Cheesy feast

Cruising along Miami's Biscayne Boulevard with the top down, 80s power ballads screeching from the stereo, Monsieur Gourmand and I passed the Melting Pot, part of a US chain of fondue restaurants. Needless to say, we didn't stop (the weather was a bit on the warm side for bubbling hot cheese, and fiendish food is rather less appealing when you have to wear a bikini the next day. Oh, and we live in Switzerland where fondue restaurants are two a penny.)

A long-established fondue favourite of ours is Café Bon Vin. Dating back to 1900, the original owners have long since died and been replaced by Portuguese proprietors, but you wouldn't know it; the Swiss spirit is very much alive in the vintage alpine posters on the walls, a black lollipop sign from the dreaded Mur Suisse mogul field, creaky wood banquettes and a strong stench of cheese.

I'm sure they have other things on the menu but Monsieur Gourmand and I never look beyond the viandes sechées, served on a wooden platter with pickled onions and cornichons (one of the first French words I learned thanks to the unfortunately named Mr and Mrs Gherkin in my primary school text book) followed by fondue moitié-moitié.

A little pepper is all that’s needed to perk up the pot of lava-like deliciousness before immersing the bite-sized chunks of crusty bread. The first feelings of fullness come about two thirds of the way through, but there is no stopping the addictive cheese frenzy – come to think of it, I'm sure I’ve never seen an unfinished fondue.

Not normally one for desserts, Monsieur Gourmand has a particular liking for Café Bon Vin’s raspberries, of course accompanied by a pot of Gruyère cream (as if we hadn’t already overdosed on dairy). With our Miami jaunt a distant memory and no holidays on the horizon, at least my bikini body can stay under wraps for a few months yet.

Café Bon-Vin, 17 rue Versonnex, 1207 Geneva

+41 (0)22 736 8790

Happy Days (of the living dead)

A grey and grim Sunday morning in Versoix. Nobody is around, other than the local fire service, called to the scene to clear up the shattered glass of a vandalised bus stop. Around the corner come the possible perpetrators of this night-time naughtiness, some pasty pre-teens roaming zombie-like around the estate, sipping panaché and sporting menacing masks and creepy costumes. It's all a bit Shaun of the Dead.

But nestled amid this gloomy Halloween scene is an unexpected ray of light. Happy Days Coffee is an American-style diner, where the walls are covered in bumper stickers, the front end of a Cadillac pokes out from the wall and customers sit on sparkly blue banquettes. Children, meanwhile, are kept busy with a selection of puzzles and crayons, appropriately presented in a Dr Pepper can.

Monsieur Gourmand and I both went for a classic American breakfast of fluffy pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon, served with all-important maple syrup and that white butter they like in the States. Even the coffee is served the American way, although the waitresses aren't quite as reliant on tips as their Denny's counterparts, so don't expect constant refills.

In the event of a zombie invasion, this wouldn't be a bad place to be stranded, although on this occasion I would have been far too stuffed to fight off an army of the undead.

 Happy Days Coffee, Chemin du Pont-Céard 12, 1290 Versoix
+41 (0)22 779 0000

Big Apple influence

If Jay-Z is to be believed, a trip to New York will make me feel brand new, so inspired I will be by the big lights. Empire State of Mind, the rapper's much-played ode to his hometown, typifies the Big Apple adoration that has been on the rise in recent years. From SJP stalking the sidewalks in her Manolos, to Machiavellian Manhattan teens plotting against their Gossip Girl cohorts, New York is the undisputed capital of cool.

Luckily I don’t need to jet across the Atlantic for a big city-style pizza, now that Luigia has opened up right here in little old Geneva. ‘Ooh, it’s all lofty and trendy, you really feel like you’re in New York’, people had told me before my recent visit. I only hoped the pizzas wouldn't be deep pan and stuffed full of rubbery cheese and thick pepperoni sausage.

Of course, my fears were unfounded; pizzas in Geneva tend to be very good and Luigia was no different.


At 8pm on a Saturday evening, we expected to wait a while (they don’t take bookings) before being forced to squeeze ourselves around a tiny table to be served by snooty staff. Instead, we found ourselves in a brightly-lit warehouse with no shortage of tables, many of them occupied by families.

In true American style, the service was lightning quick... quick enough to stifle both the social element of dining out and the anticipation of eating. We had barely tasted the wine when the food arrived, leaving us little time to appreciate the spectacle of the pizzaioli plying their trade by the cavernous woodfire oven, illuminated by some glitzy showbiz-style lights.

Like the snappy service, the presentation was a bit too efficient for my liking. Personally, I like my pizza a little rough around the edges like the Neapolitan street food it's supposed to be, rather than a model of rounded perfection. That said, the crusty, blackened base was perfect in flavour and texture, topped with deliciously fresh ingredients, and I devoured the whole thing in a matter of minutes, leaving little room for dessert.

While Luigia's slick operation is a novelty compared to some of Geneva's lazy and outdated eateries, it was so rushed that I can't remember the finer details of the wine, conversation or indeed the pizza (although I do recall that the chilli oil was pointedly un-piquante).

This isn't the place for a long, leisurely meal, but if it's fresh flavours and big city surroundings you're after, prepare for life in the fast lane.

Luigia, rue Adrien Lachenal 24a, 1207 Geneva
+41 (0)22 840 1515; luigia.ch

Food falling short

Making the most of an unseasonably warm evening, Monsieur Gourmand, a couple of friends and I strolled along rue du Rhône towards a cluster of bars and restaurants. We planned to enjoy dinner al fresco on the cobbled quayside, watching the lit-up logos of luxury brands reflecting off the water.

One place was prohibitively pricey, another too formal, and one – in an attempt to look Ibiza-like – had thrown dirty-looking towels all over their sofas. So we settled for the mellow lighting and faux-wicker furniture of Enoteca.  

Having chosen a Chilean wine, we ordered mixed antipasti of artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes and a couple of tapenades. Moreish they may have been, but eating them proved a challenge as we only had one knife between us and the meagre bread basket contained just four sad-looking slices of stale baguette. Crusty, rustic loaves with olives or walnuts may have better suited the Mediterranean mood.

The bread wasn’t the only thing that seemed out of place; the middle-aged, oriental waitress was a sight to behold in a buckled leather jacket, floaty skirt and electric blue eye shadow, shuffling around in the kind of outdoorsy sandals you go rafting in and cackling maniacally when we asked for anything.

By the time our bread supply had been replenished, I had already started my main course. The chicken brochette seemed a bit genetically modified and nugget-like in texture, while the supposed massala sauce tasted too generic. Our friend’s chicken wings weren’t much better, but Monsieur Gourmand’s burger proved to be the highlight of an otherwise mediocre meal: a delicious and juicy feast of flavoursome beef, melted cheese, egg and bacon, served with chunky chips.

Notwithstanding this last tasty triumph, Enoteca should probably just stick to being a wine bar.

Enoteca, 19 rue du Rhône, 1204 Geneva

+41 (0)22 789 0189; winebargeneva.com

Tasty but hasty

A friend from England came to stay last weekend while Monsieur Gourmand was away on business. Transforming myself into a tour guide, I devised an all-encompassing itinerary for us, relishing the prospect of using Geneva's free bike rental scheme. But nothing is ever simple in Switzerland...

My UK driving licence wasn’t official enough as a form of ID so I had to go back to the apartment for my passport. Then there weren’t any bikes available at the Villereuse office so we went to Place du Molard, only to find an empty prefab. The staff there told us there were two bikes at Bains de Pâquis, so across the water we went, arriving two seconds after a trout-pouted glamour puss, who promptly nabbed one of the last two bikes.

Luckily we didn’t have to wait long for a replacement and we spent the afternoon happily whizzing around town, from the botanical gardens and the UN to Carouge and the Jet d’eau.

In the absence of Monsieur Gourmand, I seized the opportunity to enjoy a Lebanese feast in the evening. But, having become engrossed – at my friend’s insistence – in a certain TV talent show, we didn’t sit down to eat at Le Diwane until 10pm. As with the pernickety passport incident earlier in the day, we were about to be reminded that spontaneity in Switzerland is a contradiction in terms.     
 

The waiter implored us to try a glass each of an open wine rather than the bottle of Lebanese white that we requested, presumably because he was worried we might take too long to drink it. The fact that the bottle would cost considerably more was by-the-by. Needless to say, his efforts were in vain and our hard-won bottle arrived with some very appetising mezze.

All too accustomed to shop-bought vine leaves, I had forgotten how soft and moist they can be until I tried these ones, while the dreamy, creamy houmous was offset by the healthy tasting and tangy tabbouleh.

Our main course – a mixed grill of marinated chicken and lamb – should have been a delight, but I couldn’t enjoy it. Feeling rather rushed and made to feel guilty for daring to eat so late – let’s not forget this was Saturday night in the liveliest area of a European city – I wolfed down the mezze in a flash and barely chewed the scrumptious chunks of meat.

At 11 o’clock on the dot, the restaurant lights were turned off, music muted and the tables and chairs quickly chained up. Taking the hint, we glugged down the last of our wine and hit the surrounding streets for a walk on Geneva’s wild side. Unfortunately the punters of Pâquis seemed to have us confused with the other kind of streetwalker, so we soon beat a hasty houmous-fuelled retreat towards home.

 Le Diwane, rue de Zurich 6, 1201 Geneva
+41 (0)22 732 73 91

Season's eatings

As I bask lizard-like on a lakeside rock, I realise that this may well be one of this year’s final opportunities to soak up the sun.
 

Geneva really is quite fabulous in the summer time, with seemingly ceaseless sunshine and a large body of fresh water in which to cool off. (I won’t dwell on the notable annoyances of itchy insects and spotty youths, the male contingent of which seems to have adopted this summer’s inexplicable trend for wearing boxer shorts underneath their swimming shorts).

Just as fondue is best suited to cosy alpine settings in the depths of winter, some of this region’s restaurants simply have to be sampled in the summer months. Thank goodness, then, that Monsieur Gourmand and I found the time to dine at Brasserie Parc des Eaux-Vives this week.

With its manicured plants and immaculately mown lawn – beyond which lies a lovely lake view – the setting couldn’t have been more perfect, until the sun went down and a chilly breeze began to waft through the window. We didn’t ask to close it though as the resulting reflection on the glass would have doubled the dazzling effect of the bare light bulbs protruding from an ill-fitting lampshade overhead.


Fortunately Monsieur Gourmand chose a suitably hearty meal to warm him from the inside, starting with casareccia pasta with chicken chunks and fresh rocket leaves. I went for a more summery starter of King Crab, the rich meat pleasantly offset by a light and fluffy cucumber gazpacho, ‘icy mint’ and tangy red berries.


Monsieur Gourmand’s steak was superb; tender and rare, served with perfectly rectangular chunky chips and a light béarnaise. By contrast, my lamb brochettes were a bit disappointing - I'm sure the menu mentioned something North African. That’s not to say it wasn’t tasty, however, and I was pleased to find the lamb perfectly pink in the middle.


Before braving the nippy night-time temperatures on the walk home, we indulged in a chocolatey concoction with whipped walnut, delicate wafer and coconut ice cream. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing that this year’s bikini days are numbered.


Brasserie Parc des Eaux-Vives, Quai Gustave Ador 82, 1207 Geneva
+41 (0)22 849 7575; www.parcdeseauxvives.ch

Plane tasty

The older I get, the more mortal I feel; I have even started feeling nervous when flying. Milling around Heathrow the other evening, I was relieved not to be boarding the flight to Auckland – which doesn’t bode well when Monsieur Gourmand and I have our hearts set on honeymooning in Bora Bora.

Such aviation anxiety is quite unexpected for someone who has always enjoyed taking to the air, whether by jumbo or gyrocopter (okay, the second one isn’t entirely true but I have been known to jump out of small planes and soar through the skies in a glider).

Perhaps my passion for planes is why I like Le Thermomètre, an unpretentious eatery in the centre of Geneva, whose decked outdoor area looks onto the window of a model shop selling everything from remote control Cessnas and Spitfires to scale model 747s and A380s. And if planes don’t float your boat, there are plenty of yachts, cars and trains to distract you from the discomfort of the plasticky chairs while you wait to be served.

Talking of trains, the restaurant’s long, narrow interior reminds me of a railway restaurant carriage, only without the Swiss mountain scenery and with the addition of over-attentive staff. Unless it’s pouring with rain or icy cold, I would stay outside.

We started by sharing some smooth and flavoursome foie gras, served with dainty toasts and a soupçon of sweet sauce on the side. This was just enough decadence to awaken my appetite for what was to follow – a deliciously rare and tender steak.

Monsieur Gourmand strayed from the menu’s mainstays of steak and perches du lac and instead went for thin slices of beef with a herby, garlicky sauce. Despite the thinness of the slices, the meat remained rare, while the sensational sauce was tangy but not overpowering. Both dishes came with Le Thermomètre’s must-have matchstick frites, and of course we quaffed a carafe of local red wine.

I can’t think of anywhere better for a bit of unpretentious mid-week eating with some people watching and plane spotting thrown in. Just be sure to sit outside.

 Le Thermomètre, 22 rue Neuve du Molard, 1204 Genève
+41 (0)22 310 2535