On Saturday evening, after service, I wandered outside the venue and found myself doing what I have done for as long as I can remember. I stood looking out to sea.

It wasn’t planned. It never is.

The sea has always had a way of calling me, particularly when life feels noisy. This past week has been one of those weeks that has tested me in ways I wasn’t expecting. There has been worry, exhaustion, helplessness and that peculiar feeling of carrying far more than your shoulders should reasonably be asked to bear.

And yet, there it was.

The sea.

Completely indifferent to my troubles, and somehow that is exactly what makes it so comforting.

We often talk about the healing power of nature, but I don’t think anywhere demonstrates it quite like the coast. Scientists will tell us that being by the sea lowers cortisol, reduces stress, slows the heart rate and improves our sense of wellbeing. They speak of negative ions, salt air, rhythmic waves and the way our brains respond to blue spaces.

I believe every word of it.

But I also think there is something else. Something that cannot be measured.

The sea has perspective.

It has weathered every storm imaginable. It has seen wars come and go, generations born and buried, fortunes made and lost. Our worries, however overwhelming they feel, are carried away on each retreating tide, if only for a little while.

Standing there on Saturday evening, I wasn’t looking for answers. I wasn’t expecting some great revelation. I simply needed a few moments where nobody wanted anything from me.

The gentle crash of the waves became the only conversation I needed.

As a chef, my days are built around making people happy. We celebrate engagements, anniversaries, birthdays and weddings. We create beautiful food for life’s most memorable occasions, and I wouldn’t change that for the world.

But those of us in hospitality rarely stop.

We pour from our own cup until, occasionally, we realise it has become rather empty.

For me, the sea has always been where I refill it.

Perhaps my love affair with France has something to do with it. So many of my happiest memories are intertwined with the coastline. Long lunches overlooking the Atlantic. Early morning fish markets. The smell of salt mingling with butter, garlic and white wine. Walking harbours before the cafés open, when fishing boats are quietly returning with the day’s catch.

The French have a phrase I have always adored: prendre le large. Literally, it means “to head out to sea.” Figuratively, it means to step away from the pressures of life. To create distance. To regain perspective.

I think we could all do with prendre le large every now and then.

We spend so much of our lives searching for complicated solutions. New routines. Better habits. Expensive retreats.

Sometimes all we really need is a shoreline.

A place where the wind carries away the noise in our heads, where the horizon reminds us how wonderfully small our problems can become, and where the endless rhythm of the tide gently whispers the same reassuring message it has whispered for thousands of years:

This too shall pass.

As I turned to go back inside on Saturday night, service wasn’t over. There were still tables to clear, conversations to have and work to finish.

But I walked back lighter than when I’d stepped outside.

The sea hadn’t solved anything.

It had simply reminded me that I wasn’t carrying it alone.

There are dishes that dazzle with complexity, and then there are dishes that quietly remind us why French cuisine became the envy of the world. Poireaux Vinaigrette belongs firmly in the latter camp.

At first glance, it is almost disarmingly simple. A few gently poached leeks, dressed with a sharp Dijon vinaigrette and perhaps finished with chopped herbs and a sprinkling of chopped egg. Nothing more. Yet, like so many of the great dishes of France, it asks for patience rather than technique, restraint rather than embellishment.

It is the sort of dish you find scribbled on a blackboard outside a neighbourhood bistro in Paris or tucked into the starters section of a family-run restaurant in Normandy. Every cook has their own version. Some favour a mustard-heavy dressing that catches the back of your throat. Others enrich it with a little walnut oil. Some finish with capers, others with nothing more than a handful of chives. None are wrong.

The secret has always been the leeks.

They must be impeccably clean, cooked gently until tender enough to yield to the side of a fork but never collapse into a tangled heap. They should retain their shape, their gentle sweetness and that unmistakable earthy perfume that only a perfectly cooked leek possesses.

Then comes the vinaigrette.

French cooks often say that a vinaigrette should wake the vegetables rather than drown them. Dijon mustard provides warmth, white wine vinegar brings brightness, and good olive oil rounds everything into perfect harmony. It isn’t there to mask the flavour of the leek it is there to celebrate it.

It is a lesson that runs through so much of French cooking: the finest ingredients need very little interference.

As a chef, I have always admired dishes like this because they show confidence. There is nowhere to hide. An overcooked leek cannot be disguised beneath a rich sauce. Poor olive oil will announce itself immediately. Every ingredient has a purpose, every flavour has room to breathe.

Perhaps that is why Poireaux Vinaigrette has survived unchanged for generations. Long before tasting menus, foams and elaborate garnishes, French families were serving leeks dressed simply with vinaigrette as a first course. It was affordable, seasonal and deeply satisfying. It remains exactly that today.

It also reminds me that elegance and luxury are not the same thing. Luxury often comes with a price tag. Elegance comes from understanding when enough is enough.

Whenever I serve leeks this way, I think of bustling French markets where bunches of freshly pulled poireaux stand proudly alongside baskets of just dug carrots, little cafés where lunch begins with a glass of crisp white wine and a basket of warm bread, and the quiet confidence that French food has always possessed.

There is no theatre here. No smoke, no tweezers, no unnecessary flourish.

Just beautifully cooked leeks, a perfectly balanced vinaigrette and the reassuring knowledge that sometimes the simplest dishes leave the longest memories.

Perhaps that is why I keep returning to French food. Not because it is fashionable, nor because it is complicated, but because it understands something we all need reminding of from time to time: if you start with beautiful ingredients and treat them with respect, simplicity is never a compromise. More often than not, it is perfection.

Recipe: Classic Poireaux Vinaigrette

Serves 4

Ingredients

• 4 large leeks

• 2 free-range eggs

• 1 small shallot, very finely diced

• 2 tbsp Dijon mustard

• 2 tbsp white wine vinegar

• 6 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• Sea salt

• Freshly ground black pepper

• 1 tbsp finely chopped chives

• 1 tbsp finely chopped flat-leaf parsley

• 1 tsp finely chopped capers (optional)

Method

1. Trim the leeks, keeping the white and pale green sections intact. Slice each lengthways just enough to wash away any grit, taking care not to cut all the way through.

2. Bring a large pan of well-salted water to a gentle simmer and cook the leeks for 10–15 minutes, depending on their size, until tender but still holding their shape.

3. Carefully lift the leeks from the water and drain on a clean tea towel or kitchen paper. Allow them to cool slightly.

4. Meanwhile, place the eggs into boiling water and cook for 9 minutes. Cool immediately in iced water, peel and finely chop.

5. To make the vinaigrette, whisk together the Dijon mustard, white wine vinegar, shallot, sea salt and black pepper. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil, whisking continuously until lightly emulsified.

6. Arrange the warm leeks on a serving platter and spoon the vinaigrette generously over them. Leave for 20–30 minutes so the dressing gently penetrates the leeks.

7. Scatter over the chopped egg, chives, parsley and capers, if using.

Serve at room temperature with fresh crusty baguette, good salted butter and, if you’re feeling particularly French, a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc or Muscadet.

Chef’s Notes

Like so many of the great classics of French cuisine, this dish rewards patience rather than haste.

Always dress the leeks while they are still warm. They’ll absorb the vinaigrette beautifully, allowing every layer to become infused with its sharp, mustardy dressing.

Use the very best Dijon mustard and extra virgin olive oil you can afford. In a dish with so few ingredients, quality isn’t just important, it is everything.

This is a wonderful starter all year round, but I think it comes into its own in spring when young leeks are at their sweetest.

Bon appétit,

Anita-Clare Field
Chef-Patron, La Petite Bouchée Private Chef & Events

Fresh bread. Coffee. The first cut into a ripe melon.

And then there is cheese.

Not just any cheese. French cheese.

For me, it has never simply been food. It is memory.

It is our Daddy standing at the cheese counter somewhere in Brittany, patiently working his way along the display as though each cheese deserved careful consideration. By this point, trolley number two had already been filled with wine, beer, fizz and, without fail, a bottle of Armagnac. Daddy and Uncle Brian would arrive grinning like mischievous schoolboys, delighted with their spoils.

Mama and Auntie Shirley beside them, quietly examining each Brie, gently pressing the centre with practised fingers.

“Not yet,” she’d say.

Or, with a smile…

“That’s the one.”

Daddy and Uncle Brian were always drawn towards the powerful cheeses. The gloriously ripe, washed-rind varieties that announced themselves before you even opened the paper wrapping. The bluer the better.

Mama was different.

For her it was always Brie. Perfectly ripe. Just beginning to surrender in the middle, but never over the edge.

Looking back now, I realise those cheese counters taught me far more than the names of French cheeses.

They taught me patience.

That good things cannot be rushed.

That quality is worth waiting for.

And that food is rarely just food.

Today, when I stand behind my own cheese board at La Petite Bouchée, I still hear those conversations. I still find myself gently pressing a Brie exactly as Mama did. I still catch myself reaching for a wedge of Roquefort because I know Daddy would have approved.

They’ve both been gone for many years now.

Yet somehow, every time I unwrap a Camembert or cut into a Comté, they’re standing beside me once again.

Perhaps that’s why I’m writing this book.

Because recipes can be forgotten.

Techniques can change.

Restaurants come and go.

But memories…

If we’re lucky enough to write them down, they can be shared around the table for generations.

I’m sharing just one of the recipes from this chapter.

Baked Camembert with Calvados, Honey & Thyme

There is something wonderfully theatrical about placing a whole Camembert in the centre of a table.

No elaborate presentation.

No complicated garnish.

Just beautiful cheese, warm bread and people you love.

Serves 4–6

Ingredients

• 1 ripe Camembert (in its wooden box)

• 2 tbsp Calvados

• 1 tbsp runny honey

• 2–3 sprigs fresh thyme

• Freshly cracked black pepper

• Toasted walnuts (optional)

• A warm crusty baguette

Method

Preheat the oven to 180°C (160°C fan).

Remove any wrapping from the cheese and place it back into its wooden box. Score the top with a shallow cross.

Pour over the Calvados, drizzle with the honey and tuck the thyme into the cuts. Finish with a generous twist of black pepper.

Bake for 18–20 minutes until beautifully molten.

Serve immediately with warm baguette and, if you like, a scattering of toasted walnuts.

Don’t wait.

Good Camembert should be eaten while it’s still gloriously oozing.

A Little Something to Take With You

Food has an extraordinary ability to outlive us.

Long after the conversations have faded and the photographs have yellowed, a familiar smell or the first bite of something lovingly made can transport us back to a table, a place or a person we thought we’d lost.

Every time I bake a Camembert, I think of my parents.

Daddy would have reached for the strongest cheese on the board without hesitation. Mama would have gently pressed the centre, declaring whether it was ready or not. Between them, they taught me that good food isn’t about extravagance. It’s about patience, generosity and sharing what you love with the people around your table.

If you make this recipe, don’t rush it.

Open a bottle of wine.

Tear the bread instead of slicing it.

Sit a little longer than you planned.

Because those are the moments that become the memories.

Until next time…

Bon appétit,

Anita-Clare

A shift.

Something different.

It stopped me in my tracks.

“I think you’ve changed,” she said.

“Happier. More relaxed.”

I sat with that for a moment.

Because I feel it too.

Lighter.

Calmer.

For the longest time I’ve felt as though I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. Running a business. Caring for Caroline. Navigating loss, grief, responsibility and all the things life quietly piles upon us.

But something has shifted and I think I finally understand why.

For the past few months I’ve been re visiting my book.

Or at least I thought I was.When I started, I believed I was writing about France.

About food.

About family holidays.

About bustling markets, village boulangeries, impossibly long lunches and the dishes that shaped me as both a cook and a person.

Eight chapters in, I’ve realised I was wrong.

Or perhaps not wrong exactly.

Just incomplete.

What began as a food memoir has become something else entirely. A journey through memory, grief, gratitude and love.

I have cried writing this book.

Properly cried.

There have been days when I’ve sat staring at a page, unable to continue because a memory appeared from nowhere and knocked the wind out of me.

Chapter Three in particular was incredibly difficult to write.

I haven’t shared it yet.

Perhaps because it forced me to confront something I’d never fully understood before. A lot of what I’ve spent my life building has been in tribute to my parents.

Not consciously at first.

I didn’t set out to build monuments.

But somewhere along the way, I realised that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

Not monuments of stone or bronze.

Monuments made of meals, of stories.

Of hospitality.

Of laughter around crowded tables.

Of memories that refuse to fade.

That realisation arrived quietly.

Not as a dramatic revelation, but as a gentle understanding that seemed to emerge from the pages themselves.

Our father died twenty-five years ago.

Our mother ten years ago.

I miss them both every single day.

For years I told myself I had been on better terms with that grief. I’ve worked very hard especially these last couple years to do so. In the real world life carries on. Businesses need running. Relationships need nurturing. Bills need paying.

There is always something more urgent demanding your attention.

But grief is patient.

It waits.

And sometimes it hides itself inside the things you create.

As I wrote about Roquefort and Brie, about family meals, French supermarkets, baguettes and holidays, I began to see them everywhere.

Not as ghosts.

As foundations.

The older I get, the more I realise how much of who I am comes from them.

My love of France my love of food, my fascination with ingredients and stories and culture.My belief that a meal is never simply a meal.

All of it leads back to them.

Even La Petite Bouchée itself.

The business I’ve poured my heart into for over a decade.

The hospitality, the menus, the stories, the way we welcome people around a table.

It all carries their fingerprints.

I thought I was writing a food memoir.

Instead, I seem to be writing a love letter.

Not just to France.

To them.

What surprises me most is that it doesn’t feel sad.

Emotional, yes.

Painful at times, certainly.

But also healing.

Because grief isn’t something we ever truly get over, we simply find ways to carry it.

Ways to honour it.

Ways to transform it into something beautiful.

A recipe.

A story.

A business.

A book.

A monument not made of stone, but of memories.

So if you’ve been wondering why this book matters so much to me, I think I finally know the answer.

It’s not really about food.

It’s not even really about France.

It’s about love.

The kind that survives long after people are gone. The kind that quietly shapes the people we become.Perhaps every chapter I’ve written is saying the same thing.

I haven’t forgotten you.

You’re still here.

Every plate I serve, every story I tell, every chapter I write carries a little piece of you with it.

And maybe, after all these years, writing it is finally helping me make peace with that.

I distinctly remember oil and vinegar at my paternal grandparents' house. Wedges of lettuce, thick cut cucumber and rather tasteless tomatoes cut lovingly into quarters. The sort of salad that appeared throughout British summers and was accepted without much excitement.

I can, however, tell you when I first noticed one.

It arrived alongside a simple salad somewhere in Brittany.

Nothing remarkable to look at. A few leaves. A tomato. Perhaps some shallots. Certainly nothing that would find its way onto the cover of a cookbook.

Yet it tasted extraordinary.

The lettuce tasted greener. The tomatoes tasted more intensely of themselves. Everything seemed brighter. Sharper. More alive.

I remember tearing off a piece of baguette and mopping up every last trace from the plate. Something I learnt from my Mama.

Then doing exactly the same thing the following day.

And the day after that.

I became mildly obsessed. Not with the salad itself, but with what was happening to it. How could something so simple taste so different? How could a few ingredients transform leaves and tomatoes into something you actively looked forward to eating?

Long before I understood French cooking, I understood that something was happening.

The French had mastered the art of making simple things taste remarkable.

Back home, salad often felt like an obligation. Something healthy that sat apologetically beside the real food, waiting patiently to be ignored.

In France it was different.

Salad mattered.

The tomatoes mattered.

The shallots mattered.

The herbs mattered.

And the vinaigrette mattered most of all.

The older I became, the more I noticed it.

Every café. Every bistro. Every family table.

A bowl of leaves dressed moments before serving. Nothing swimming in dressing. Nothing drowned.

Just enough.

Enough to bring everything to life.

The French seem to understand instinctively that good ingredients do not need disguising.

They need celebrating.

A ripe tomato should taste of tomato. A lettuce should taste fresh and green. A vinaigrette should support rather than dominate.

Simple principles perhaps.

But not always easy to achieve.

Years later, I considered myself rather good at making one.

Years of cooking, years of eating in France and years of standing over bowls whisking together mustard, vinegar and oil had given me a healthy confidence in my abilities.

I felt there was probably very little left for me to learn about something as simple as a dressing.

Then along came Caroline.

One morning, long before La Petite Bouchée existed, she announced that she was going to show me how she made vinaigrette.

I remember thinking that was very sweet.

I also remember thinking there was probably very little she could teach me.

How wrong I was.

She did not reach for a bowl.

Instead, she reached for a mortar and pestle.

The garlic went in first.

Followed by the salt.

I watched as she patiently worked them together, the pestle grinding rhythmically against the stone until the two became inseparable. The sharp aroma of fresh garlic began to fill the kitchen.

Next came the herbs.

Fresh parsley, chives, thyme and oregano.

Again the pestle worked steadily.

Bruising.

Crushing.

Releasing their oils and filling the air with their fragrance.

Already it smelled magnificent.

Then came the mustard.

Not one.

Two.

Smooth Dijon for depth.

Wholegrain Dijon for texture.

Then the oils.

Three of them.

Avocado oil.

Olive oil.

Rapeseed oil.

Each bringing something different.

Each earning its place.

Then came the vinegars.

Sauvignon Blanc vinegar.

Cider vinegar.

Sherry vinegar.

Layer upon layer of flavour being built before my eyes.

Finally, the honey.

Just enough to soften the edges and bring everything together.

And all the while she whisked.

And whisked.

And whisked.

Building and building.

Tasting and adjusting.

Creating something that seemed far greater than the sum of its parts.

Watching her was like watching a craftsman at work.

Nothing was rushed.

Nothing was measured carelessly.

Every stage mattered.

Every ingredient earned its place.

When I finally tasted it, I was genuinely stunned.

Not because it was complicated.

Quite the opposite.

It was balanced.

Perfectly balanced.

The garlic present but not overpowering.

The herbs bright and fresh.

The mustard providing backbone.

The vinegars bringing life.

The honey tying everything together.

It was, quite simply, the best vinaigrette I had ever tasted.

Naturally, we invited the neighbours down to try it.

They loved it.

Soon afterwards we began selling it at our local food market in Crystal Palace under the auspices of Heaven Preserve Us.

What began as Caroline's vinaigrette quickly developed a loyal following.

People returned week after week asking if we had any more.

Some bought one bottle.

Others bought several.

One customer confessed they had stopped bothering with salad altogether and simply used fresh bread as a delivery system for the dressing.

I understood completely.

Years later it still remains one of the staples of La Petite Bouchée.

Guests ask for it.

Friends request it.

And every time I make it, I find myself following exactly the same ritual.

Garlic and salt.

Herbs.

Mustard.

Oils.

Vinegars.

Honey.

Whisk.

Taste.

Adjust.

Whisk again.

If I am honest, it taught me something far more important than how to make a dressing.

It reminded me that mastery often hides inside the simplest things.

A vinaigrette is hardly a grand dish.

It appears on tables every day.

Most people throw one together without much thought.

Yet here was Caroline treating it with the same care and attention that others reserve for elaborate sauces or complicated recipes.

That was her gift.

She understood that excellence is rarely about complexity.

It is about care.

About patience.

About respecting ingredients enough to let them become their very best.

Perhaps that is why France fell in love with vinaigrette in the first place.

Not because it is complicated.

But because it is not.

A handful of ingredients.

A little patience.

A little understanding.

And suddenly something ordinary becomes memorable.

France may have taught me to appreciate vinaigrette.

Caroline taught me how to make one.

More importantly, she taught me that the simplest things are often worthy of the greatest care.

A vinaigrette.

A loaf of bread.

A perfectly ripe tomato.

None of them complicated.

All of them capable of being extraordinary.

And perhaps that is the real lesson hidden inside a bowl of dressing.

The people we love still have the power to surprise us.

To teach us.

To make us better.

Even after we think we know it all.

we have many recipes within this chapter but have chosen Caro’s very own Vinaigrette to whet your whistles

Recipes

Caro’s Vinaigrette

This is the vinaigrette that changed everything.

The dressing that Caroline patiently taught me to make, stage by stage, in a mortar and pestle long before La Petite Bouchée existed. It became a staple at local food markets in Crystal Palace, developed a loyal following and remains one of the most requested recipes we make today.

Makes approximately 500ml

Ingredients

• 4 cloves garlic

• 1 tsp sea salt

• 2 tbsp chopped flat leaf parsley

• 1 tbsp chopped chives

• 1 tsp fresh thyme leaves

• 1 tsp fresh oregano leaves

• 1 tbsp smooth Dijon mustard

• 1 tbsp wholegrain Dijon mustard

• 150ml avocado oil

• 100ml extra virgin olive oil

• 50ml cold pressed rapeseed oil

• 50ml Sauvignon Blanc vinegar

• 50ml cider vinegar

• 25ml sherry vinegar

• 2 tbsp honey

• Freshly ground black pepper

Method 

Place the garlic and salt into a mortar and pestle and grind to a smooth paste.

Add the herbs and continue crushing until fragrant and fully incorporated.

Transfer to a bowl and whisk in both mustards.

Slowly add the oils whilst whisking continuously.

Add the vinegars a little at a time, whisking well between additions.

Stir in the honey and season generously with black pepper.

Taste and adjust. Add a little more honey if too sharp or a touch more vinegar if you prefer greater acidity.

Allow to stand for thirty minutes before serving.

Excellent with salads, roasted vegetables, grilled fish or simply mopped up with fresh bread.

Wine Pairing

A crisp Sauvignon Blanc from the Loire Valley or a chilled Picpoul de Pinet.

On paper, the difference seems straightforward.

Two people. Twenty people.

It sounds like a question of quantity. A matter of scaling up, adding a few extra pans, extending the prep list, perhaps allowing a little more time.

But in reality, cooking for two and cooking for twenty are not the same job at different volumes. They are entirely different experiences, each with its own rhythm, its own pressures, and its own quiet rewards.

When you cook for two, everything feels closer.

There is no distance between you and the table, no space for things to disappear into the background. Every plate is placed directly in front of the person it was made for, often within arm’s reach. You see everything. The reaction isn’t filtered or polite in the way it sometimes can be in a restaurant setting. It is immediate and honest. A pause, a smile, a moment where something lands exactly as it should.

The evening unfolds more gently. Conversation ebbs and flows, and you move with it. There is time to adjust, to linger, to let things breathe. If a course needs a moment longer, it takes that moment. If the table settles into a story, you hold back without it feeling like a delay.

The food follows that same rhythm.

There is space for detail. For small adjustments made at the last second. A sauce refined just before it reaches the plate, a garnish placed with care rather than speed. Nothing is rushed, because it doesn’t need to be. The focus is on getting it exactly right for the people in front of you, not on keeping pace with anything larger.

Cooking for twenty shifts everything.

The intimacy is still there, but it changes shape. It becomes something shared rather than individual. The room carries its own energy now, something bigger and less predictable. Conversations overlap, glasses are refilled before you expect them to be, and the atmosphere has a momentum of its own.

You don’t control it in the same way.

Instead, you work with it.

Timing becomes more deliberate, more structured. There is less flexibility, because there has to be. Twenty plates need to arrive together, hot, consistent, exactly as intended. The margin for hesitation narrows, even as the complexity increases. You are no longer adjusting for a single moment, but guiding the pace of an entire room.

The food adapts to that reality.

Not in quality, but in how it is conceived. Dishes have to hold their integrity from the first plate to the last. They need to travel, to wait those extra seconds without losing themselves. What works beautifully for two doesn’t always translate to twenty, and knowing the difference is part of the craft.

And yet, when it works, there is something undeniably powerful about it.

A shared experience that moves across the table in unison. A room that settles into the same rhythm, the same reactions, the same quiet moments followed by bursts of laughter. It may be less intimate, but it carries a sense of occasion that is difficult to replicate in smaller settings.

What’s often misunderstood is that neither is inherently easier.

Cooking for two demands a kind of presence that leaves no room for distraction. You are part of the evening in a way that is immediate and exposed. Every detail matters, because every detail is seen.

Cooking for twenty requires something different. A steadiness under pressure, an ability to hold everything together while it moves at pace. The detail is still there, but it sits within a larger structure, one that has to remain consistent from beginning to end.

Both ask a great deal.

Just in different ways.

In the end, it isn’t really about the number of people at the table. It is about understanding what the evening needs to be, and shaping everything around that.

A dinner for two might feel like a conversation, each course arriving as a continuation of something already unfolding.

A table of twenty becomes something broader, something shared, where the experience belongs to the room as much as it does to any individual.

The approach changes.

The intention never does.

Because whether it is two or twenty, the goal is always the same.

To make it feel exactly as it should.

Chapter Two

Moules Frites

There are certain smells that follow you through life whether you want them to or not.

Freshly cut grass. Rain on warm pavements. Ambre Solaire, petrol and for me, garlic and shallots hitting hot butter.

The moment it happens I am no longer standing in my own kitchen in Devon. I am back somewhere on the Brittany coast, usually slightly windswept, probably overdressed for the weather, staring through steamed café windows at people who seemed to understand something about life we didn’t.

Moules Frites was never simply lunch.

It was theatre.

Great enamel pots of mussels arriving at tiny zinc tables with clouds of white wine scented steam billowing upwards as if someone had uncorked the sea itself. Frites tumbling from silver bowls onto paper tablecloths already stained with butter and wine. Elderly waiters weaving between tables carrying impossible numbers of plates while never spilling a drop. The constant clatter of shells being discarded into empty bowls. Cold glasses of Muscadet glowing pale gold in the afternoon light.

And everywhere, everywhere, the smell. That smell.

Butter. Garlic. Shallots. White wine. Parsley. Sea salt drifting in from the harbour.

As children we thought it all looked impossibly sophisticated. The grown ups drinking wine at lunch. Tiny cups of espresso after meals. Entire families sitting around tables for hours talking about absolutely nothing urgent. Nobody rushing. Nobody eating in cars. Nobody apologising for taking pleasure seriously.

Back home, eating out often felt functional. In France lunch felt woven into daily life. Sacred almost.

I can still remember the first time I tasted proper Moules Marinière. Not the overcooked rubbery versions that sadly appeared in British pubs years later, but the real thing. Plump sweet mussels barely cooked open in white wine and butter, their liquor begging to be soaked up with bread long after the mussels themselves had disappeared.

I was ruined from that moment onwards.

Years later, when we launched La Petite Bouchée from our tiny Citroën H van under canvas in Sydenham Wells Park, Moules Frites became one of the dishes that defined us.

Partly because people loved it.

Partly because it was practical.

But mostly because every single pot transported our guests straight back to moments shared with family and friends across the Channel.

Those early days were glorious chaos. We were cooking under canvas and on launch night, August 8th 2014, we were soaked through to the skin but grinning from ear to ear. A kitchen scarcely bigger than a wardrobe. Cooking outside in all weather. Wind whipping through the canvas. Rain hammering the roof so loudly you could barely hear service being called. On dark winter evenings I sometimes finished prep holding an iPhone torch between my teeth because we had no proper lighting.

And still people came.

Reservations stacked up in a South London park as though we’d somehow opened a tiny corner of the Brittany coastline beneath the trees.

For many of our guests, that was precisely the point. They were not simply coming for dinner. They were coming for a memory.

Steam pouring from giant pots. The smell of garlic and wine drifting through the cold air. Crusty baguettes under arms. Delicious wine in tumblers. Music playing too loudly. Candles flickering themselves out in the wind.

It never mattered.

For a few hours people escaped.

That is the thing I understand now about Moules Frites. It is not complicated food. In fact its entire beauty lies in restraint. Few dishes rely so heavily on simplicity and confidence. There is nowhere to hide.

Bad mussels cannot be rescued. Poor wine shows immediately. Mean spirited portions feel unforgivable. Weak frites are a tragedy.

But when it is right, truly right, it becomes one of the greatest meals on earth.

Every family in France claims theirs is the correct way of doing it. Some swear by cream. Others insist tomato has no place near mussels. In Normandy cider often appears instead of wine. In coastal towns recipes shift from harbour to harbour depending on what grandmothers taught their children.

Mention adding cream to a pot of Moules Marinière in certain parts of France and you may find yourself starting an argument before the first glass of wine has even been poured. To some it is a luxurious addition, creating a silky broth perfect for mopping up with bread. To others it borders on blasphemy.

I learnt very early on that discussing cream in mussels is rather like discussing religion or politics. Everyone has an opinion and very few are prepared to change it. More than once I have sat at a table listening to passionate debates over whether cream belonged anywhere near a pot of mussels, whilst quietly helping myself to another piece of baguette and deciding both versions were entirely delicious.

And that is exactly as it should be.

French food at its best is not about perfection. It is about memory. Ritual. Repetition. The comfort of knowing somebody cooked this before you and somebody will cook it long after you are gone.

We have served thousands upon thousands of kilos of mussels over the years. In a London parks and pubs. In Devon woodlands. At weddings. At long tables beneath fairy lights. In private homes filled with laughter and in our beautiful little Bistro

Yet every time I lift the lid from a steaming pot, I am transported back across the Channel.

Back to Harbourside cafés. Back to Brittany. Back to long lunches that somehow lasted all afternoon. Back to a country that taught me food could be more than sustenance.

It could be memory.

It could be comfort.

It could be conversation.

It could bring people together around a table and keep them there for hours.

Most of all, it reminds me why I fell in love with France in the first place.

Not because of grand restaurants or complicated cooking.

But because somewhere between the garlic, the wine, the warm bread and the sound of the sea, the French understood something the rest of us are still trying to learn.

That taking pleasure seriously is not indulgence.

There are many recipes in this chapter for our favourite Moules dishes plus accompaniments, we thought we’d share a our very own version of this Bretton Classic.

Moules à La Petite Bouchée

Serves 4

A little Brittany. A little Normandy. A little Devon. This is the version that evolved over years of cooking for guests who inevitably asked for more bread to finish the sauce. Rich with cream, scented with tarragon and sharpened with cider, it is unapologetically luxurious.

Wine Pairing

A white Burgundy or a chilled bottle of Breton cider.

Ingredients

• 2kg fresh mussels, cleaned and debearded

• 50g salted butter

• 3 banana shallots, finely sliced

• 4 garlic cloves, finely chopped

• 200ml dry cider

• 100ml dry white wine

• 250ml double cream

• 1 tsp Dijon mustard

• 75g Gruyère, finely grated

• 1 tbsp chopped tarragon

• 1 tbsp chopped parsley

• Freshly cracked black pepper

• Warm charred baguette, to serve

Method

• Melt the butter in a large heavy pan.

• Add the shallots and cook gently until soft and sweet.

• Stir through the garlic and cook for a further minute.

• Pour in the cider and white wine and bring to a lively simmer.

• Add the mussels, cover tightly and cook for 3 to 4 minutes until opened.

• Remove the mussels with a slotted spoon and keep warm.

• Reduce the cooking liquor by roughly a third.

• Stir in the cream and Dijon mustard.

• Add the Gruyère a little at a time, stirring continuously until melted.

• Return the mussels to the pan and finish with tarragon, parsley and plenty of black pepper.

Serve immediately with Bistro Frites and Charred Baguette with Gruyère.

The sauce should be so good that people abandon all pretence of manners and start chasing the last spoonful around the bowl.

French supermarkets. Warm baguettes. Melting Camembert. Bottles of wine clinking gently in a trolley.

Chapter One of La Petite Bouchée — A Love Letter to France begins with Rillettes and I’m happy to share a Soupçon

Part memoir, part recipe collection, part love letter to long lunches and slower living.

I hope it transports you there too.

French supermarkets were nothing short of magical to me as a child. Not shops. Not somewhere to “pick up a few bits”. Entire worlds.

The moment those automatic doors opened at Super U, Carrefour or Leclerc, I was intoxicated. Truly intoxicated. The smell alone was enough to send me dizzy with excitement. Sweet ripe melon piled in pyramids by the entrance. Warm bread and butter drifting from the boulangerie. Proper cheese, not timid little plastic wrapped blocks, but ripe Camembert slowly collapsing in its box, filling the air with that earthy, mushroomy perfume that told you something glorious was nearby. Coffee.

Garlic. Pastry. Rotisserie chickens turning lazily behind glass alongside handmade individual tarte flamiche perfumed with leek. And then, somewhere between the impossibly glamorous yoghurts and mountains of cassoulet tins, a towering display of toilet cleaner called Panache, awkwardly also the name of a mid priced perfume back home. We quietly wondered whether French lavatories smelt remarkably sophisticated.

Nothing at home smelt remotely like this.

Even now, all these years later, we have been known to practically sprint inside a French supermarket because that first breath of warm bread, cheese and fruit still feels like the beginning of something wonderful.

Growing up there were always two trolleys on family holidays. One for food and one entirely dedicated to wine, beer and spirits. The dads peeled off immediately towards the alcohol aisles with laser focus while the mums took charge of the serious business. Food shopping. We children trailed behind, wide eyed, trying not to get flattened by displays of Orangina, cassoulet and twenty four packs of Kronenbourg.

I adored every second of it.

Every aisle held something unfamiliar and thrilling.

Saucisson hanging in dusty strings. Tiny glass jars of chocolate mousse. Butter with sea salt crystals glinting through the paper. Peaches so ripe you could smell them halfway down the aisle. Shelves upon shelves of things I did not recognise but desperately wanted to try because surely everything here tasted better.

Which is how I discovered rillettes.

I had never tried them before. I knew vaguely that it was some sort of potted meat and during one supermarket sweep en route to a gîte I asked if I could have some.

“Yes,” came the reply, “but only a small pot in case you don’t like it.”

The small pot never even made it to the table.

Our gorgeous Mama had polished the whole thing off before lunch had even begun, the crumbs from the end of a baguette still adorning her chin.

That same day my father went back out and bought an enormous pot and from then on rillettes became as essential to our holidays as baguettes, salted butter and bottles of wine gently clinking together in the trolley. It appeared at long lazy lunches with cornichons and crusty bread, usually alongside crisps, tomatoes warm from the market and wine already sweating gently in the heat.

Then it started appearing at home too.

Because that was the thing about places you truly love. You never really leave them behind. You bring bits of them home tucked into cool bags and memories. A taste. A smell. A ritual.

For all my childhood awe surrounding rillettes, I had absolutely no idea then that I was eating something with centuries of history behind it. To me it was simply delicious. Comforting. Grown up.

But rillettes were never created to be fashionable. They were born from necessity long before they ever found themselves spooned onto restaurant menus or served with artisan sourdough in chic little wine bars.

Traditionally rillettes came from the Loire Valley, particularly around Tours and Le Mans, where pork was cooked slowly for hours in its own fat until it softened into silky strands. Before refrigeration existed this was preservation cooking at its finest. The meat would be packed tightly into earthenware pots and sealed beneath a thick layer of fat, protecting it through winter and ensuring nothing precious went to waste.

There is something deeply honest about that.

Nothing flashy.

No unnecessary embellishment.

Just patience, instinct and generations of cooks understanding exactly how to coax beauty from humble ingredients.

Over time every region developed its own variation. Duck rillettes in the southwest where confit culture thrived. Rabbit in the countryside. Goose. Even fish rillettes along coastal regions. Some heavily peppered and rustic, others soft enough to melt into warm bread.

But the essence always remained the same. Preservation. Patience. Generosity.

I think perhaps that is why I still love it so much. Rillettes transforms something simple into something indulgent, not through extravagance or performance, but through care and time.

Over the years we have made and served countless versions at La Petite Bouchée, but three have become firm favourites with our guests. Pork, duck and salmon. Entirely different and yet all carrying the same spirit. Food meant for sharing. Food that asks you to pause for a moment

For years people have asked me when I was finally going to write a book. The truth is, I think I have been writing this one my entire life without even realising it. Every menu, every dinner party, every bowl of moules, every story I have ever told around a table has somehow led back to one place. France.

The piece below is the preface to the book have been working on for a decade. La Petite Bouchée A Love Letter To France. It is the story of the first time I set foot on French soil and the moment food, scent, atmosphere and place wrapped themselves around my heart forever.

Most people can remember exactly where they were the moment they fell in love. The light. The weather. The tiny details that bury themselves so deeply into your bones they never really leave you.

I first fell in love on Thursday 7th July 1975, standing on the quayside at Boulogne-sur-Merstaring back across the twenty one miles we had just crossed and wondering how somewhere so close to England could feel so wildly, gloriously different.

Everything was different and somehow deeper somehow more alive. It was as though somebody had quietly turned the volume up on all of my senses without me even realising it. Colours brighter. Soundsp sharper. The air itself felt heavier with life. England suddenly felt muted and pale by comparison, though I could not have explained that at the time.

Hot diesel hung heavily from the ferries, thick enough to taste at the back of your throat, tangled with the briny smell of seaweed drying on stone walls, wet ropes soaked in seawater, fish scales glittering in crates and oysters freshly hauled from the tide. The whole place smelt damp, salty, metallic and alive. Gulls screamed overhead. Water slapped lazily against the harbour edge. Somewhere nearby a chain clattered against concrete whilst the harbour breeze lifted my hair and carried the smell of salt and fish through the streets.

My compadres pulled faces and covered their noses.

“It stinks.”

But I remember standing there absolutely transfixed, breathing it in deeply, wanting more of it. It smelt real. Untamed. Honest. There was no polish to it, no attempt to disguise what the harbour truly was. Sea, sweat, diesel, fish and life all colliding together in one glorious assault on the senses.

Even now, that smell can stop me in my tracks. It meant adventure. Sophistication. Freedom. It smelt like possibility. Like life was about to begin properly.

As we wandered away from the quayside and into the cobbled streets, the town seemed to open itself up in front of me like a secret. Tiny bistros spilled out onto pavements beneath faded striped awnings, their little tables packed tightly together, glasses catching the sunlight. Everywhere I looked there were baskets overflowing with baguettes so fresh the crust crackled as people tore into them.

And then came the food.

Not just the sight of it. The smell of it. The sound of it. The sheer seduction of it.

Butter foaming furiously in pans until it turned nut brown. Garlic hitting hot oil and releasing that sweet, heady perfume that wrapped itself around the streets. Shallots slowly collapsing into white wine. Steak searing on iron so fiercely you could hear the violent hiss above the chatter of voices. Mussels steaming in enormous enamel pots, the scent of wine, parsley and the sea billowing into the warm July air every time a lid was lifted.

Coffee drifted from tiny cafés in dark bitter waves. Gauloises cigarette smoke curled lazily between tables. The smell of hot bread was everywhere, yeasty, warm and comforting, mingling with butter, salt and the faint mineral smell of the harbour only streets away. I could smell sweetness from pastry shops drifting through open doors, warm sugar and vanilla hanging in the air beside the richer savoury smells from the kitchens.

I can still hear it all now if I close my eyes. The clink of little wine glasses. Cutlery scraping plates. French voices rising and falling like music. Laughter pouring out onto the streets. Chairs dragging across cobbles. Church bells somewhere in the distance.

Everything felt impossibly glamorous to me. Effortlessly beautiful.

And there I stood in the middle of it all, utterly spellbound.

I wanted desperately to be one of those people sitting beneath the awnings with a giant bowl of moules frites in front of me, steam curling upwards carrying the smell of cream, wine and garlic into the afternoon air. I wanted salty fingers from tearing apart hot baguette. Butter melting instantly into the bread and running down my hands. I wanted the noise, the warmth, the chaos, the sheer theatre of it all.

More than anything, I wanted to belong there.

( on holiday in 80’s in France with my family - Mussels of course )

Something shifted inside me that day. Something permanent.

And then, all too soon, it was time to leave.

I remember standing on the ferry deck watching the harbour slowly disappear into the distance, the lights of the quayside blurring into the evening haze, and feeling an ache in my chest so deep I could not explain it. Homesick for somewhere that had never actually been home.

I think, truthfully, a part of me never really left France that day.

I was seven years old

(Post script )

It was some 20 years later that following extensive family research by our beloved parents that in fact there was a reason I felt so happy there. Our French ancestry can be traced back to the late 1600’s

We had worked tirelessly for 10 years and I simply was not prepared to let it go. Thank you Daddy for gifting me that stubborn streak.

We started our Private Dining arm from absolutely nothing and slowly, steadily built a reputation we could be proud of. Since then, we’ve continued to work flat out behind the scenes, constantly evolving, refining and creating new dining experiences for our guests.

What has always mattered most to us is the customer experience. Looking after people properly. Creating memories. Delivering consistency. Staying true to what we do best, staying firmly in our lane, shutting out the noise and just quietly getting on with the job whilst working our little socks off.

To the many guests who have trusted us with some of the most important moments of their lives, engagements, weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, celebrations and precious time together around a table, thank you. We never take that trust for granted.

And to our incredible team, Mandy and Jane, thank you for putting up with my Gemini traits, my endless ideas, my obsession with detail and for completely understanding and sharing the passion and vision behind La Petite Bouchée.

Today, we are almost fully booked right through into 2027, something we are enormously grateful for.

Thank you for believing in us.

There is a strange assumption in hospitality that if you are calm, you must be coping.

That if service goes out on time, the steak is rested properly, the plates are clean, the timings are right and the guests leave happy, then somehow the person behind it all must also be fine.

But some of the clearest work I have ever done has happened whilst my world was quietly falling apart behind the scenes.

Last year I took a call from ICU with an update about my Wife that knocked the breath out of me. Not long after, I still stood there building a croquembouche for an event before making a mad dash to the hospital.

That sounds dramatic written down. At the time it did not feel dramatic. It felt necessary. I had promised the children.

Because in kitchens, events and private dining, there is no magical pause button. Guests still arrive. Timings still matter. Suppliers still ring. The Béarnaise still splits if you don’t give it your undivided attention. Life does not step politely to one side because yours has suddenly become difficult.

And that is where mental clarity matters most.

Not toxic positivity. Not pretending everything is wonderful. Not “pushing through” in the way social media loves to glorify exhaustion.

Clarity.

The ability to separate what you can control from what you cannot. Something I have had planted in my head over the last two years by my incredible therapist.

I cannot control bad news, illness, fear or the fact that sometimes life arrives all at once, loudly and without warning. But I can control whether the lamb rests properly, whether the jus is balanced, how I speak to my colleagues and whether the guests in front of me feel looked after.

Sometimes those small points of control become the thing that steadies you.

People often think chefs thrive on chaos. Some probably do. But I think the longer you stay in this industry, the more you realise chaos is expensive. Mentally, emotionally and physically.

Mental clarity is what allows you to steer a steady course whilst everything around you threatens to pull you sideways.

It is not about being emotionless. Quite the opposite.

I have cooked whilst frightened. Cooked whilst exhausted. Cooked whilst carrying grief. Cooked after nights with almost no sleep at all. Cooked whilst my brain was running at one hundred miles an hour and my body was begging me to stop.

And yet there is something about cooking that can become incredibly grounding.

Reducing the sauce. Tasting the seasoning. Slicing consistently. Plating carefully. One movement at a time. One course at a time. One table at a time.

There is comfort in process when life itself feels uncertain.

I also think we speak far too little about anxiety in hospitality because the industry historically rewards performance over honesty. You are expected to cope, absorb pressure, smile through it and carry on. And many of us do. Very well, in fact. Sometimes so well that nobody notices the weight we are carrying at all.

Impostor syndrome lives heavily in hospitality too. That quiet voice asking whether you are actually good enough despite the evidence in front of you. Despite the bookings. Despite the returning guests. Despite the years of experience. Despite the fact you are already doing the thing others are still talking about doing.

I believe pressure amplifies that voice.

But clarity quietens it because clarity reminds you that perfection was never the goal. Presence was. To be present enough to cook properly, lead properly, care properly and create something beautiful despite the noise.

A lot of seriously difficult things happened outside of work over the last few years and after working on myself a great deal, I realised something important. Not every noise deserves your attention.and clarity teaches you to stop reacting to every passing storm.

Because ultimately, none of that noise cooks the food!

The guests remember how you made them feel. The warmth. The atmosphere. The care. The consistency. The experience.

None of those things come from panic.

They come from steadiness.

I do not think strength is never falling apart. I think strength is learning how to keep steering even when the sea becomes rougher than you expected.

Some days that looks graceful. Other days it looks like surviving service, sitting in your car afterwards in complete silence and gathering yourself before driving home.

Both count.

Hospitality has taught me many things, but perhaps the most important is this:

You do not need to feel fearless to be capable.

You simply need enough clarity to take the next step and then the next one after that.

A private chef’s take on noise, competition, copying and why clarity will always win.

There’s a lot of noise in the private chef world at the moment.

Scroll any platform and it’s relentless a constant stream of we do this, we’re the best at that, anything you can do, we can do better. It’s not just volume, it’s tone. Somewhere between confidence and competition sits something sharper: the quiet dig, the raised eyebrow dressed up as curiosity, the comment that sounds polite but lands with intent.

“Oh… you charge that?”

“Interesting choice of menu.”

“We’d never do it that way.”

It isn’t feedback. It’s positioning.

And then, almost inevitably, comes the next layer. The same ideas, reframed. The same formats, slightly adjusted. The same language, softened and reposted. Apparently, we are all reinventing the wheel. (Sorry.) And of course, copying is the sincerest form of flattery. It is a lovely sentiment in theory. Less so when it is your work, your structure, your voice — simply filtered through someone else’s lens and presented as something new.

But step back from it, and something else becomes clear.

This isn’t strength. It’s uncertainty.

The need to question someone else’s pricing publicly. The urge to mirror an offer, only to amplify it louder. The subtle dismantling of someone’s work, not to improve it, but to introduce doubt. It’s not accidental. It’s strategy just not a particularly effective one.

And then there is the quiet observation.

Not everything is said out loud. Not everything is engaged with directly. But people watch. Consistently. Closely. Without acknowledgement. Without connection. And that, in itself, tells you everything you need to know.

You can spend time trying to understand that behaviour or you can recognise that it has nothing to do with your lane.

For me, that clarity didn’t come from the industry.

It came from outside of it.

The last few years forced me into having a sharper focus mentally on what actually matters health, people, stability, perspective. And once you’ve had to prioritise those things properly, the pull of competitive commentary or quiet undermining loses its grip.

Not because it disappears, but because it no longer holds weight and that changes how you operate.

Because despite everything, there is another way to build in this industry and it is the one we have always chosen.

We have shared. We have helped. We have recommended other chefs when we are booked, or when someone else is simply a better fit. Not for show, not for positioning, but because it is how a strong industry should function.

When you build genuine relationships with the right people, everything lifts.

It makes you stronger.

It makes the people around you stronger.

And ultimately, it makes the industry stronger.

And we will not stop doing that.

Because staying in your lane does not mean shutting everyone else out. It means knowing exactly what you do, doing it properly, and allowing others the space to do the same.

The problem with the noise is not just that it is loud. It is that it is felt.

Hospitality is an energy business. Clients might not always be able to articulate it, but they sense it immediately the difference between calm confidence and underlying comparison. Between someone grounded in their craft and someone constantly looking sideways.

That energy runs through everything.

And this is why staying in your lane is not passive. It is powerful.

It is choosing not to respond when it would be easy to. Not to defend when you are baited to. Not to dilute what you do in order to align with what someone else is saying or doing. It is holding your standard, your voice, your pricing without explanation to those who were never your clients to begin with.

Because the chefs who are quietly booked, time and again, are not playing this game.

They are working. Consistently. Properly. Building relationships that last beyond a single event, delivering experiences that speak for themselves, earning trust in a way that no amount of online noise can replicate.

And their calendars reflect that.

When you reach that point — or even when you are on your way to it something shifts. Comparison loses its grip. The need to prove dissolves. You stop explaining your pricing. You stop adjusting your offering in response to someone else’s. You stop looking for validation in places that were never designed to give it.

The noise does not disappear.

It simply becomes irrelevant.

So let them talk. Let them repackage. Let them reinvent. Let them observe from the sidelines if they feel the need to.

Because what clients are actually booking is not a dish, or a format, or a concept that can be copied and pasted.

They are booking judgement.

Presence.

Consistency.

The ability to walk into a room and know, without hesitation, that everything is under control.

That cannot be replicated.

And the real strength, in all of this, is not responding.

It is not engaging. Not correcting. Not needing to prove a point.

It is simply continuing at your standard, in your style, at your price and being booked.

Again. And again. And again.

If the industry feels noisy right now, take it as a cue.

Not to get louder

but to get clearer.

Stay in your lane.

That is where your reputation is built quietly, consistently, and beyond anyone else’s reach.

If this resonates, you are probably already building something properly.

We have catered for larger numbers, and yes, it works. The food goes out, the plates come back, the evening runs as it should. But something shifts. It starts to feel like a conveyor belt — dishes moving in sequence, service becoming mechanical, timing driven by necessity rather than instinct. Efficient, certainly. But not personal. And not what people imagine when they book a private chef.

The change is subtle, but it’s there. You lose the ability to read the room properly. You lose that connection between kitchen and table. The small details the ones guests don’t consciously notice but absolutely feel begin to slip. No single dish is the issue. It’s the overall sense of the evening. And once that feeling has gone, you can’t recreate it.

At around 20 guests, everything still holds. The food is plated as it should be, not simply assembled. The timing is controlled rather than forced. Service feels natural, unhurried, and considered. Most importantly, it still feels like something has been created specifically for you, rather than something being delivered at scale. That distinction is everything.

This isn’t about what we can do. It’s about what we choose to do. We could serve more, of course we could. But we are not interested in being the team that can handle numbers. We are interested in being the team that delivers something exceptional, consistently, without compromise. And that requires control, precision, and presence all of which are the first things to go when numbers take over.

For most private dining experiences, our menus typically sit between £80 per person for three courses, £95 for four courses, and £100 plus for tasting menus and more intricate dining. At that level, every detail matters. From the way a plate is finished to the exact moment it arrives in front of your guests. That standard simply doesn’t translate when scale becomes the priority.

If your focus is on numbers, there are excellent caterers who specialise in that, and they do it very well. But if what you are looking for is a true private dining experience,something personal, considered, and properly executed then smaller is not a limitation. It is the point.

A flawless table of 12 will always leave a stronger impression than an average table of 30. Every time.

We design bespoke private dining experiences for up to 20 guests, built around seasonality, detail, and a genuinely personal approach. Availability is limited. Most dates in 2026 are already fully booked, and we are now taking reservations well into 2027. If you have a particular date in mind, it is always worth securing it early.

It’s a fair question. Most people expect to be handed a list, to scan through it, pick what they like, perhaps tweak a dish or two and call it done.

But the truth is, it doesn’t really work like that.

Of course, we have sample menus. Pages of them. Dishes we know work, combinations that have earned their place over time. But they’re not menus in the way most people imagine. They’re fragments, references, starting points. A way of opening the conversation rather than closing it. They are there for inspiration.

Because building a menu from scratch has very little to do with simply choosing dishes.

It starts, always, with people.

We want to understand who we’re cooking for before we even think about what I’m cooking. Not just dietary requirements or preferences, but the quieter things. The meals you always come back to. The places that meant something. The way you want the day or evening to feel.

Sometimes it’s incredibly clear. A couple who want to revisit a trip to Italy, dish by dish. Sometimes it’s more instinctive than that “we want something relaxed, elegant, not too heavy.” And that’s enough. More than enough, in fact.

From there, the season quietly takes over, whether anyone realises it or not.

There’s no sense in forcing ingredients to be something they’re not. Tomatoes in February rarely taste of anything at all, and asparagus in November feels like an afterthought. A menu has to sit comfortably in its moment. It should feel right for the time of year, for the light outside, even for the way a room holds warmth or coolness.

A summer menu should feel like it breathes. There should be a lightness to it, a sense of ease. Winter, on the other hand, calls for something more grounding. Not heavy for the sake of it, but comforting, steady, reassuring.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, the structure begins to form.

This is the part most people don’t see, but it’s often the difference between a good meal and one that lingers long after the plates are cleared. A menu isn’t just a collection of dishes that sound appealing on their own. It’s a progression. A quiet, deliberate movement from one moment to the next.

Too much richness early on and everything that follows feels like hard work. Too light throughout and nothing quite lands. Similar textures, similar flavours, and the whole thing can feel oddly flat, even if each dish is technically well executed.

So balance becomes everything. A fresher note against something deeper. A more delicate course before something bold. A finish that satisfies without tipping into heaviness. Even the colours on the plate play their part, whether consciously noticed or not.

Most guests won’t be able to explain why a menu works.

But they will feel it when it does.

Then there is the reality of service, which has a way of humbling even the most beautifully written menu.

A dish might look perfect on paper, but if it doesn’t hold well, if it can’t be executed cleanly in the space available, or if it falls apart the moment timing shifts as it so often does then it has no place being there.

Conversations run longer than expected. Glasses are refilled. The rhythm of the table changes. The menu has to move with that, not fight against it.

There are dishes we love that we simply won’t serve in certain settings, not because they aren’t good enough, but because they won’t deliver the experience they promise. That decision is made quietly, long before anyone ever sees a plate.

And then, once all of that is in place, I come back to the people at the table.

This is where it becomes personal again. A vegetarian dish that isn’t an afterthought but something considered and complete in its own right. A simpler plate for a child that still feels like it belongs. A shared course, perhaps, that brings a moment of conversation or surprise.

By this stage, it’s no longer a menu in any conventional sense.

It’s something built around you, shaped by you, and designed to feel entirely natural on the night.

Which is why we don’t offer set menus.

Not because we can’t, but because it misses the point. No two tables are the same, and no two experiences should be either. What works beautifully for one group might fall flat for another, even if the food itself is identical.

When you book a private chef, you’re not really booking a list of dishes.

You’re booking the thought that sits behind them. The small, often invisible decisions that allow everything to flow as it should. The sense that, somehow, it all just works.

If you’re thinking about planning something an intimate wedding, a private dinner, or simply an evening that deserves a little more care than usual you don’t need to have all the answers.

Come with ideas, or just a feeling.

That’s always enough to begin.

Thinking About Booking?

If you’re planning an intimate wedding, private dinner, or something quietly special—start with a conversation.

Tell me what you love. Or just how you want it to feel. That’s always enough.

📩 hello@lapetiteboucheebrasserie.co.uk

📱 WhatsApp always welcome 07738703450

Dates are very limited and often book months in advance.

No matter how technically strong you are, how thoughtful your menus, or how passionate you are about local, seasonal ingredients, success in private dining requires far more than cooking well.

You are, quite literally, chief cook and bottle washer, responsible for everything.

And yet many talented chefs still struggle to stay consistently booked.

At the same time, there are chefs who are rarely quiet. Their diaries are full. They have repeat clients. They are recommended again and again. It is tempting to assume the difference is talent. It usually isn’t.

The difference between a good private chef and a booked-out one is rarely the food. It is everything around it. The whole picture.

Private dining is built on trust. Clients are not just choosing dishes, they are handing over something important. A birthday. A proposal. A wedding. A long awaited family gathering. A weekend that matters. They are not simply asking whether the food will be good. They are asking whether the entire experience will be handled properly and professionally.

That decision is often made in the first conversation.

The chefs who stay consistently booked sound calm. They are clear. They lead. They guide clients through the process rather than waiting to be told what to do. They talk through timings, explain service, outline what they will bring and quietly remove uncertainty. They make the unknown feel safe.

It is rarely dramatic. It is simply reassuring.

Visibility plays its part too. Not loud, not relentless, just consistent. The chefs whose diaries stay full allow people to see them working. They share setups, snippets of service, moments from the kitchen, a sense of how an event actually feels. By the time someone enquires, they already feel familiar. And familiarity builds confidence.

The chefs who stay booked also understand they are selling an experience, not just food. They think about flow and pacing. They consider the room. They understand atmosphere. They know they are part of someone’s memory, not just their meal. That awareness shapes everything.

There is also a darker side to private dining. It is not always a warm and collaborative space. There can be perceived competition, comparison and, occasionally, plagiarism. Menus are copied. Language is lifted. Ideas appear elsewhere with only small changes. Some chefs become territorial. Others become aggressive, who snarl and spit using social media to discredit or undermine rather than build their own reputation. It’s toxic.

But there is another side to the industry too. There are chefs who recommend each other when they are unavailable. Chefs who comment positively on posts, who share and like on Social media. Who show up when life is hard. Chefs who pass work across rather than hold onto it. Chefs who understand that collaboration strengthens the industry, not weakens it. They know that professionalism travels, generosity is remembered and reputation grows when people support one another.

Clients notice this. They may not see the mechanics, but they feel the tone. Calm attracts confidence. Professionalism builds trust.Generosity builds reputation.

Confidence also shows in pricing. A good private chef often worries about being too expensive. A booked-out chef understands what they offer. They do not apologise for their value and they do not race to the bottom. They price for sustainability, not fear. Clients feel that confidence, and confidence attracts trust.

Perhaps the biggest difference of all is consistency. The chefs who stay booked do not disappear when they are busy, and they do not panic when they are quiet. They show up either way. Because being booked is not a moment, it is momentum. And momentum is built long before the diary fills.

The truth is there are many good private chefs. But the ones who stay consistently booked understand that success in private dining is not just about what is on the plate. It is about how you communicate, how you reassure, how you present yourself and how consistently you are seen.

It is about making the decision easy. And when a client feels confident, the choice is already made.

f you’re a private chef, keep going. Show your work. Support others. Share opportunities. Build trust before you need it. The bookings rarely come from one post or one enquiry. They come from the steady, consistent picture you build over time.

And if you’re a client looking for a private chef, look beyond the menu. Pay attention to how they communicate, how they guide you, how they make you feel. The best private dining experiences start long before the first plate is served.

Because in private dining, confidence is everything. And when you find a chef who gives you that, you don’t just book the meal. You book the whole experience.

I didn’t start out in a kitchen 

I started in publishing an industry where even the most beautifully crafted work means nothing if it isn’t seen. Not shared. Not brought into the light.

That lesson stayed with me.

Because stepping into the world of Hospitality I saw the same thing playing out again and again.

Talented people. Incredible food. Thoughtful, considered work and yet, very little traction.Not because it wasn’t good enough but because it wasn’t visible enough.

And there’s a big difference.

Over time, I’ve come to understand something that quietly underpins this industry:

• People don’t just book food

• They book trust.

• They book the person 

They book the feeling that someone will take care of their event, their big day, their celebration, their guests They book the reassurance that everything will be handled with care, with thought, with professionalism.

And that trust doesn’t begin at enquiry.It builds long before that moment ever arrives.It builds in the background, quietly, steadily.

In the images people see as they scroll. In the consistency of your presence. In the way your work shows up again and again, without fuss, without noise, but with intent.

• A dish shared.

• A table set.

• A glimpse behind the scenes.

• A story told.

Individually, they might seem small but together, they create something powerful: familiarity and familiarity is what people choose, because when someone is planning something that matters: a wedding, an intimate dinner, a gathering of people they love  they don’t want uncertainty.

They don’t want to take a risk on someone they’ve never come across before.

• They choose the name they’ve seen.

• The one that feels established.

• The one that feels safe in the very best way.

The one they trust.

And here’s the truth that many people don’t like to admit: People don’t always choose the best. They choose what they remember.Which means visibility isn’t about showing off. It’s about removing doubt.

It’s about quietly demonstrating, over time:

This is what I do, this is how I do it and you can trust me with it

Consistency over noise. Presence over perfection. Clarity over cleverness.

One of the biggest mistakes I see?

Leaving visibility until the last minute. Is it complacency or arrogance? Or even downright stupidity because by the time you need the bookings? 

It’s already too late.

Trust has already been built  just not by you.

Because if people can’t see you ? They can’t choose you.

To quote from Field of Dreams “ If you build it, they will come” 

If you’re planning a wedding, private dining experience or retreat and want something thoughtful, personal and beautifully executed,

I’d love to hear from you.

hello@lapetiteboucheebrasserie.co.uk

At their heart, these weddings strip everything back to what truly matters: two people, completely present, choosing each other without distraction. There’s an intimacy that you can feel in the air. No noise, no pressure, no performance just connection, emotion, and moments that actually have space to breathe.

From a chef’s perspective, it’s a dream.

I get to cook not just for a “wedding,” but for people. I can design something deeply personal menus built around favourite dishes, shared memories, or even the meal they had on their first date. There’s time to talk, to listen, to tailor every element so it feels like them, not a package.

Service becomes something different too. It’s calmer, more fluid, more intuitive. You notice everything the glance across the table, the laugh, the pause between courses and you can pace the experience to match it. It’s not about turning tables or managing scale; it’s about creating a moment that feels effortless and special from beginning to end.

And then there are the settings…

Places like Tree Top Escape or Millbrook Estate lend themselves perfectly to this kind of celebration — tucked away, beautiful, and wonderfully private. Whether it’s a candlelit dinner in The Nest, a relaxed afternoon tea in the Meadow Room, or something a little more atmospheric in the Grill Haus, every setting enhances that sense of intimacy.

But more than anything, it’s the privilege of being part of something so personal.

You’re not one of many suppliers in a busy schedule you’re part of a very small circle, trusted to help shape one of the most meaningful days in someone’s life. That’s something I never take lightly.

Elopements and micro weddings remind me why I do what I do.

Because when you remove all the noise, what’s left is simple, beautiful, and utterly unforgettable and being able to cook for that is a joy every single time.

If you’re dreaming of something intimate, personal and completely yours, I would absolutely love to be part of it. Dates are limited and we’re already taking bookings well into 2027, so do get in touch to secure your date let’s create something truly special together.

Email: info@lapetiteboucheebrasserie.co.uk

Every private chef knows the messages. Some are polite. Some are clumsy. And some frankly are rude and entitled.

“I’ve got someone to do it a lot cheaper than you, so I’ll be going with them.”

No thank you. No acknowledgement of time spent. Just a statement, as if the only thing that mattered was the number at the bottom of the quote.

Then there’s this one:

“We’ve taken your menu and found someone else to do it cheaper.”

That isn’t comparison.

That’s entitlement.

But before anything else, let’s be absolutely clear because this matters deeply to us at La Petite Bouchée:

We understand that people have budgets.

Budgets are real. They are not the problem.

Budgets Are Welcome, Transparency Is Everything

Most of our clients are not trying to “get a bargain.” They are trying to create something special within the reality of what they can afford. When people are honest and upfront about that from the outset, we genuinely welcome the conversation.

When someone says:

“This is our budget can we work together to make it beautiful?”

That’s where we shine.

At La Petite Bouchée, compromise isn’t a dirty word. We happily adjust menus, simplify courses, rethink formats, or suggest smarter ways to spend — because collaboration nearly always leads to better food and a better overall experience.

What matters is openness and respect.

What We Don’t Do Is Play Games

There is a world of difference between:

• “This is our budget, how can we make this work?” and

• “We’ve used your menu to get someone else cheaper.”

One is a genuine partnership.

The other is transactional and dismissive.

When a carefully considered menu built on seasonality, experience, labour, and trusted supplier relationships becomes a shopping list to leverage someone else’s price, the conversation stops being about budget and starts being about entitlement.

That’s where we step back.

Rudeness Is Not Negotiation

Occasionally, an enquiry arrives with an edge abrupt, dismissive, or oddly confident that a chef should simply fall into line.

No recognition that:

• A menu takes time to design

• A proposal is professional labour

• Creativity and experience have value

Just an assumption that once something has been shared, it’s fair game.

“Can you match this?”

“They’ll do exactly the same for less.”

“We’ll just go with them.”

That isn’t being budget-conscious.

That’s being discourteous.

A Menu Is Not Just a List of Dishes

At La Petite Bouchée, a menu reflects seasonality, timing, labour, skill, and years of experience. Two chefs can write the same words on paper and deliver completely different results.

When someone says:

“We’ve got the same menu cheaper,”

what they usually mean is:

“We’ve removed the thinking, the people, and the standards behind it.”

Value Over Cost — Always

Cheap food is never cheap. The cost is simply displaced onto producers, staff, or standards.

We choose not to build our business that way.

We work with suppliers we trust. We pay our team properly. We protect the quality and integrity that clients come to La Petite Bouchée for land that means we don’t compromise on price.

Not Every Enquiry Is Meant to Become a Booking

And that’s not a failure, it’s healthy.

When someone is open and genuinely wants to work with us, we will bend thoughtfully and creatively to make something wonderful happen within their means.

But when someone is dismissive, price-led, or uses our work to undercut us, we let them go.

Calmly. Politely. Without resentment.

Confidence Is Quiet

Saying “we don’t compromise on price” isn’t arrogance. It’s clarity. It’s boundaries. It’s respect for our craft, our people, and the producers behind every plate we serve.

A Final Word and an Invitation

If you’re planning an event and you care about flavour, provenance, people, and experience, we’d love to hear from you.

If you have a budget, tell us. We’re always happy to talk honestly and creatively about how to make something beautiful within it.

If you’re looking for the cheapest option, we may not be the right fit and that’s okay.

But if you’re looking for thoughtful food, respectful collaboration, and a private chef who values craft over shortcuts:

Let’s create something special.

It’s no longer defined by formality, grand venues, or exclusivity for its own sake. Increasingly, modern luxury is quieter, more personal, and centred on time well spent. This is where private dining has found its place.

A Shift Away From the Traditional

For many years, luxury dining was associated with busy restaurants, long reservations, and a certain level of performanceboth for guests and hosts.

Private dining offers something different.

Instead of adapting to a public space, the experience adapts to the people at the table. The setting is familiar. The guest list is chosen. The pace is unforced.

What was once considered niche has become a thoughtful alternative.

Time as the Ultimate Indulgence

At the heart of modern luxury is time.Private dining removes the invisible pressures that often come with hosting or dining out:

• No rushing to make a reservation

• No coordinating arrivals and departures

• No distractions from surrounding tables

Everything unfolds in one place, on one timeline, designed around the people present. The result is an experience that feels unhurried, intentional, and genuinely relaxing.

Personalisation Without Excess

Modern luxury is not about more, it’s about better.

Private dining allows menus to be shaped around preferences, dietary needs, and the tone of the occasion without feeling over-engineered. Food feels considered rather than showy. Service feels attentive rather than intrusive. The focus stays where it should, on the shared experience.

Comfort Without Compromise

One of the defining qualities of private dining is comfort. Guests can dress as they choose.

Conversations aren’t overheard. The environment feels natural rather than staged.

And yet, none of this comes at the expense of quality.

Well-executed private dining brings together professional standards, thoughtful preparation, and a relaxed setting a combination that’s difficult to replicate elsewhere.

A Response to How People Want to Gather Now

The rise of private dining reflects how people want to connect today. Smaller groups. Meaningful conversations. Food that supports the moment rather than competing with it. Whether for celebrations, reunions, or simply bringing people together around a table, private dining offers a sense of ease that feels increasingly valuable.

A Quiet Kind of Luxury

Private dining doesn’t need to make a statement.

There’s no queue, no noise, no spectacle. Instead, it offers something far more lasting: a sense of being quietly well looked after, without needing to ask.

And in today’s world, that calm, considered experience is exactly what modern luxury looks like.

Considering Your Own Private Dining Experience?

If you’re thinking about hosting, early planning allows time for thoughtful menus, clear expectations, and a relaxed event from start to finish. We offer private dining, celebration catering, group and retreat catering, and hot and cold buffet menus all designed to make hosting effortless.

Whether you’re planning an intimate dinner or a larger gathering, starting the conversation is often the first step toward something truly memorable.

Some of that is true. Much of it is not.

What the work actually requires isn’t glamour. It’s steadiness, judgement, and precision.

You don’t arrive only with a menu. You arrive prepared for people and for whatever state they’re in when you walk through the door. Celebratory. Anxious. Distracted. Tired. A little Worse for wear. Sometimes all at once.

You are not entering a neutral space. Even in a holiday property, it is someone’s home in that moment. You are stepping into their life at a point that matters.

Long before a pan goes on the heat, the work has begun. Timings, access, equipment, and the reality of a kitchen you’ve never worked in before. Thinking through what might be missing, what might not behave as expected, and what needs a quiet contingency.

Private dining isn’t restaurant cooking in a different room. It’s a different discipline entirely.

• You don’t control the space.

• You don’t control the environment.

• And you don’t get a second service.

So before I think about the food, I read the room. Body language. Dynamics. Atmosphere. Understanding what the evening needs.

Sometimes the food needs to impress. Sometimes it needs to comfort. Often, it needs to do both. Much of the work isn’t cooking at all. It’s anticipation. Staying calm. Making decisions without fuss. Managing risk quietly.

When private dining is done well, it feels effortless.

That effortlessness is earned.

That judgement comes from experience. From getting it wrong early on and learning how not to repeat it.

Cooking in someone else’s home demands constant adaptation. Kitchens aren’t designed for service. Ovens run hot. Drawers stick. Knives aren’t sharp. What you assumed would be there often isn’t*

You solve those problems without making them anyone else’s concern. The table doesn’t need to know something nearly went wrong. It only needs to feel that everything is under control.

This work isn’t about performance. There’s no applause or curtain call. It’s about trust.

Trust that the food will be right.Trust that the atmosphere will be held.Trust that people can relax and be present.

That trust is built long before anyone sits down to eat in the questions asked, the details noticed, and the decisions made quietly, out of sight.

By the time the first plate reaches the table, most of the work is already done. (see