Happy to be an outsider: When al fresco eating can be unbeatable

Published: 16:00 EST, 1 September 2012 | Updated: 16:00 EST, 1 September 2012

The advantages of of a ‘temperate marine climate’ are as abundant as they are obvious.

No real extremes of temperature (and by ‘extremes’, I mean face-melting heat, not the occasional sunny day.

And cold so fierce it freezes blood). No tornadoes, cyclones, whirlwinds or typhoons.

And rain, soft and frequent, to water lush grass.

Which, in turn, feeds mooing, baaing and bleating ruminants, creating rich milk and cream that’s transformed into golden butter and cheese of every shape and scent.

This verdant chow makes for good meat, too, and vegetables that know a thing or two about flavour.

It’s this climate that makes Britain one of the richest agricultural lands in the world.

That said, it does little to support al fresco eating.

Sure, we talk a big game when it comes to picnics.

And wax lyrical about an oft-imagined, sun-drenched Albion, where whole roast chickens are devoured by hand, while hand-raised pork pies stretch out in the mid-day shade.

We love the idea of the picnic, all pastoral idyll and romantic escape.

But are foiled, again and again, by the vagaries of our climate.

How is it possible to find tongues in trees, books in running brooks and good in everything from the inside of a Vauxhall Astra, where the chatter of crickets is replaced by the patter of rain on a metal roof? 

For us, eating outdoors is a rarity, which is why we so often get it so wrong.

Not just in the ritualistic, sadistic abuse of blameless sausages over raging flames. Our national barbecuing skills are as woeful as they are wretched, yet this should come as no surprise.

With little incentive to leave the warmth of the hearth, our cookery strengths lie with baking, boiling and roasting. Indoor sports all.

But there’s also that peculiarly British habit of eating, in the summer months at least, in the direct glare of the blazing sun.

How can any food be enjoyed, however sublime, while torrents of sweat dribble down one’s face and into the quickly congealing potato salad?

And acres of flabby white flesh move from pallid to angry pink in a matter of moments.

No wonder the Europeans (well, those at one with the sun) look at us askance from the civilised cool of their shade.

But on those rare days where it is possible – and with a promised late Indian Summer to come – al fresco eating can be unbeatable.

It frees us from the shackles of indoor niceties, and allows lunch to melt merrily into dinner, fuelled by an endless flow of crisp white, or the very palest pink rosés.

Shade is, of course, key, preferably under the boughs of some mighty tree.

And the food should suit too – so a proper gazpacho, made with late-summer tomatoes.

Or Provençal green bean salad, with a scattering of chopped shallot.

Or a great bowl of whole Atlantic prawns, pertly pink and still tasting of the sea.

Decent bread is a must, from crusty baguette to Lebanese flat bread, along with proper hummus, homemade taramasalata, fiery radishes sprinkled with salt, pickled chillies and whole, soft-boiled eggs.

Food with little need for knife and fork.

A grand aioli makes magnificent eating, a fiercely garlicky mayonnaise served with salt cod, new potatoes, artichokes, cauliflower, carrots and tomatoes.

And cold roast chicken, poached sea trout, thin slices of bloody beef, deep-fried squid, decent sausages and a chilli-spiked Thai salad. There’s no place for ceremony here, and flavours should be bold, but never brash.

For pudding? Strawberries of course, and raspberries, drowning in cream.

And a few more glasses of wine, followed by a long kip on the grass. Bliss indeed, made all the better by rarity.

So grab these last chances for some al fresco dining, because if we did this every day the charm would soon fade.