Food writer Laura Calder analyses her fear of clothing and discovers the intricate links between food, fashion, and the fine art of French dressing.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a phobia about clothes. Jeans inspire terror. Buying a bra gives me heart palpitations. I’d come to France for the food, thinking I’d avoid fashion, but soon realized that was pas possible.

The first week I arrived, I attended a cookbook author’s party where I was introduced to a new friend, then an editor at Vogue. She, in turn, found me a roommate: “Justine loves cooking,” she said. “And she’s a former New York correspondent for French Vogue.” Shriek.

As soon as I moved in, Justine took control. “You’re not wearing that I hope!” she’d holler as I scurried out the door in a brown polyester shirt. If I came home with a new dress, she’d haul it out of the bag for inspection. One day she announced we were going to a press sale and not coming home until I’d bought something decent. “I’m not going,” I told her, only to come back a few hours later the owner of turquoise shoes. They had three-inch heels and rounded toes, upon which flopped an enormous suede flower with bright yellow stamens.

I admit, once I had those shoes everything else in my closet looked bleak. As I took inventory, it struck me: there is no excuse for dressing badly, just like there’s no excuse for eating crap.

The next time Justine took me out shopping, I was supposed to help her find a dress, but somehow I ended up buying a sleeveless thing, see-through in the back, and plastered all over with sparkling, emerald sequins. “That’s magnificent,” Justine congratulated me. Of course, she picked it.

As I hung the top in my closet, I realized that there was something peculiar about this approach to building a wardrobe. I realized the only decent pieces I had were a green-sequined top and a pair of turquoise shoes with bright yellow toes. If this were a refrigerator, it would be one with a jar of truffle paste and a bottle of Champagne, but no milk. I went to the kitchen and looked in the fridge: a jar of truffle paste, and Champagne. Hum…

I’d been flustered at fashion because I was failing at the basics. But why should they come first? One of my pet-peeves has always been the basics sections in cookbooks. They contain intimidating recipes for things like fish stock and puff pastry, never a useful beginning. So, despite what people say about needing five basic pieces to start a wardrobe (white shirt, black dress, jeans, black pumps, black blazer, or whatever the magic formula is supposed to be) perhaps Justine was onto something.

From a cook’s perspective, dinner should be a spontaneous act of pleasure. I keep my kitchen cupboards stocked with this in mind: anchovy paste, crème fraîche, honey, herbes de Provence, bittersweet chocolate…. If I come home with, say, a roast of pork, I can rub it all over with honey and herbs. For a birthday, I can have chocolate cake on the table in under an hour. Why not apply the same logic to clothes?

If I could please myself and follow no rules, my five essential pieces would be: red shoes; a bright shawl; a tailored coat, possibly pink; a chunky emerald ring, and a blue suede handbag. Now that I could work with. If I came home with a little black dress in the grocery basket, the pink coat would transform it into party gear. If, instead, I chose a tan trench, the red shoes would bring it alive like paprika on potatoes!

It is certainly more fun to go hunting for, say, a Missoni shawl than it is for a navy blazer. It’s more practical, too. The accessories make one black turtleneck seem like five different tops. And, another important thing about this approach: it’s a lot easier to zero in on what your true personal style is when you deal with garnishes. A steak is a steak until it’s served with a fiery salsa. A flan is a (yawn) flan, until you make it with coconut milk. And, jeans, ditto, until you top them with a sleeveless thing, see-through in the back and plastered all over with sparkling, emerald sequins.