driving to a pine wood close to the sea, where lo and behold, in a nice shady clearing an entire replica of a dining-room al fresco had been set up. The servants had gone ahead with tables, chairs, great white table cloths, glass etc etc, it was absolutely stunning and looked like a stage set. The most delicious food and drink were provided out of wonderful cork-covered hay boxes containing both hot and cold dishes, the cork acting as a very efficient insulation. I was bowled over and converted to the grand picnic idea on the spot.
Another memorable picnic though total- ly different and not so grand was in Sicily where my parents were living in Taormina (my father had fallen in love with the place in 1929 returning from China. I think he was found worshipping goats on the top of the mountain and had to be rescued by my grandfather and taken straight to Rome to see the Pope instead, however he always swore he would return and he did). The head fisherman, Rocco, a most lovely man With white mustachios and a mane of white hair, organised the picnic by the simple method of ordering his wife to prepare one. She, in true Sicilian style, was not allowed to join us. Great laundry-type baskets were taken ahead on a tiny Sicilian donkey led by a tiny Sicilian boy to a lemon grove on the hillside. It was very hot but we found a nice old olive tree to shade us where the baskets were unpacked. Large earthenware dishes full of enormous tuna fish steaks (caught the night before) smothered in fried onions, aubergine frit- ters, gnarled tomatoes of a flavour to make you weep in remembrance, great maize loaves, wondrous peaches and apricots, crumbly hunks of parmesan cheese and, of course, quantities of the splendid rich red wine from Etna. A robust little picnic of immense joy ending up with a well-needed swim in the rapidly darkening evening sea. Wine-dark and how!
What then is my ideal of a picnic? I think I need the help of Metro Goldwyn Mayer, 20th Century Fox et al. My Walter Mitty setting is one of those places I have only ever seen on film: a large deep pool fed by a glorious waterfall surrounded by lush English grass and huge leafy trees with a scattering of serviceable table-top-smooth rocks by the water which will do well to lay everything on. We have arrived (about 12 best beloveds) in very old Rolls Royces with built-in picnic hampers containing proper knives and forks etc, large che- quered table cloths to throw over the rocks and napkins two feet square. The plates also are real — there's nothing nastier than cardboard plates, they buckle and spill. Last but not least a bottle of witch hazel and a raw onion for any bruises or stings, which God forbid.
Now to food and drink: we must have champagne in ice boxes to open the affair, then a good Rioja for the rest of the time as it travels happily and is ideal for picnic food; mineral waters and Coke for the children should also be in the coolers. We will have a big bowl of crudites and a bagna cauda, which will become a bagna tepida very quickly but none the less good for that, a great many gulls' eggs and Searcy's oriental salt (I wonder if you can still get it), salami and olives. This is all for settling in and drinking the champagne. To follow there will be cold partridge, potato salad dressed with best olive oil and vinegar, parsley, tarragon and chives in such quanti- ties as to make the appearance quite green. The potatoes must be yellow and waxy, there is a special sort with pinkish skins, difficult to find but possible. Some cold bread sauce will be available for the partridge. Medium-sized hen lobsters split in half will abound, accompanied by true mayonnaise and rough fingers of pre-salted cucumber. Good crusty Italian bread and maybe a box of asparagus will be enough for the time being. To finish, nothing better than some of that fresh grainy parmesan, fruits and a granita di caffe topped with whipped cream. Oh what a lovely day it will be, one of those perfect English ones reminiscent of Dornford Yates and Wodehouse.
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