La dolce vita

I had been living, mostly, in French kitchens, amongst the copper pots and pans and the oily jars of duck fat stacked on swaying shelves betwixt the plum jams of early autumn, the cornichons, and the candied onions. I was happy in those kitchens: I had distanced myself from the city, and what a city it was. Who in their right mind would ever leave Paris? Later, I had no particular reason to leave my French country kitchen either – and 100 good ones to stay. Yet Italy was calling us. After all, it was there where the seeds of our country life had been sown a decade earlier. All those holidays in Italy, by the sea in small, grand hotels with waiters in white jackets and Bellinis before dinner. In rented villas from Tuscany to Umbria to Marche. On road trips winding from north to south and on romantic holidays, including a honeymoon in Rome, Italy called us like a siren to a sailor, and we were powerless to refuse her. For a moment, or forever, we closed the shutters and doors to our magical palace at 1, rue de Loudenne in Médoc. We headed for a new adventure in