Student life: quick sauces for pasta--and 50 things a girl can do with a lentil.

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Author: Roberts, Michele

food

All the local French children went back to school for la rentrée. One English neighbour's daughter, Rosa, was going off to Sussex University. Her mother asked me to write out some basic recipes for her to use in her student house. This beautiful teenager is ace at making cakes with the glut of eggs from her mother's ducks, but hates fancy food. I cooked her a plainish farewell lunch of poulet à l'estragon served on lemon-scented rice, and she picked out every single strand of tarragon and heaped it on the side of her plate. She also prodded suspiciously at buttered haricots verts tossed with skinned tomatoes and garlic. At her age, I'd never have dared be so open. Later, in my twenties, I became the angry daughter who wrote poems about rage and need. That persona sticks around - my Persephone self - but now, I realised, I'd turned into the bossy, possessive godmother who gets crusty if her gifts are rejected. Laughing but furious - oh, the darling, horrible girl, how dare she criticise my food? - I forked up Rosa's shreds of tarragon and ate them.

So, for the recipes, we stuck to Rosa-friendly foods, concentrating on quick and easy sauces for pasta, basic risotto, and 50 things every girl can do with a lentil. Buy a bottle of extra virgin olive oil, I instructed her. Use it. She shrugged. My generation had Cooking in a Bedsitter by Katharine Whitehorn for reference. I stressed to Rosa that, much as everyone is supposed to love Pot Noodle and microwaves, she could save lots of money if she cooked for herself. And for her friends. I gave her a frying pan and two mugs, then kissed her goodbye and threatened to visit her on campus.

En route to London, I stopped off in Paris to meet Susannah and Isabel, who had travelled over with the Bristol socialist choir Red Notes to attend the Fête de l'Humanité. They would have two days in which to celebrate liberté, égalité, fraternité, and sample all the revolutionaries' food stalls, but on that first evening, we were going out together.

Off we raced into the Parisian night, into rue Chabrol, next to the excellent indoor food market, and into a small bistro. Here Isabel, aged 16, who was brought up by her parents to eat supper with them every night, and to enjoy food as a result, revealed herself to be a gourmet, much to the delight of la patronne. The restaurant was Auvergnat. Madame wrote down Isabel's order with smiles. Escargots. You realise these are snails? Yes. Sans problème. Followed by boudin noir with apples. You know what boudin has in it? Blood? Yes. Sans problème. She had never eaten snails or boudin noir, but she wanted to have a go. Yes. Good. Next: nougat, rum and cinnamon ice creams. She tasted and commented. What a girl.

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By Michèle Roberts