Madcap French cooking, done properly-ish.
Vin chaud is not a candle. It is a rescue mission in a saucepan: cheap red, a little citrus, a stern word with the spices and heat that never quite boils. Here is how to make a November batch that tastes like a warm welcome rather than the pot-pourri aisle at a garden centre.
Pudding is optional; a tiny glass of something herbal is the host's elegant full stop. Here is how to build a small digestif shelf from UK shops, serve it without a lecture, and make a four-day walnut-and-orange liqueur for people who plan ahead by roughly one weekend.
A frangipane galette is the best thing about early January, but the royal bit makes everyone awkward. Here is how to bake one at home, hide the fève, avoid a soggy bottom and hand over the cardboard crown without a diplomatic incident.
Every November, a wine that tastes faintly of banana and bubblegum is released with the ceremony normally reserved for a royal christening. On 19 November 2026, we suggest you stop resisting and pour it anyway — ideally with a plate of saucisson and a room full of people who have agreed not to use the word 'jammy'.
There is a version of November that involves alpine chalets, ski boots and a certain smugness. There is another version involving damp pavements and a single dish of potatoes, bacon and melted cheese. Tartiflette is the loophole between them: properly comforting, mildly ridiculous, and far less palaver than a full raclette kit.
You do not need nine cheeses, a slate tile, or a fig cut into a flower. You need four, a knife, and the courage to leave the room. A short, brisk guide to the French-ish cheese board for hosts who would very much like to be sitting down by the time the doorbell goes.
Some dinner parties need a conductor. Cassoulet needs a bus driver — someone to point it in the right direction and then get out of the way. Here's the case for a winter centrepiece that improves while you're doing something else entirely, plus a Saturday timeline that doesn't eat your whole weekend.
Raclette in Britain usually arrives dressed as a theme night, complete with novelty apron and one overworked socket. It should be closer to a household chore that happens to be delicious — and that is a logistical problem, not a cheese problem. Here is how to keep the table moving, the potatoes hot and the ketchup at the far end.
There is a specific hunger that arrives after dinner has technically finished but the evening has not. The French answer is three eggs, a fork, a knob of butter and about ninety seconds of nerve. A case for the late omelette over anything a delivery app can offer at that hour.
British cooks have apologised for chips for too long. This is a manifesto: beef dripping, double-frying, indecent mayonnaise, and a bowl of pommes frites placed proudly in the middle of a British table.
French onion soup has become a moral obstacle course: hours at the hob, a vat of homemade stock, and a blowtorch you pretend you bought for crème brûlée. Here is the La Petite Fou position: caramelise properly-ish, cheat where it counts, and never skimp on the cheese-to-crouton ratio.
Apéro is the French art of making drinks feel like dinner without actually cooking dinner. Here is how to do it with one supermarket bag, three drink pairings and a rule that turns a few tins into a feast.
Tinned sardines are the most underrated thing in the UK cupboard. French cooks treat them as a pantry treasure, not a last resort. Here are three flexible recipes, plus which tins to buy and how to serve them without fuss.
A French-inspired Christmas lunch for 2026 that you can mostly make ahead, from radishes and baguette to a tarragon-Dijon bird, a ridiculous cheese course and a chocolate mousse. With a sane timeline, a UK shopping list and permission to open the wine before noon.
Britain is full of French-ish bistros, but how do you spot a real one? From the bread and butter to the plat du jour and the bill, here is a humorous but useful checklist for 2026 — plus what to order when you find a gem.