CHRIS RUNDLE

CHRIS REMEMBERS A CORSICAN MEAL WHERE A FAUX PAS DIDN'T GO DOWN WELL, BUT AT LEAST THE FOOD WAS GOOD

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AT any mention of the word Corsica the memories come flooding back: the Caribbean-quality beaches, the robust island cuisine, the inhabitants' penchant for machine-gunning police stations, the delicate aroma of teargas. And the tiramisu.

Or perhaps I should say tirasmiru. For thus was how a school friend of my daughter invariably pronounced it: a quirk which proved to be embarrassingly contagious.

Corsican cooking is a wondrous combination of sea and mountain. There is nothing subtle about it. It is assertive. Strong of character. Distinct and full of surprises.

A bit like the island itself: on the face of it an idyllic holiday destination but one whose apparently placid nature hides a seething undercurrent of discontent and, among the locals, a resentment of authority that's almost part of their DNA.