e Chantecler au Negresco
A LOT of thought went into my holiday, and the drive to it, from here to olive- greenest Tuscany. It wasn't so much a question of planning, but of wallowing in greedy anticipation: the fat-pearled andouillettes I'd stop off for in Cambrai; the jambon persille in Beaune; the cacciuc- co in Liverno. There was hardly a town in France or Italy in which I hadn't eaten in advance and in my imagination. And im- agined is how it, largely, remained. You see — and I can hardly bring myself to tell you — I got salmonella.
And I haven't yet recovered. That is to say, the physical symptoms have long since disappeared (no need to worry on that score, and at any rate it wasn't a life- threatening case) but the anguish, God, what anguish, remains. Pain and indignity I can bear, but the irony was too much for me. I was distraught. I was heartbroken. I was — as my travelling companion and witness to my suffering put it — a pianist with broken fingers.
Still, it wouldn't be quite true to say that the whole holiday was ruined. I did get a fair bit of eating in before the Thing struck.
Though August is not a good time for this sort of holiday, not a time for rapturous discoveries or out of the way bargains, or visits to the grands restaus either. But the hotels are open, so we allowed ourselves, when we got to Nice, the extravagance of a visit to the Chantecler, at the deliciously belle époque Negresco.
The Negresco was done up fairly recent- ly and the French, who have a liking for this sort of aesthetic debate, have been arguing furiously over the decor ever since. The main thrust of the argument seems to be that the super-de-luxe chichiness and puce plushness of it all takes one rather away from la Mediterranee et sa lumineuse purete and, frankly, there's no denying it.
But there is something to be said for the splendid over-the-topness and dazzling vul- garity of the hotel which once housed Scott Fitzgerald and more recently — 0 tern- pora, 0 mores — Andrew Lloyd Webber, who composed much of Cats in a room off the Salon Royal with its domed Gustave Eiffel stained-glass ceiling.
When Jacques Maximin (technicien en quete de prouesse) was chef at Le Chantec- ler, Gault Millault ranked it as one of the nine top gastronomic experiences in France. (He was the man who had the idea, reasonable in theory, entirely un- workable in practice, of patenting all re- cipes). He's now got his own outfit, Max- imin, in the Rue Sacha Guitry, and his place in the kitchens of the Chantecler has been taken by Dominique Le Stanc, who ensures its continuing success: it remains Tun des meilleurs repas non seulement de la Cote, mais de France' according to this summer's edition of Cuisines et vins de France.
I tested this assertion out with his menu de la mer: I was not disappointed. The Mediterranee et sa lumineuse purete may not feature in the decor but it is gloriously present in the menu: terrine of red mullet, courgettes, tomatoes and basil with a hint of aioli, then a piece of John Dory, its skin salted and crisped, on a tangle of aromatic herbs and drizzled with glass-green olive oil (I have eaten and re-eaten this so many times since in blissful memory), after that, sea bream grilled and served with an earthily coriander-flecked jus de legumes, followed by large, soft ravioli spilling over with lobster and wild mushrooms, and, to end, cheese and a warm chocolate tart sur sa creme d'amandes.
Having eaten that, I suppose I shouldn't complain of later deprivations. I should say, however, that none of this is cheap. The top restaurants cost much the same wherever they are, the difference in price between France and England is more marked lower down the scale. My menu de la mer was 490F. There's a smaller set menu for 100 francs less and a headily tempting a la carte. And will someone please tell me why the wine list is always more expensive in grand restaurants in France than in grand restaurants in Eng- land? Such was my shock at seeing the wine list that I can't now remember a thing on it, but the sommelier, the entrancingly moustachioed Patrick Millereau, was per- fectly charming when I asked for simply a bottle of good, robust Provençal rosé, which couldn't have suited what I was eating better anyway.
Our lunch came to around 1,500F, and I don't regret a sou of it.
Chantecler, Hotel Negresco, 37 Prom- enade des Anglais, 06000 Nice; tel (93) 88 3951.
Nigella Lawson
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