SKIING FOOD GENERALLY gets a bad rap. Volcanic piles of cheesy starch dished up to roaring English who still parse the condition of Being Abroad as an injunction to get pissed at lunchtime before attempting a slalom down that tricky black, because of course they can ski; they had a whole week of lessons in Kitzbuhel in 1982.
For those who make it down intact, it’s back to the chalet, where a hungover girl called Poppy or India has climbed off Ignatz the ski instructor for long enough to slop out
