Heston Blumenthal finds ski heaven and great food in Villars

By HESTON BLUMENTHAL

Published: 07:07 EDT, 12 January 2014 | Updated: 04:58 EDT, 13 January 2014

I’m mildly fanatical about the exercise on a ski holiday so normally lose weight – but on my last trip, to a brace of beautiful Swiss resorts, the food was so good I may have gained a couple of pounds!

I try to discover one new resort each winter and this time Villars, only 90 minutes by train from Geneva Airport, was it. On arrival, I could easily see why this authentic, year-round village, with amazing views of the Grand Muveran and Dents du Midi massifs from just about every chalet, shop, hotel, tea bar or restaurant, enjoys a calm and civilised pace of life.

I was here for a mate’s landmark birthday celebrations and, though he loves his skiing, he’s big foodie too.

We arrived early the first morning on the Roc d’Orsay at 6,562ft via telecabine.

Instead of clunk-clicking straight into our skis, we headed for the terrace to soak up the views – the dome of Mont Blanc was clearly visible.

A coffee with a slug of brandy was ordered for the four of us and despite the breakfast hour, it fired up whatever wasn’t already inspired by the panorama.

The skiing was fast and we covered nearly all of the Bretaye sector pistes – some, with the best snow, two or even three times, as Villars is not known for its lift queues.
It felt like we had this sparkling, blue sky morning to ourselves. Long reds and a black run off the adjacent Grand and Petit Chamossaire peaks presented genuinely thigh burning, exhilarating challenges that some misguided people had warned me not to expect at Villars. More fool them.

We didn’t have time to get over to the linked resort of Les Diablerets, but instead were led slightly off the beaten track to the stunning Lac des Chavonnes restaurant. The sudden appearance of the lakeside chalet, just over a hillock, adds to the discovery of this beautiful setting.

Most of us chose the special of the day, steak tartar, which I was informed would be hand-cut and perfectly spiced by Chef Medou. He is a proper chef, rugged, huge, and closely resembling the bull that our beef might have come from. If I had cause to complain, I wouldn’t have! My food was delicious, washed down with a plum-coloured gamaret from local vigneron, Bernard Cave.

Weather worsening, we managed to ski most of the lift-linked Les Chaux sector the next day which, pleasingly, had even longer red-graded cruising runs than Bretaye.

We squeezed in a late lunch at L’Etable, a charmingly converted barn, still with working animals, including their own black pigs which produced some excellent charcuterie.

This was party night. By the time we had changed down in resort and caught the quaint cog railway train back up the mountain to the old Cabane Militaire, ominous skies were developing and light snow was already falling. This legendary look-out post for the Swiss army is now better known for its sunset. It was carefully chosen by my friend to impress his guests.

But when we all arrived with Swiss military precision, visibility had closed to within 20ft and the snow had escalated into a storm.

Snowing on my mate’s parade had a wonderfully positive effect. The bulldog spirit was engaged and the party gathered around the flames roaring up from the giant bear pit as we sang to live mountain music, played on accordion and mouth organ by a lovely Swiss couple – who looked as if they’d been chiselled out of the local rock and brought magically to life – to add good cheer to the proceedings.

Dinner was a house speciality of three raw meats, cooked by ourselves on hot stones at each table. ‘Nice touch,’ I mused, when my friend announced one of the raw meats was horse!

Alas, it was excellent and with generous amounts of fine Swiss wine, followed by great dancing music, the party galloped into the wee hours.

It still amazes me now at 47 how I’ve come to love skiing, given my work pressures and the fact that my two ski experiences in my teens were far from seductive. At 14, I joined a school trip to Passo Tonale which, I am now told, is one of the best Italian resorts in which to learn skiing.

I have no abiding memory of the skiing – only that the boys in my dorm lost our freedom for the week because a teacher found a half bottle of vodka on our balcony. It wasn’t mine!

Then there was the terrible pasta and tomato sauce. It was loveless, tasteless and the same every night. I pray that school ski trip food has improved – certainly alpine food in general has.

It’s a pleasure to find authentic mountain fayre done well, more the better in rustic settings. And there’s now a wealth of gourmet restaurants in select resorts.

Trip No 2 was at 19 with Swiss friends who’d invited me and a few others to their chalet in the small resort of Tschiertschen. We arrived by bus only to be told the cable car up to our piste-side accommodation had closed for the evening.

I had inappropriate shoes and we had to carry our cases up a steep, snowy slope. One step up, five slithering down. When we finally got there I was shattered, and worse, each morning, we had to ski down this treacherous pitch. I remember practically needing binoculars to see the ends of my skis. They were huge compared to now. It was frighteningly easy to cross the tips and dangerous too.

Fast-forward through a manic period of marriage, kids, launching the Fat Duck in 1995, working 120-hour weeks and nearly going broke twice while the culinary world cast judgement on whether I was either committing food heresy, a lunatic, or possibly a serious chef! Three Michelin stars later, I could take breath – and somebody persuaded me to try skiing again, aged 39.

That was a life-changing decision.

On an Inghams holiday to Ischgl in Austria, I met some great people. I started to resonate with their enthusiasm for the mountains. A passion within me was somehow unlocked.

I quickly found I could ski, thrive on the (modest) speed, relish the exercise and fill my lungs with the clean air. I remember riding a chairlift one bright morning and being greeted by two vertical rainbows, hovering mid-air, like snow angels guarding the shaft of sunlight beaming between them.

I had a big grin on my face – perhaps for the first time in a long time.

After my Villars experience, I took the train to Crans-Montana, to an event I love and try to get to every winter.

The Momentum Ski Festival was founded by my friend Amin Momen 15 years ago. It used to be staged at Courmayeur in Italy. Now the Swiss and Amin have elevated it a notch with live comedy acts, bands, fabulous meals, you name it – this has to be the best value, all-inclusive ski weekend on the market.

It is open to everybody and is based around two ski races, a slalom and giant slalom, for which there are prizes galore. Professional coaches are on hand to help you negotiate the gates, so whatever your level of skiing, you can experience the buzz of competing.

One of my favourite mountain restaurants, as much for its endless views down the Rhone Valley as for the food, is Chetzeron. No visit to Crans-Montana would be complete without it.

The sun-deck loungers with fur throws on a sunny afternoon are difficult to prise yourself from, but if weather does not permit, the restaurant inside is uber-comfortable.

Apart from the traditional cheeses and meats on offer, I love it because you can also tantalise your tastebuds on things like smoked alpine sturgeon.

Many experts have tried to help me with ski technique. And I’ve needed it since at age nine, I fell off a roof, snapping my femur. It means one leg is now longer than the other.

I am awaiting a new hip, but for now my left ski turn is annoyingly awkward, not to mention painful. Warren Smith, whose Academy runs dedicated ski improvement weeks in Verbier all winter and on the glacier above Cervinia, in Italy, in summer, has helped me deal with this.

People tell me my skiing has improved immeasurably in the past few years. I, at least, owe it to Warren to admit that all those comments have come since I started taking his lessons.

Skiing is now my most important holiday. I block out diary space up to one year ahead, then jealously guard it from all other assaults on my time.

It may seem compulsive but skiing is also an efficient, cathartic release from the pressures of work. It helps me capture, savour and live for the moment.

Heston Blumenthal was talking to Neil English.