I’ve been skiing once. I was sixteen. I hated it. I hated it because the other sixteen-year-olds whizzed past me and I was on the easiest part falling and bitching and being cold. Since then my argument was a simple one whenever I’m asked to go; I don’t like skiing because skiing is an elitist hobby, a statement recently pulled to pieces with a succinct and perfectly judged line from a good friend when they pointed out that my hobby of eating at pretentious restaurants is way more elitist. Their words, not mine, but still, Checkmate. Now I just have to admit that the reason I don’t like skiing is because I’m shit at it, though I’m not backing down from the opinion that if you can afford to be cold on holiday you have too much money.
This means that the closest I get to Alpine cuisine is Alpen, save for the majestic tartiflette at Camille when I’m in the capital, or the lesser but significantly cheaper one found within Borough Markets. It’s why we got up early and drove to Kenilworth, to Charlotte, whose cafe menu celebrates the rostis and croques of the world. It’s a big, tasteful space in an expensive shade of Hague Blue, with vintage posters celebrating apres life. It’s heaving at ten-thirty in the morning and we find it difficult to find a space where the dog won’t be a prick. Turns out he is golden the entire time, a statement that has nothing to do with the bowl of sausages and ham he snacks on throughout.
We both get rostis. They are excellent and surprisingly very different from one another. The potato is crisp, the correct thickness, and precisely cooked. I have the The Swiss, which is with roast ham and bechamel, blistered under the grill before being topped with a fried egg and pickles. It’s rich, so rich it probably skies in Verbier, though the pickles do some serious heavy lifting at cutting through it. I love it. Sophie has The Provencal, a far lighter eat of sundried tomato, aubergine, garlic aioli, emmental, and rocket. Dare I say it, but it’s reminiscent of pizza on some fried potato.
The coffee is good and strong, whilst the hot chocolate is so much like pouring chocolate that it makes a reappearance on the dessert of vanilla choux bun with chocolate sauce, leaving us with a bill of forty quid including the dogs sausage, which isn’t a euphemism. Charlotte is great fun, it’s original, and it’s clearly working. It’s just a shame it’s forty minutes away or else I’d be there all the time.
8/10
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