De Bon Ton – 4 January 2025

‘Food is better in winter if not fresher. You have more of an appetite. Not to mention its warming power. Hot wine with cinnamon at Le Petit Saint Benoit goes right to the bone. So does old-fashioned céleri rémoulade and blanquette de veau. Everything about the creaky bistro, at least the icy day we are there, warms the spirit; from the blood-red sign, to the stubborn old revolving door, to the woman writing down our orders on the paper table cloth.’

David Coggins, his wife Wendy and their children spend the turn of the year in Paris. Where else? Each winter, they return to favourite haunts and find new ones. They go to museums, they shop – at the Marchés aux Puces as well as Le Bon Marché. They eat, they drink, they promenade. David paints the scenes constantly: his much-admired daughter in excellent hats; his son hirsute before a luxurious wet shave; his wife reclining with a book; waiters smoking in alleyways, huge shoulders squared against the cold; tiny dogs more stylish even than their owners; lively gardens and spirited tables, the conversation and laughter almost visible amongst the wineglasses.

Paris in Winter: An Illustrated Memoir is the sybaritic book one needs as this cold January sets in. Delicacies I will never eat yet delight in reading of, drinks I certainly intend to try, museums I long to visit with Coggins’ eye and Wendy’s wit, dinner parties with characters and conversations too good to be staged (Jack Nicholson at the next table; Catherine Deneuve across the bar; a man correcting his companion’s referring to a pair of shoes as beige: ‘Cognac… The colour is cognac.’), fashion that makes every woman feel like Marlene Dietrich and booksellers serving champagne on arrival.

Is it a little de trop? Oh. Just a tad: ‘The headwaiter is named Yann. He takes us smoothly through the truffle-laden menu. We put up little resistance.’ The author selects a whole truffle with foie gras and spinach in a crust covered with sauce Périgreux.

Allow me to pass you a shot of vodka, caviar and créme fraîche while you find out about Victor Hugo’s stationer, Louis XIV’s, ahem, education, Robert de Montesquiou’s sprezzatura and the green boxes of the bouquinistes.

Between decadent dishes, drinks bordering on the degenerate and agreeable conversation, what must one look forward to this year?

The novels Cloudless by Rupert Dastur and The Café With No Name by Robert Seethaler both come out in February.

Cloudless is set on a Welsh farm amid a struggling family – John harbouring a gambling habit and still reeling from the effects of the foot and mouth crisis, Catrin juggling her roles on the farm with her work as a piano teacher, her longing to compose music, and an affair, Rhys a teenager abandoned to his difficult parents by his elder brother and all of them desperate for news of Harri who has gone to fight in Iraq. Between each chapter are quotations from the Chilcot inquiry. Their stark judgements hang over the narrative, a chilling reality set against that of one family.

The Café With No Name is set in 1960s Vienna, as a young man sets out to refurbish a dilapidated café and make it the heart of the impoverished neighbourhood of Leopoldstadt. And, for a while, it works – friends and strangers gather and share their stories as Vienna transforms. What should he call it? Well, the butcher reasons, the Danube existed long before anyone called it the Danube. Perhaps that works for the café too. Can he make a success of it? Oh yes, his landlady assures him: ‘“You always need a bit more hope than worries.”’

Two new poetry collections There Lives a Young Girl in Me Who Will Not Die by Tove Ditlevsen and The Face in the Well by Rebecca Watts examine childhood, the former in the voice of the children still present in their adult bodies, the latter looking back on the events and characters which shaped her. Ditlevsen’s use of rhyme led me to read her poems aloud and discover the trippy twists in the rhythm and subject matter. Watts’ storytelling bends expectations too, blending wry amusement with melancholy. Both poets also look forward and imagine their own funeral, one baroque and one full of jazz.

And, in new children’s books:  

The Puppets of Spelhorst by Kate DiCamillo, illustrated by Julie Morstad: ‘The king and the wolf and the girl and the boy and the owl were puppets, and they were waiting for a story to begin.’
When Captain Spelhorst spots the puppets in the window of a toy shop, he is bewitched by the girl, who reminds him of someone once adored. The shopkeeper refuses his wish to separate one puppet from the others. Spelhorst buys them all. But it is not until they find their way to young Emma and Martha that their story can unfold: a fairytale, a play and a fable illustrated in slightly unnerving style, heads and humour tilted a little to the side.

Yeti Cooks Spaghetti by Russell Punter & Lesley Sims, illustrated by David Semple: while Yeti’s Michelin status may be endangered, we award this collection of five stories many shining stars. As well as Yeti’s chaotic cooking, there are encounters with Gopher the Chauffer and Cockatoos on a Cruise… Learning phonics becomes rather more fun when featuring hyena ballerinas…

Already a strong contender for picture book of the year, as well as a description of how one might feel after the consumption of Coggins-level quantities of burgundy, soufflé, pâté and cervelle de veau, Sleep Tight, Disgusting Blob by Huw Aaron is out in March. As the demons, phantoms, cyborgs, goblins, glitches and tentacled swamp things all take to their beds, so too must Blob: a rhyming story encouraging all manner of beasts to heed their bedtimes.

And, while Twelfth Night approaches, some may already dream of A Midsummer Night’s Drama by Louie Stowell and Isobel Lundie. Bill, Sir Bun Bun, Foxy and Lady Bushtail like to put on plays. After the success of their performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Bill the Bear is struggling to get to sleep. Perhaps he should stay up and write another play?

Much to look forward to, taking one from Wales to Iraq to Austria to Denmark to fantastical realms. But, for now, back to Paris:
The porcine chef makes the rounds, welcoming guests. Hubert the headwaiter, who has an ‘unruly flattop and a quick wit,’ butters the brioche carefully and instructs his diner to dip it in the artichoke soup.
‘“That’s like going barefooted in a ball gown,” Wendy says.’

May your weekend be a little de trop: I’ll be indulging in watercolours of Paris and imagining a world in which I could serve champagne to all customers on arrival,
Lizzie