Up and down the moutains

I wish I had more to say about food. My intention for coming out here was to have the opportunity for gastronomic exploration and invention. Unfortunately to cook something different each week when you?re cooking four courses for ten people would mean that you would never leave your chalet.

This means that most of what I have to say about the food I?m cooking is how much I can?t bear eating it anymore. The pork, red wine and chorizo casserole that used to make my mouth water now makes me feel slightly nauseous; my amazing salmon dish has become a chore to eat and don?t even get me started on white chocolate cheesecake.

In fact, I have to admit, and please don?t judge me for this, is that the most exciting gastronomic moment of my week is ordering a chicken balti pie in the local bar on day off. I know what you?re thinking, because believe me, I thought the same when I first came upon these little monsters, but there is just something about cutting into soggy pastry to release the aroma of spicy curry sauce accompanied by cold beer that is more exciting than I can describe.

Have I lost my foodie status?

This could be just the debate between two planks versus one, but this particular one goes so much deeper.

My idea of a ski resort was of quite a flash place inhabited with a seasonal population of well turned out well healed public school boys and girls. However with the invention of snow boarding this all seems to have changed to include a bunch of baggy scruffy bums, or as they like to call themselves, boarders.

Boarders would (and regularly do) say, ‘you’re just jealous because we look cooler’. In this they may have a point. Mooching around with soft boots and a board slung under your arm, it’s a lot easier to look cool than having your ankles strapped into a static position, clumping around straight legged trying to hold onto two skis, two poles and an ounce of dignity.

However if you live by the adage, ‘when in Rome do as the Romans do’ then there really is only one way down the mountain, and that’s on skis. I can count the times on one hand that I’ve seen a Frenchman on a board and my reasoning is that the locals have got to know something that we don’t.

Of course it may have something to do with the fashions involved. To lope around in baggy trousers with a beany on is just not something that the French would do. Sadly though just because they haven’t adopted the scruffy bastard look doesn’t mean to say that the French reputation for chic has made it’s way to the mountains. Your French skier is more likely to be wearing an all in one diamond patterned purple ski suit from the 80’s than anything by Chanel.

But back to my point. They do say that you can’t judge a man till you’ve walked a mile in his shoes, or in this case slid a mile on his snowboard. So to this end I borrowed a friend’s board and set off up the mountain. At this point it would be very easy to start ranting about how rubbish boarding is but the truth is I sucked so badly I couldn’t even get up, let alone complete a run so until I’ve managed to do that mile, I’m afraid the jury’s out.