Flying high

A couple of weeks ago, me and Big-J were sat having lunch with friends of his of some forty years standing; lucky friends who've found that the harder they've worked, the luckier they've got. As a Joanna-come-lately, I’ve officially adopted them as my very own bosom buddies - and we’re very close. ‘Are you going to Cannes for the property fair?’ said the friend (let's just call him The Don). ‘No’ we said whilst explaining that the property sector isn’t really in Big-J’s new client target vista just at the moment. ‘Well if you fancy a few days there,’ said The Don, 'I’ll give you a lift.’

We knew what that meant. We knew exactly what that meant and we were excited.

The Don has a private jet at his disposal and clearly had a couple of spare seats on the Nice to and fro. We thought about it ooh, for a nano-second, before biting his arm off. Who were we to turn down an act of such lavish generosity? It would've been rude. And as it happened, Big-J had been invited, by various contacts, to attend a couple of parties and events there so we knew it made sense.

When you show up at Luton’s private terminal it’s frankly very weird. Everyone’s shockingly nice to you. It's all plush carpet, tie-back curtains, leather settees and potted palms. They smile, they talk, they offer you coffee and biscuits and you park your car in the dear little space just outside so as you can see it out of the corner of your eye as you watch breakfast TV on the eighty-four inch plasma screen. There’s not a hint of queuing, pushing, screaming children or nasty niffs. It’s all just über civilised and very calm.

Halfway through your second coffee, a pilot appears to say that we’re about ready to go but please, no hurry, do finish your refreshments and then we’ll take you out. A large and comfortable car drives you the few yards to the door of the plane and, after boarding you choose your seat, one of six pure luxury leather arm-chairs that, at the flick of a switch, go backwards, forwards and swivel. The day’s newspapers and a selection of magazines are on hand as are cushions, blankets and an on board toilet should you get caught short. Twenty minutes into the flight, breakfast is served. To be honest, this is where it all got a bit stressful – to choose the double chocolate or the blueberry muffin? An impossible quandary. In the end, I opted for a portion of beautifully prepared exotic fruit but I sampled Big-J’s chocolate muffin because when you eat something like that off someone else’s plate, it’s not fattening.

The weather was clear and bright, the flight was smooth and sociable and on landing at Nice another car was waiting on the tarmac to transport us to the terminal where there was a dinky little, unmanned passport control point. This was where it all seemed to be going horribly wrong. We were told we must wait whilst they found an immigration officer to check our passports but, after a few minutes when no one appeared, our escort gave us that familiar French ‘shrug’ and took us through anyway.

The Don's driver dropped us off at the car hire point and it was there we parted company until a few days later when we all flew home again, same fashion, same style and still no immigration officer at Nice passport control.

It really is the only way to travel but back here in the real world, with a bloody great bang, I’m just dreading my next Easyjet bun-flight.

It's very simple...

Are you a fan of cookery programmes? We love 'em. Being children of the sparse Fanny and Johnny/Galloping Gourmet TV era, the veritable banquet of such programmes today is like beluga caviar to people like us.

But there's one thing that gives us indigestion. I challenge you to watch one of these programmes without the chef telling you, at least twice or fifteen times, "this is very simple to make ..." as they assemble 23 ingredients, 8 bowls, two whisks and several gadgets that no domestic kitchen could ever even source. Take Ray White for example, tonight I watched him prepare a 'very simple' dessert of apple soufflé served in a hollowed out, lined and baked apple. As if it wasn't enough to watch him preparing this simple dessert in a matter of TV edited moments, he then suggested serving it on a fluffy cloud of sabayon and garnishing it with small pieces of caramelised apple - very simple to make - and small dollops of apple jelly - an absolute doddle apparently if you happen to have apple juice, agar flakes and several spare hours to hand, a quenelle of exquisitely home made apple sorbet (which is simplicity-on-a-plate if you happen to own a professional ice-cream maker) and all this garnished with a wafer thin apple crisp - so simple that he didn't even show us how to make it. I put it to you that this dish would take a normal person around seventeen hours to prepare. Oh s'il vous plait Monsieur Blanc! Voilà, anyone could do that.

A couple of Saturdays ago, James Martin on Saturday Kitchen must have told us nine or ten times how very simple the dish he was cooking was. I can't remember what it was now. I sort of lost the will to live at the fifth simple saucepan and eighteenth simple ingredient.

We indoors like to think we can cook (although those who saw our inaugural TV appearance a few weeks ago may disagree) but like Shirley Conran, I think life really is too short to stuff a mushroom, hollow out an apple or fashion an espresso cup and saucer from liquid chocolate.

How the hell, I often wonder, do these chefs define the word 'simple'? So come on you cheffy guys, just stop it with all this ridiculously simple stuff. You can take the heat, you're in the kitchen! Show us what you're made of and cook something really complex for a change. I can hardly wait ...