Cookery courses in France at La Borderie de la Côle

There is no question about it; shopping in a French marché with an authentic French chef takes some getting used to. “ Voilà!” announces Dimitri the chef, holding up a glossy aubergine. “The perfect aubergine.”

But Dimitri, some slug has begun to eat it, I complain in my halting French, pointing out hesitantly that a quarter of it has clearly already been nibbled. “ Oui!” he says with relish. In Britain, such a thing would have consigned the hapless vegetable to the poubelle.

Not so in France. “You’ll see that the aubergine is sweet and free from chemicals,” he continues in French. “Because the slug wants to eat it!” Yes, well next time I find a maggot in my Granny Smith, I’ll remember that.
I have taken Mr Millard for a long weekend in France to learn some authentic cuisine, but also so we can brush up on our French. My idea is that two of life’s most sophisticated skills, cooking well and speaking French, can thus be achieved in one fell swoop.

The idea of cooking and language “Escapes” in France is the brainchild of Martine Guardo-Marsat, who has launched the courses at her luxurious villa, La Borderie de la Côle, near the little town of Brantôme, southwest France. Our “Escape” begins on a Thursday, because we must visit Friday’s market in Brantôme.

We fly into Bordeaux and drive easily to La Borderie de la Côle, where Madame Marsat and a slap-up meal welcome us. We eat in a walled garden by the heated pool, bats darting above us. The only thing to disturb us is owls hooting across the fields on the other side of the little rushing river. If this is a self-improvement holiday, it is hardly the stuff of hair shirts and learning by rote.

The next morning we are off to the marché. Chatting in a sort of bastardised Franglais with Madame (who lives in both London and France, and is perfectly happy in either language), we are also escorted by our chef, Dimitri Bacou, who runs a restaurant in the Dordogne. As we shoot off to Brantôme, he assures us we will find the perfect ingredients for our gourmet weekend.

Beneath the austere shadow of the medieval abbey and alongside the river that curls around the town, local farmers sell organically grown fruit and veg alongside fishmongers, cheese-makers and milliners. Mountains of nuts tumble beside boxes of bright red pimento peppers. Pyramids of creamy cheese sit before great wheels of oozing Brie. Everything is presented with the pride and care that typifies the French worship of food.

Back with our provisions at the Borderie de la Côle, which Madame transformed three years ago from a ruin into a lavish house capable of sleeping nine, we start chopping vegetables. Everyone is in aprons and chef’s hats. You can book an Escape as one big group, come with a friend, or join another group. All Madame requires is that guests, broadly speaking, have a similar level of French. You also have to like eating.

“You ’ave to love your vegetables,” says Dimitri, placing baby carrots one by one into a casserole dish. We make fish “tresses”, plaiting fillets of sole together, and baking them in little paper parcels. I shave courgettes into strips; these will be marinated in balsamic vinegar and eaten raw. Mr Millard is shown how to peel apples professionally (around the core, then down in strips along the fruit, it’s about ten times quicker), and makes a tarte tatin with neither scales nor electric beater.

“Don’t you ever use any formal cooking equipment?” I ask Dimitri. “Non,” he responds affably, showing how a fistful of flour in his hand weighs exactly 100g (my fists contain 50g). We learn all sorts of tricks, such as picking up pastry by rolling it on to the pin. We learn how to julienne carrots propely. Most of all, we learn how to respect and savour our food.

“The objective of the Escapes is to allow my guests to discover French cuisine, to discover how each course is constructed, to show them real French cooking away from the recipe books and the restaurants,” says Madame over lunch, where we eat a great deal of what we have just prepared (the rest will be for tomorrow’s lunch.).

An Escape can include day trips to local sights, and Dimitri will lay on wine tasting with bottles from local vineyards, if required. We, however, are perfectly happy cooking, chatting in Franglais, buying fresh bread from Brantôme every morning, and eating it along with delicious home-cooked food and some local wine.

We bumble along in ropy French. I am told not to say “vachement” (it’s very out) and that describing someone as “un mec” is impolite. Mr Millard is politely deterred from saying “fantastique”. “ Formidable!” he cries. Everything else passes without a murmur. Yet during my three-hour formal conversation, nothing is left uncorrected. Grammar, gender and vocabulary are all overhauled with rigour. Madame and I take sun loungers and sit beside the little burbling river. Great, I think. Some proper instruction quand je suis à France.

“Non, Rosie,” instructs Madame. “On dit ‘en France’, mais ‘à Paris!’” A naturally curious woman, Madame makes conversation easy as she gently corrects my grammar and leads me out onto the heady slopes of the subjunctive. She gives me some French slang such as BCBG (bon chic, bon genre), meaning stylish. After three hours, I am speaking much better all round.

Our formal dinner that night is a chance for Dimitri to show off his cooking: a six-course meal from soup to strawberries by way of fish, beef, cheese and heavenly wine. Definitely haute cuisine and demanding a hearty run around the local fields the next morning, where French dogs come up and bark, and old ladies dressed in black are out taking the air.

Luxurious, relaxing and utterly delicious, our Escape was one of those holidays whose improving tentacles have reached out to us for weeks afterwards. Mr Millard has cooked at least three tarte tatins, and has even plaited some fish and cooked it in a parcel. For me, a blissful moment arrived when I trotted out the subjunctive to the children’s French teacher without really even thinking about it. Merveilleux!