Well that was quick. Yup, it was. Just a short, sharp burst of skiing to see… the mountains?, because I missed them?, if I could still ski?, if I still liked it?, whatever. Three days, wham, bam (though, thank the Lord, not literally), ski a few hundred k and come back IN ONE PIECE. Job done.

I am to skiing what John Lennon was to Pickleball. What the great Jean-Claude Killy was to the war in Ukraine. I’m just one of thousands of clueless people flying around, out of control, down snow-covered pistes. Because I’m a danger to myself and everyone else, I travel with 2 lawyers. Travel insurance can’t keep you out of prison. And we ski hard and fast. Then have a coffee stop. Then we ski even harder (caffeine does that) and stop for lunch.

Which is a very big deal on a mountain. The restaurants simply don’t need to bother with anything, because the views are without doubt superior to looking at Marylebone High Street from Fischers. Or watching the buses go down Park Lane as you eat chateaubriand. So the mountain restaurants ‘have you’. Once you’ve de-skied, you’re there. People walking around on ski boots always reminds me of the elegance of seals when they’re waddling across a beach. It’s something out of its natural environment. And a restaurant which seats 200 people will have, like one toilet. Unisex.

I appreciate that taking food up mountains to fuel these eateries is neither easy nor cheap, which must reflect in the prices. But there’s been a change since my last ski, best part of 10 years ago. These lovely eateries have up-status-ed themselves. From cafes serving hearty, wholesome food, to restaurants worthy of kings. Or, at least, princesses.

All I ever want for ski lunch is a cheese omelette and chips. They do it wonderfully up there. And if you have to pay 15 quid, that’s the price, and fine. Ok, just a sliver of tarte tatin to follow; don’t want to run out of energy on a mogul field. But now that is not, in most places, on offer. If it is, they sprinkle truffle oil on it and charge you 35 Euros for your omelette. Chips extra. They have changed from lovely French ‘cafes’ to ski-in ‘fine dining’ restaurants, with all the pretensions that brings. You can still get a burger (as I did, obviously), but the only one they offered was Wagyu beef. The chips were pommes frite avec truffle oil (obvs) and a few other added price hikers.

Its a French thing. You wanna eat spag bol., go to Austria. And avoid penury.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx