Beneath the Grapevine: A Valentine’s Lunch

I love a weekend feast. Not the grand sort with soufflés and elaborate details, but the generous kind: good wine, good company, and a table dressed in humble offerings.

This weekend we gathered beneath the grapevine — heavy with fruit — for a long lunch that drifted happily toward evening. The sun, relentless, had no intention of softening. We ate, we drank, we faded.

The week prior was spent culinary daydreaming with my trusted companion, Lulu's Provençal Table — still my steadfast food bible — and a serendipitous op-shop treasure, A Year in My Kitchen: Skye Gyngell. Between Provençal restraint and hot temperatures, a summer menu emerged — relaxed, seasonal, romantic. It was Valentine’s Day, after all.

Aperitif
Peach bellinis made from fruit plucked straight from our tree, hand-smooshed through our one-euro vintage mouli. Rustic simplicity at its best.

Starters
Olive tapenade (Lulu’s recipe) with crisp, oven-baked croutons.
Oakwood French herbed saucisson, sliced.

Main
Pissaladière — caramelised onions, anchovy, Niçoise olives.
Kipfler potatoes tossed warm with capocollo, garlic and a fiery throw of fresh chilli.
Summer greens.

Cheese
A handsome wedge of Fromager D'affinois and slices of Comté, served with freshly plucked grapes and a scattering of walnuts.

Dessert
Carob olive oil cake studded with raspberries and served with French vanilla ice cream.

To drink
A delicate rosé from Minim Wines, and later, a chilled pour of Nero d'Avola.

Our guests delighted us with some delicious additions too — a homemade smoked trout dip and a fresh tomato salad — both perfectly in step with the menu. The crisp, chilled Moët & Chandon to start was the ideal flourish. Thank you, ladies.

What I continue to learn about the long table is this: don’t overcomplicate it. No one needs to be dazzled. A few well-chosen dishes, prepared with care and mostly in advance, are far more charming than overambitious fanfare.

Laugh. Eat. And when the sun finally loosens its grip, let the day fade and drift into sleep.

Photograph: Kirsty Davey