Review by DENNIS BROADFIELD.
It’s a truism that frequent travellers of a hedonistic disposition know only to well. After the irksome, time consuming and agressive free-for-all that is part of the post 9/11 airport check-in and travel experience, there is a desire to spoil yourself upon your arrival in direct proportion to the horrors of the journey you’ve just had.

Of course this is just a forlorn attempt to desperately hold onto some old world equilibrium, where manners, good behaviour and service still matter.

My last flight to Nice was probably the most humiliating experience I’ve had at Gatwick in some time. With nine security channels at Gatwick’s South Terminal but only two in use on a busy Saturday morning, and the queue reaching around the terminal, it looked like many people would not be making their flights.

When I asked, politely, why more of the security desks were not open – I was told by a pimply and bellicose 25 year old “boy”, in a rather tatty uniform to “hang in there fella, everything will be fine”.

Having only known the lad for 15 seconds I thought his comment was a little familiar, bordering on impertinent. “Excuse me”, I replied, “I don’t hang anywhere, I’ve been standing in this queue for at least 50 minutes, I may miss my plane, so everything isn’t fine, OK” - “Oh, and why aren’t there more staff on duty”. This was a mistake. Another uber-fuhrer who spent her days feeling up other women as an excuse for body searching had overheard our recondite [sic] discussion.

This rather dour, over made-up security woman chimed in with “it’s like, you know, like, do you want a bomb on your plane, like, what’s your problem, we could like, you know, save your life, like… for real”. Realising that my polite suggestion for more staff was lost on the ears of a couple of retarded post-ironic-surfers, and seeing the possibility of a full strip search and rectal examination taking place if I continued with my line of questioning, I rather cowardly mumbled into my scarf that everything was fine.

But by now, a selection of lumpen security guards and a man in a tie (I assumed he was the boss as he appeared to have an IQ slightly larger than his shoe size) were looking at me as if I was a dangerously rare creature - someone who had dared question their operational competence - maybe I had escaped from a home-counties asylum, maybe I had read the Guardian once, opened a book or voted labour.

Now I was being asked to show my passport again. This shot a sliver of fear into my veins as it became apparent that these remand school graduates had the right to do anything they wanted to me; it also incensed me that I was forced to feel this way – fearful in my own country of what may happen next. Inside I was cynically applauding the prescience of George Orwell, but outwardly, I realised it was time to capitulate and grovel, humiliated and powerless in my brush with mindless officialdom.

Withdrawing behind a veneer of subservience, a strategic retreat was called for, but it hurt like hell to do it.

I am a great supporter of better security, but wouldn’t the half dozen people surrounding me because of my seditious words, be better tasked opening another x-ray machine. I’m sure many travellers missed their flights that day because of the British disease of bad planning, slashed budgets, incompetence and petty tyranny.

So to the point of this diatribe. Arriving in Nice after that experience I needed to be fed, spoilt and cocooned in a restaurant with views of a soothing and restful sea. I choose the Padouk Restaurant at the Palais Mediterranee Hotel on the Promenade des Anglais. We arrived at 1230, with the sun shining over the 3rd floor terrace and a gentle breeze tugging at our menus as we started, what the French call, the process of “decompression”. It didn’t take long, the Maitre d’, an old friend who always reminds me of a kindly regional accountant, with his half moon spectacles resting on his forehead and his slightly unfashionable suit and tie, astutely realised a drink was a priority.

An ice cold and slightly bitter (apposite considering the previous few hours) Negroni in hand, we ordered from the 35 euro set menu. I started with a small Cesear Salad, perfect, but then it’s difficult to get this salad wrong. Mirjana, my companion, choose a wonderful seasonal dish – a veloute of chestnuts, a sort of very thick soup, with a small pork quenelle cushioned in the centre of the plate by the thick unctuous chestnut puree. This was fantastic, the slightly musky texture of chestnuts that had been roasted whole, before being blending with a good stock to lighten things up.

We asked our waiter if we could wait for half an hour before our next course, as we wanted to lap up the sun and the views before us, while we washed away the last hours of travel trauma. The wine, an excellent Languedoc white, helped.

My main course was a roulade of lamb shoulder wrapped around a forcemeat of Spinach and Parmesan, served with a flat short-pastry tarte of oven dried tomatoes, olives and basil. One of the waiters ambled past our table and noticed I had slurped up most of my rich thick jus and unprompted returned with a sauce boat brimming with the stuff. Great service.

My companion had a black squid ink risotto with squid on top. It smelt of the sea, that ozony smell you get from very fresh seafood. She declared it was one of the best she’s ever had.

Puddings were simple and I suppose predictable, but never the less very good. My companion had a coffee panacotta, creamy and light and I finished with a nougat glace with preserved orange. A great palate cleanser. We had managed to wile away three hours over lunch, eating well and enjoying the world passing beneath our table.

The sun, the service, the food and the views had worked their magic, we wandered back to our apartment 104 euros lighter in wallet, but feeling tranquil and stress-free.

Late that night, tucked up in bed, I dreamt that a platoon of Gatwick security guards where goose-stepping in the Moscow May Day parade (bizarrely held in Nice), dressed in uniforms of gold braid and knee high Gestapo boots, with AK47’s casually slung over their shoulders – and they were after me. It was horrible – I woke up in a cold sweat, but remembered that the Padouk had saved my sanity, at least for one day.

Padouk Restaurant – Palais de la Mediterranee Hotel
13, Promenade des Anglais
Nice, 06000, France.
Direct Line +33 (0)4 92 14 76 00
Hotel Tel +33 (0)4 92 14 77 00
Hotel Fax +33 (0)4 92 14 77 14
www.lepalaisdelamediterranee.com