My journey into French gastronomy didn’t begin in a Provençal market or a Parisian bistro—it began in Waterstones, Manchester, in the late 1980s. Keith Floyd was at the height of his fame, delighting television audiences with his irreverent charm, a glass of wine always in hand, and a boundless enthusiasm for food. I was hooked.
When Floyd on France was released, I knew I had to have it. What I hadn’t expected was to find Floyd himself there in the store, signing copies. He was exactly as he appeared on TV—larger than life, loud, and magnetic. When I handed him my copy, he scrawled his signature with a flourish and a wink. That book instantly became more than just a cookbook—it was a turning point.
A Book That Was So Much More Than Recipes
Floyd on France isn’t just a collection of recipes. It’s part travel diary, part culinary love letter, and part chaotic memoir. Floyd took us on a raucous, wine-soaked journey through France, from the seafood stalls of Marseille to the truffle fields of Périgord. He didn’t just describe food—he brought it to life, telling stories of the people who made it, the places it came from, and the culture that shaped it.
Most importantly, he made French cuisine feel accessible. Before Floyd, I thought of French food as formal, technique-heavy, and out of reach. But here was a man who cooked in outdoor markets, burned things, forgot ingredients, and didn’t care. He made mistakes—and laughed. He drank as he cooked—and so did I. And in doing so, he invited us in.
Discovering French Food, One Page at a Time
I devoured the book—first the stories, then the recipes. I started cooking Floyd’s dishes: cassoulet from the Languedoc, duck confit from Gascony, tarte Tatin from the Loire. As I did, I began to understand the richness of terroir—how geography, history, and culture shaped every bite.
What Floyd did so brilliantly was show that French food wasn’t about perfection. It was about passion, place, and people. He celebrated the rustic over the refined, the local over the luxurious. Through him, I learned to respect ingredients, appreciate tradition, and cook with feeling, not just technique.
From Pages to Journeys
That signed book sparked something in me. I began to collect more than just recipes—I began collecting experiences. I visited France whenever I could, exploring regional markets, tasting wines, and speaking to local producers. I’ve walked the vineyards of Burgundy, tasted bouillabaisse in Marseille, and lost myself in the cheese stalls of the Dordogne—all while hearing Floyd’s voice in my head.
Today, my copy of Floyd on France is wine-stained, dog-eared, and full of memories. It’s still one of my most treasured possessions. Every time I open it, I’m reminded of how my love of French food began—not in a classroom or a professional kitchen, but in a Manchester bookshop, with a sharpie-signed page and a gentle nudge from a man who didn’t care about rules.
Floyd’s Legacy Lives On
Keith Floyd once said,
“Food is life, life is food. If you don’t like my approach, you are welcome to go down to McDonald’s.”
That irreverence, that humour, that sheer delight in eating and sharing food—that’s what Floyd on France gave me. Not just a guide to French cooking, but a lens through which to love it. Not just a book, but a beginning.
