Red gingham is a bit of a cliché, the ubiquitous table covering of an unpretentious traditional bistro in provincial France. Or so I thought.
In 2013 I came across Ristorante Tromlin in the hills overlooking the Italian city of Turin.
Torino was the capital of the Kingdom of Savoy, which also ruled Nizza, now better known as the French city of Nice.
I developed a theory that perhaps the red-and-white check entered French culture through this historical back door.
The bistros of Paris were opened by people from the countryside who migrated to the city, and classic dishes from the French regions, notably Beaujolais, Alsace, and (not forgetting) Savoie became staples.
One of my favourites is La Fontaine de Mars, where the menu is firmly rooted in the French Southwest. Jambon de Bayonne is freshly cut on the red enamel slicer that gleams at you as you’re shown to your table, to nibble as you decide whether to choose cassoulet or confit de canard.
Last time we were there we startled our waiter by asking if we could have a green salad with the cheese course.
‘Une salade avec du fromage? Vraiement?(shrugs)
Vive la difference!’
(The tablecloths are red and white gingham in my memory, but when I found this photo I realised they are actually pink. Perhaps the effect of a glass too many of their finest Cahors).
Then there’s Polidor, the restaurant that time forgot. The blackboard proclaims that ‘we haven’t accepted cheques since 1873’.
Woody Allen chose it as a location for ‘Midnight in Paris’, when the lead character accepts a lift by a stranger’s car which transports him back to the literary heyday of the 1920’s, where he encounters F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway in the restaurant.
I remembered a visit to Mamma Mia, an Italian restaurant in Dublin.
No mistake this time, the tablecloths are proudly chequered.
Maybe there’s something in my theory after all.
Savoie to Paris, by way of Dublin?
I look forward to resuming the necessary research.
