Despite Tahiti, Gauguin leaves me cold

As unfashionable as it is to admit, I've never been a fan of the Impressionists. I understand the point of their work and respect the revolution they sparked. I find some of their work attractive. But with limitless money, would I put their canvasses on my walls? Nope. Give me some conservative old masters any day.

You'll guess, therefore, that I was pre-disposed not to like the Gauguin show now on at Tate Modern. I wouldn't have sought it out on my own. (Especially not with a British Museum exhibit on the Book of the Dead, and Canaletto at the National Gallery to draw my attention. Both need a look in.) We went because it was the hottest ticket in town, my visiting mother wanted to see it and it was a good excuse to meet up with friends.

As exhibitions go, they've done a fine job. It tells a cohesive and comprehensive story, taking you through Gauguin's whole career by chunking it into thematic categories. Thus you don't have a chronological experience, but explore ideas like "making the familiar strange" and "the eternal feminine". There are a lot of pictures here, and the curators have certainly worked to get a comprehensive view; even if you think you know the artist, I suspect you'll find a lot you've never seen. They expand beyond paintings to documents, sculpture (Gauguin was quite a woodworker) and quirky objects he incorporated into his paintings. The descriptions are informative without either talking down or being too intellectual. The display space is well lit, allows for plenty of circulation and didn't seem too crowded, despite the show being sold out.

So why didn't the show excite me more? First, I'm simply not a fan of most of the art. We associate Gauguin most with his Tahitian paintings, but I'll wager when you call them to mind you're imposing some of your own cheerful, colourful impressions of the place. Many of his Tahitian paintings are dark, brooding and profoundly disturbing. In fact, you can say that about his paintings overall. There's canvas after canvas heavy with gloomy browns, acid yellows and sickly greens. His is a brooding, unwelcoming world. And too often there's something going on in the painting that sends shivers down your spine. A menacing figure in the background, a naked woman making love to a fox, or the portrait of his dreaming son with menacing black crows flapping above him. I went to the show with the impression that Van Gogh was the troubled one and Gauguin more sane, I came out thinking Gaugin was a complete nutter ... a dangerously warped and troubled soul.

There was a small handful of paintings I liked. One or two of the Tahitian canvases are simply an appreciation of the beauty of the island people. Those are stunning. My favourite canvasses barely get a not in the show's promotional material: they're simple French landscapes and scenes of French peasants bringing in the harvest in a lovely, golden world. But there were too few of these amongst the stuff that made you think.

My thoughts focused not only on the disturbing nature of the scenes, but on what an unpleasant man Gauguin seemed to be. From leaving his wife and children to having paedophilic relationships with those native girls to abusing his paying customers ... the man was a jerk. To me this is made clear by one of the most fascinating scenes in the exhibition: the facade of his studio. He created a Tahitian long house, covered with carved panels with images bordering on the pornographic and incendiary statements, then placed the studio so any visitor had to cross through his much used bedroom. Tracy Emin, eat your heart out. Don't get me wrong, the carving was exquisite and the facade is undeniably a precious work of art. But I couldn't appreciate it without considering a context that was so patently about making people feel uncomfortable. And discomfort, I'm afraid, is just not what I want from my art.

The evening achieved its primary objective, however, which was to give my mother a nice night out with friends. To that end, we wandered upstairs after the exhibition to have dinner in the museum restaurant. This is one of the most attractive spaces in London, seven stories up, glass walled, directly on the river overlooking St. Paul's. It's no value for money ... £11 for a small plate of pasta, for example ... but the food is tasty and the wine list is surprisingly reasonable. The main inspiration is Mediterranean and tapas, which works well at a destination restaurant that's more about socialising and the view than the food.

Despite limited choice, Saint Paul's restaurants measure up to other holiday dinners

Another long weekend with the Northwestern girls. Another procession of great meals, fine wines and restaurant bills that demonstrate a distinct lack of financial prudence. Oh, well. As they say here, c'est la vie. Throw in a Gallic shrug, toss back your head and drink in some winter sun. Prudence isn't half as satisfying as living well.

This being the depths of the low season, the two top restaurants on my wish list were closed for the month. Thus any report on a return to Les Terraillers in Biot, which was my first ever fine dining experience in France many years ago, will have to wait until I am here in a month other than November. La Colombe D'Or, tipped in most guidebooks as the best restaurant in St. Paul, was shuttered tightly, as were many other spots throughout town. The result: Unusually, both of the restaurants described here have been validated by return visits. With so little open, we didn't have much choice!

Interestingly, our top restaurant pick also comes tops on the Trip Advisor site, even though we didn't check that out in advance. What we DID do was ask all the local shop keepers what they thought was the best restaurant in town, and they all steered us towards Le Tilleul. We were skeptical, at first. Though the menu looked great, the place itself has the vibe of a cheap 1970s cafe, with lots of chrome, exposed work surfaces and refrigeration of key supplies carried into the dining room. The diners were very casual and there were lots of kids. Not promising, and not in line with the prices on the menu. Turns out there's an upstairs, decked out with fine linens, good glasses, and black and white photos of stars who've visited town. (Insist on sitting up here, unless it's good weather and you're able to head for their patio on the town's ramparts.) An all-together more quiet and sophisticated setting for a restaurant that can compare to any fine meal in Paris.

There are artists in the kitchen here. It's the kind of restaurant in which you feel compelled to take photos of your food, because it's so damned beautiful. Fortunately it's not just a show, it all tastes fantastic as well. Over our two visits here, memorable dishes included: duck rossini ... a beautifully moist duck breast stuffed with foie gras, served on a spider's web pattern of light and dark sauces; squash soup ... unctuous with cream, served in a monumental wine glass topped with foie gras foam; a foie gras starter served on a plate precisely divided into four quadrants, one for the meat, another for your toasted brioche and two more squares for your artfully placed accompaniments (are you noting a theme here?); a gooey-on-the-inside, cooked outside chocolate fondant served with a glass of passion fruit sorbet beside precise dots of chocolate sauce each dotted with a red currant. We had a delightful time with the wine list, filled with both local options and French classics. The Crozes-Hermitage we had on our last night (Clos des Grives 2008) was some of the best red any of us had quaffed in quite a while.

Best of all, the service was informal and friendly. Despite the multiple-star look and taste of the food, it was delivered by young men from the town who chatted and served to the standard of a beloved local favourite. That, I think, is what gives Le Tilleul it's charm. It might be Trip Advisor's top pick in a town overrun by tourists, but it still feels like a local discovery unsullied by outsiders.

Our second pick is Restaurant de la Fontaine, which benefits from a prize location in the centre of the village. Follow the lane up the hill from the main gate, emerge into a triangular courtyard dominated by a fountain and look up. There you'll see the restaurant's patio dining area looking over the fountain and the quaint village-scape. Food here is just as classically French as at Le Tilleul, but a bit more rustic. Consequently, about 25 per cent cheaper ... although the service seems to reduce with the prices. It appears to be a family run place and the matriarch was a dour and businesslike figure on both visits, finally unloosening late on our second meal once we'd drank much of her wine and were holding lengthy conversations in French. Not rude, but certainly brisk.

If it's a nice day and you're eating outside, you won't notice. The courtyard is a sun trap, with the stone buildings around blocking wind and concentrating heat. Lunch here on a sunny, mid-November day could have been a good July in England. Salads and rose matched the weather, and I was served a nicoise that was hearty, beautiful and tasty. A fine combination, but all too rare these days as chefs try to give this classic dish the gourmet treatment.

I was delighted to see wines from the Domaine des Quatre Vents in Cassis, a brand to which I'd grown attached years ago when I worked with Gemplus in Marseilles. (The only clients to ever send ME a Christmas present in my years in consultancy, I'll never forget the kindness of the case of this wine they sent to London to remind me of sunnier days on their turf.) Almost a decade on, Quatre Vents pink stuff is still a delicious embodiment of summer in a glass. We wound up the lunch by sharing a slice of pungent yet sweet tarte au citron, completely banishing the spectre of the oncoming winter.

The atmosphere indoors, where we retreated for dinner the next night, wasn't nearly as charming. It's a small place with a quirky mix of modern art that ranges from stuff inspired by graffitti to a tee shirt hanging on the wall emblazoned with "fuck the recession". It felt more like a college bar than a French bistro in one of the most charming villages on the Med. We never, however, got foie gras ravioli in a cream sauce at Dave's Italian Kitchen (my staple restaurant at Northwestern). That was a dish that left me pondering whether or not the merger of Italian and French could ... if you could handle the fat content ... be the perfection of all things culinary.

Despite the quiet, closed-for-the-holidays nature of November here, we figure we got lucky. Both restaurants stood up to a return visit and had menus that could have even carried us for one or two more meals. In a place that could so easily be a tourist trap, that's a triumph.

Forget Versailles, I'll take the Rothschild version

Several weeks ago I reported the most traumatic tourism experience I'd had in years, fighting crowds in the badly managed and less-impressive-than-expected palace of Versailles. I'm delighted to say that less than a month later my desire for magnificent 17th century furniture, dancing fountains and generally excessive surroundings was fully sated by a Rothschild house and gardens on the French Coast.

Within an hour of entry, the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild had become my favourite attraction amongst all the sightseeing I've tacked on to my years of business travel down to Cannes. Built in the early 20th century, the villa demonstrates what's possible when you combine an enormous amount of money and a strong personality with eclectic good taste. In fact, the builder Baroness Beatrice has jumped onto my fantasy dinner party guest list.

Born into the French Rothschilds, she was a well-educated, adventurous world traveler (her cases and pith helmet are on display here) who then married into a Russian banking family with additional resources. After her husband died she spent a long widowhood continuing her travels, leading society and building her villa. She'd been captivated by the long, narrow Cap Ferrat penninsula and its stunning views along the coast in both directions. Naturally, she bought 40 acres along the spine of the peninsula and set about building a home there, even though she already had a place in neighbouring Monte Carlo. Always fond of traveling, even when at home, she had her gardens designed in the shape of a cruise ship's deck. With the surrounding views of water she could feel that every day was steaming off to a new and exotic destination.

The exotic travel feel continues throughout the gardens, which we toured before going in the villa itself. There's a Spanish garden, modeled on the Alhambra, filled with the sounds of water. A Tuscan garden moves the villa to Italy, while the stone garden might be an overgrown English gothic ruin. The Japanese garden has raked gravel, a koi pond and the requisite tea house, while an exotic garden brims with oddly-shaped cacti and a rose garden evokes classic tradition. From every garden there are magnificent views to the bays on either side of the peninsula, each studded with smaller, but equally lovely, villas. Eventually, winding garden paths bring you to the high point of the garden, where a circular "temple of love" houses a statue of Aphrodite. From here, a fountain cascades down a stone stair into the formal pool of the French garden. Every twenty minutes the water here erupts into a dazzling display of arcs, spurts and spins, coordinated to orchestral favourites.

From the formal gardens you finally enter the house, through what's actually the back door. Look up as you approach to check out a sumptuous loggia on the floor above; I can imagine the baroness giving the perfect dinner party here, inviting guests to retreat into the cool shade on a sweltering summer's evening to nibble gourmet titbits and watch the fountains dance. Once inside, such imaginings multiply, as this is clearly a house built for entertaining on a grand scale.

It's constructed around a large internal courtyard which is pure Tuscany. The entry porch (a room the size of a large drawing room on its own) has a wooden ceiling painted with the kind of renaissance portraits you still see on pottery all over that city. That leads onto a square cloister-style walk which surrounds a generous courtyard floored with delicate mosaic. Though roofed, the ceiling is painted to resemble the sky and it's easy to imagine yourself outside at dusk. The courtyard is surrounded by colonnades of Romanesque arches, broad on the ground floor, narrower and interspersed with intricate stone tracery between the columns above. Beneath the ground floor arcades you'll find an impressive collection of renaissance art, much of it religious, and furniture. To one side, songbirds in a large cage add a sophisticated soundtrack. The name you're thinking here isn't Rothschild, it's Medici.

But just when you have this place figured out, it changes gears. Walk into the main reception room, and you're at Versailles. Marquetry floors, panelled walls, gods ascending to heaven in painted ceilings, gobelin tapestries, Louis XIV furniture. In fact, the rug here is from the great palace's chapel, and Marie Antoinette's games table takes pride of place amongst the furniture.

The remaining rooms on the ground floor stay in the grand French theme. There's a jaw dropping porcelain collection, a tented dressing room the Empress Josephine would have recognised from the craze for exotic looks after her husband's Egyptian campaign, and a completely over-the-top bedroom for the baroness that looks constructed from icing piped out of a pastry bag. My favourite feature here: Louis XIV style dog beds for her spaniels. And from every window, views of stunning gardens with spectacular sea views and dramatic coastline beyond.

I like to think that were I ever to win a really enormous lottery, this is the mix of good taste, high culture and whimsical fun I'd put together. (Though, admittedly, I'd probably go a bit heavier on English Georgian than French royal.) As I am not likely to have such a motherlode at my fingertips any time soon, I'm glad that places like the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild exist. Thanks to Baroness Beatrice for sharing.

Le Hammeau makes ideal base for exploring St. Paul and Grasse

Maybe it's my Sicilian blood.

Put me in a garden with olive and lemon trees, grape vines and a view of the sea, and I'm instantly at home. Then again, I defy anyone wandering the grounds of Hotel Le Hammeau not to drop into fantasies about living in a place like this. This is as close to heaven and many people get.

We're in the Provencal hills, just half a mile from the picture postcard village of St. Paul de Vence. A green valley stretches away before us, sloping down to the glistening blue Mediterranean. The hotel is a complex of old farm buildings, now knit together into a series of rooms, many with their own entrances, opening onto gardens, a courtyard dominated by an infinity pool, or tiled paths beneath pergolas. The whole place is in an immaculate state of repair, with the exteriors sparkling white and interiors floored with terra cotta tiles and furnished with French country furniture and cheery Provencal fabrics. There's a profusion of places to sit and take in the landscape; one of them even features a small court for boules. The feel is more B&B than hotel, with just two public rooms: a breakfast room and a lounge. The lounge comes complete with free wifi, a computer to use if you don't have your own, a big fireplace (sadly, not working when we were there) and a small bar from which the hotel staff will pour you whatever you wish upon request.

Le Hammeau is within walking distance of St. Paul de Vence (exactly half a mile to the town gate), meaning you can wander to a range of dining options without driving and avoid the hefty parking charges at this top tourist spot. And best of all, by car it is less than 20 minutes to Nice Airport. Meaning that while it feels like you've escaped civilisation, your travel time to get back is minimal. With frequent and not horribly expensive return flights from Heathrow (generally about £150), this is an ideal getaway for a long weekend.

What's there to see and do?

St. Paul is worth a day of gentle wandering. It's a walled medieval hill town (a miniature San Gimignano); gate to gate is no more than half a mile. There's just one main lane cutting along the spine of the hill, with small paths leading up or down from it. Nothing is wide enough for a car, and it appears that no new architecture has hit the town since some baroque altars were dropped into the medieval church, so the whole place is a pedestrian paradise resembling a film set more than a place where real people live. And for better or worse ... you can decide after visiting yourself ... the reality of St. Paul these days is that behind the medieval stage set, it's an upscale shopping mall. There are really only four types of public establishments inside these walls: art galleries, gift shops, upscale clothing boutiques and restaurants.

While paradise for a girls' weekend, I suspect most men would get bored pretty quickly. My friend Lisa, whose trim, petite size makes her an easy fit for European designers, scored big at a small shop carrying gorgeous formal blouses with intricate cuffs and collars. Hillary fulfilled Christmas "Auntie" responsibilities at a children's shop filled with trendy, unusual kids clothes. We all emerged with bags from a shop specialising in locally produced olive oils, olive oil-based cosmetics and gourmet vinegars. (Mango vinegar on cod is a winner.) I was mightily tempted by some gorgeous Provencal linens, drawn back from the brink of spending by remembering the pile of table ware waiting to be sorted at home, Provencal patterns amongst them.

Provence has always been a haven for artists because of its legendary light, with St. Paul's most famous resident being Marc Chagall. It's drawn a regular community of artists ever since his time , thus the profusion of galleries. Offerings range from sculpture and monumental pieces down to small watercolours, in styles from traditional to modern, and all a much nicer quality than the usual tourist tat.

Even if you're in full Christmas-shopping mode, however, it would be hard to spend more than six hours in St. Paul without exhausting its possibilities. (Excluding dining, which will be a different entry.) The most logical thing to do in the immediate area ... especially if you're three women on an indulgent weekend ... is head to Grasse, world centre of perfume making.

Every culture has used perfume, and its roots go back to the beginnings of human history. Quite simply, we like things that smell nice. But it was the French who really turned it into an industry, making the first branded scents and paving the way for the multi-billion dollar industry that exists today. Grasse, perched like St. Paul in the Provencal hills between Cannes and Nice, took advantage of the abundant flowers and long growing season of the area to become a producer of fine scent. Today there's the international museum of perfume (closed, sadly, in November) and countless shops selling everything from essential oils and high end perfumes to humble packages of scented soap.

Fortunately for off season tourists, perfume maker Fragonard has its own museum a stone's throw from the official one and that ... thanks to the fact that this is clearly a way to get people into the shop ... is open all year. It's an interesting series of rooms displaying how the stuff gets made (given the fact that the three of us have also done a whisky tour, we couldn't help noticing how similar the distillation process is) and how it's been used and marketed through history. The collection of perfume bottles is particularly interesting. You emerge, bien sur, into the gift shop, which naturally has a scent for everyone. Far better value for money, however, are the smaller shops scattered throughout town. We bought little perfume, finding our own regular, big brand scents to be unbeaten, but loaded up on soaps, pommanders, scented hangers for closets and the like. And one of the joys of France, of course, is that even the smallest purchase is wrapped with great care and some sort of flourish.

The drive to and from St. Paul is a sightseeing adventure on its own, though not for the faint-hearted driver. These are twisting mountain roads, sometimes cutting through woodland and sometimes snaking around inclines with precipitous drops below and stunning views to the side. Which the driver (aka me), of course, takes in at his or her peril. You can do a great circle drive, starting from St. Paul, heading south and picking up signs for Grasse. This route takes you through Roquefort-des-Pins and, as you might gather from the name, is heavily wooded. Take the alternate route back through the Loup valley for more dramatic views. To do this, follow the signs for Confiserie Florian, one of the most heavily advertised establishments in the area.

This justifiably famous candy shop sits at the bottom of a dramatic gorge at the start of the Loup valley. Water rushes below, white stone cliffs loom above, and inside a complex of humble old buildings the locals produce delicacies like violet liqueur (makes a stunning, and shockingly purple, cocktail when added to champagne), rose syrup, citrus peel dipped in chocolate and candied flower petals. It is the gastronomic flip side of the floral output that gave Grasse its perfume. Prices are shocking, of course, but this is delicate stuff that's tough to find even in most gourmet shops. And great for Christmas gift baskets for your foodie friends.

Further down the road sits the town of Tourrettes-sur-Loup, another beauty clinging to its hillside and radiating Mediterranean charm. Certainly worth a stop if you have time ... which is something we'd run out of at this point. A gorgeous drive, we all assumed this would be fantastic hiking country in the summer. Certainly worth a longer stay for those who have the time.

And for those who can afford to buy a garden with citrus trees overlooking the Med? Seems to me that's worth all the time in the world.

The sign of a great job: I'd do it for free

My CEO is fond of saying that he'd do 70% of his job for free. That's how much he loves it. And he sees no point in doing any job unless you're that excited about it. He figures he gets paid for the other 30%, which is inevitably the unpleasant stuff you have to put up with.

While I'm not sure I've hit the 70/30 ratio, this week certainly reminds me of what a great job I have the privilege of doing.

We're out in Cannes at Gartner IT Expo, the biggest annual gathering of IT industry executives in Europe. And believe me, there are few better places to go on business in November. Even if you spend the majority of your day on the trade show floor in a windowless basement, as we do, the walk along the Mediterranean on the way to work is one hell of a way to start things off. I'm surrounded by colleagues I respect and, even better, really like. We've delivered to a standard of quality that, thanks to 25 years in marketing, I know is absolutely best of breed. That makes you happy. Even better, we've laid the groundwork for a series of great conversations with customers. And despite the geeky industry reputation, a lot of these people are actually seriously entertaining to hang out with ... especially when you're picking up the bar tab.

My most extreme "I can't believe I get paid for this" moment came at our dinner for senior customers, when I got to share my meal with, then interview, Lawrence Dallaglio. (See www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTD2fl5En_Q for an excerpt.) The world cup winning rugby star and former captain of the England team was the lure that got more customers to our dinner than in any previous years. My brief was to keep the man entertained, make sure he talked to lots of customers, then get him up on stage to do a chat show style interview in front of the whole audience after dinner.

I was a bit worried at the start of the evening. I know little about rugby and I worried that the small talk was running out. But I shouldn't have stressed. Dallaglio is of Italian stock, which opened two easy conversational doors: Catholic school and food. By the main course I was thinking that this was one of the most entertaining dinner conversations I'd ever had, and completely forgetting the fact that he was famous. One of the endearing things about Dallaglio, in fact, is that he doesn't live in his rugby past. He does the guest appearance and sports commentary thing where it makes sense (after all, he's got three kids to put through university), but he's moved on to other businesses, does lots of charity work and seems all about looking forward, rather than trading on glory days.

And then it was up on stage, for the ultimate work for free moment. There I am getting to do what I love most ... showing off my interview skills while getting fine stories out of interesting people. And I'm doing it in front of a friendly audience, on a stage in a private dining room in the Carlton Hotel in Cannes, one of the most prestigious hotels in the world. A belle epoch glass dome crowns the room, waiters flit elegantly between tables to fill glasses and the glass walls overlook the sea, where the lights of the super yachts glimmer on the horizon. Could I ever have imagined, when slaving away for that journalism degree back at Northwestern, that work could be this good? I certainly had some fantasies about fame and fortune, but they never led me to this delightful interlude of good friends, fine hotels and entertaining rugby stars in the south of France.

And I actually get paid for doing this! Something I must remember when I get back to London and return to a bunch of stuff within the unpleasant percentage. (Which I fear is a bit bigger than my CEO's 30.) But before that happens, I'm off to spend some of that salary. Seems a shame to hurry home when you're on the cote d'azur and the weekend is coming, after all.

If food is culture, then Paris' restaurants are as worthy as her museums

I've just spent three days regaling you with tales of Paris' rich sightseeing opportunities. But I have a confession: My priority in Paris these days isn't the culture. It's the food. Yes, the museums, architecture and history are always going to please me. But the more I've seen and the older I get ... aka the more financially secure I become, thus able to afford the dining ... the more my mind turns to restaurants, menus, and whether it's appropriate to treat cheese with a sacred reverence usually reserved for prayer. (Yes. See photo at right.)

This trip, I planned ahead. Thanks to internet sites like Top Table and Trip Advisor, it's possible to do loads of research and make reservations in advance. Checking out menus and contemplating choices from the thousands of restaurants on offer was half the fun. Of our main meals (three dinners and one lunch), we booked three in advance and left one to chance. All four were delicious and I would happily return to any of them, though they ended up occupying very different niches. And we can't quite agree on a favourite, because we each liked different bits at each place. So let's do the roundup in price order.

Topping the list in the heart-stoppingly expensive category is La Truffiere, deep in the heart of the university district. On line reviews called it a "bistro" and categorised the price as 45-55 per person, much in line with the other places I'd booked. I chose it for our first night, fresh in from the airport and ready to relax. Walking through the door to be greeted by magnificently polite, formally dressed staff was clue No. 1 this might be a touch more upscale than planned. Clue No. 2: the little footstool proffered for my handbag. And then the menus came. Mine with no prices, Piers' triggering a distinct draining of blood from his face. Yup, we'd gotten more than we'd bargained for. Though they don't have a Michelin star, you're at that level and paying those prices. (Plan on £150 per person for 3 courses with wine.)

Was it worth it? Probably. Exquisite food with some innovative twists, presented in beautiful ways by an attentive staff in a cozy, candle-lit stone crypt. La Truffiere ranks high on the list of best restaurants for an intimate, romantic dinner. We just regretted that we hadn't planned for it. We would have dressed up, scheduled it as our last dinner rather than our first, and perhaps gone for cheaper options on other nights to compensate for the price. (As it is, we'll just have to trim the grocery budget for the rest of the month!) So, what did we get for our money?

We started with an amuse bouche of cauliflower soup with a carrot emulsion in the centre, presented to look like like half an egg. Not usually a fan of cauliflower, I could easily have polished off a whole bowl. My first course was classic French with Asian influences: a delicate piece of foie gras sandwiched between two wafer thin seaweed biscuits with a piece of miso bread on the side which served as a surprisingly delightful palate cleanser. But it was the langoustine ravioli across the table, topped with shavings of truffle and a seafood foam, that won the contest for this course. I went on to a stew of confit duck leg with truffles; high end comfort food. He went for suckling pig, exquisitely presented three ways. My chef's menu included a desert of his choice, a chestnut paste parfait with green tea ice cream which was tolerable (that's saying a lot, as green tea is one of the few tastes I really detest) but not a huge success. Piers' wander through the impressive cheese board was more of a triumph, distinguished by an unusual variety mixed with beer and rolled in paprika.

Saturday and Sunday evenings were far more manageable in cost but, this being Paris and the euro being extremely strong, it's still best for a couple to plan on 150 t0 180 for three courses and wine. Keeping in mind that the wine and the preceding aperitifs are likely to account for up to half of that, if you're lingering at the table for three hours and want to drink something nice.

Saturday was back to Roger La Grenouille (see 4.12.09), which didn't fare so well on second exposure. Partially, I'm sure, due to the magnificent levels of the night before, and partly due to rather average main courses. Those were a classic steak frites for him and a venison stew for me. Good, but nothing to write home about. The starters were far better, with me returning to the same trio of foie gras that had impressed me the year before, and the man having his foie gras fresh, pan fried and served up on toasted brioche with caramelised apples. The puddings here were the best of the trip, with Piers' rhum baba coming with a bottle of rum for him to help himself, while my mille feuille with chocolate layers and pistachio cream was the stuff of fantasy.

The next night we switched gears and tried Moroccan, figuring that the French imperial past probably meant this cuisine would be as good here as curry is in London. L'Atlas is a beautifully decorated place (think Arabic palace, awash with fountains, tile work and intricately patterned white plasterwork) on the Rue St. Germain near the Pont de la Tournelle. My sweet tooth makes me fond of the sweet and savoury combinations in North African cooking, and I've never tasted it better than here. I started out with a foie gras bastilla, a wacky but highly successful combination of French and African cuisines. I certainly wouldn't try replicating this at home, as I would never willfully deep fry an ingredient this expensive, but I have to admit the result was exquisite, and my best starter of the trip. I'm afraid the man's spicy crab pastries couldn't compare. My tagine of pigeon and prunes was a bit of a miscalculation; exquisite flavours but it's a bird that's so difficult to eat it's nearly impossible to get off the bone. I really should have just gone for lamb.

The real winner was the lamb couscous across the table, served with high drama and generous quantity. Out came what I can only describe as a silver punch bowl, filled with a rich chicken soup laden with carrots and celery. A separate plate held a massive slab of barbecued lamb. Beside that, three dishes held spicy harissa paste, plump rehydrated raisins and almonds. And in front of Piers was placed a mound of fluffy couscous. To which the waiter added the vegetables and several ladles of broth, before mixing the last ladle with the harissa to make a rose-coloured wash. Next the meat, then a sprinkling of the raisins and almonds. Gorgeous. All this was complimented by a magnificent Moroccan red wine so good we had a second bottle. Which means I can't tell you too much about the plate of pastries that ended the meal, other than that they added to the general sense of well being and comfort that propelled us homeward that night.

Our only unplanned meal of the trip was the man's favourite, mostly due to a steak tartare that was the best either of us have tasted. (And he's quite the connoisseur of this dish.) The Royal Turenne is a classic Parisian bistro a block west of the Place des Voges in the Marais, heaving with French custom despite its highly touristy location. We were packed in like sardines and service was slow due to the few waiters handling the crowd. But they were genial, the food was good, their wine picks were spot on and the prices were the lowest of the weekend. My wild boar stew was just average compared to many versions I've enjoyed in Tuscany, but was filling enough to be the only meal of the day. Back in Basingstoke that evening I couldn't even contemplate eating. Really, I should be launching myself into a rather serious austerity campaign.

Unfortunately for my diet, but luckily for you, dear readers, I'm back in France next week. And the diary for the rest of the year looks packed with fun ... including a Michelin-starred Thanksgiving dinner. So come back soon to share more culinary and touristic delights.

Notre Dame is not Paris' greatest church; make Sainte-Chapelle your first sightseeing priority

Day three in Paris was supposed to be devoted entirely to the Louvre. Not only is it a blockbuster site, but it has a checked baggage facility and sits a stone's throw from the RER station that takes you to the airport. A perfect occupation for a day ending with a return flight.

We were, however, shy of crowds after the horrors of Versailles the day before. The idea of spending another day standing in queues, packed with the rest of the sightseeing throng, didn't appeal. We wanted a gentle, relaxed time. A day that would leave a soft, warm Parisian glow in our bellies as we stepped on that plane to London. And that's just what we got.

We started at my favourite Gothic building in Paris, the Sainte-Chapelle. The royal palace that once surrounded it has been replaced by government buildings, making it a bit of a hidden jewel; you need to seek it out, as you're unlikely to stumble upon it from this corridor of bureaucracy a stone's throw from Notre Dame. Built in the early 1240s to house an impressive pack of relics King Louis IX (later St. Louis) bought from the Holy Land, it is an exquisite, jewel-encrusted reliquary writ large. It's a riot of colour from its magnificently polychromed statues and columns through its wonderous windows to its lapis-infused blue ceiling mimicking the heavens with golden stars.

It's actually two chapels, with the one for the common people on the ground floor. The lower chapel is spectacular on its own, with gold, enamel and jeweled quatrefoils showing bible scenes and walls painted to copy rich materials. But it's just a visual amuse bouche for what's ahead. You dive into a dark, featureless spiral stair, climb four rotations and come out into the vivid magnificence of the upper chapel, where the windows are so dominant you hardly notice there's a stone framework to hold them in place. A great medieval church strove to create a vision of heaven on earth, elevating people from their mundane lives to a higher plane filled with mystery, awe and beauty. I don't think there's a religious building in France that does this better than Sainte-Chapelle.

Of course, the church everyone heads for immediately in this town is Notre Dame. I could hardly contain my disappointment when I first saw it, caked with urban grime on the outside, dark within and much smaller than expected. By this time I'd taken in the splendors of Westminster Abbey, Salisbury, Lincoln, King's College chapel in Cambridge ... all magnificent buildings that had the advantage of studying from Notre Dame's early innovation (notably pointed arches and flying buttresses) and then improving upon it. But the French have recently finished cleaning up this architectural matriarch, and she's looking grand. With the exterior sparkling white, it's much easier to appreciate the multitude of sculpted saints, the stone tracery and the famous gargoyles.

Inside, we benefited from three things. First, it was still early enough for the crowds to be manageable. Second, it was a sunny day. The windows don't dominate the walls here as they do in later Gothic churches, but those that do cut through the stone are gorgeous. While Sainte-Chapelle is almost exclusively blue in its glass, Notre Dame ads a heart-stopping red to the mix, like liquid rubies when the sun filters through. Third, it was All Saints Day and we were there during high mass, with a full complement of formally robed priests using some of the fine ornaments from the treasury and a choir adding a sacred soundtrack. Notre Dame is a stage set, after all, and on this day they were putting on the show. Any building works better when it's being used for its original purpose.

After that, it was time to introduce Piers to another of my Parisian favourites, the Marais. Versailles set the model for palaces, Notre Dame formed the template for the Gothic, and it's the Place des Voges in this district that set the model for every sophisticated urban square that followed. London architecture as we know it today simply wouldn't exist without this 17th century innovation in town planning. Today it's one of the most beautiful bits of the city, filled with elegant homes and high end shops, usually enlivened by the jazz quartet Borsalino, who seem to have become a regular fixture.

From here it was a wander down the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, where the street level view is of cool clothing boutiques and funky jewelry shops, while a lift of the eyes reveals a wealth of 17th century aristocratic homes. With our mutual interest in history, the Musee Carnavalet would have been the perfect place for us to spend the afternoon, were it not closed on Mondays. So after getting a feel for the area, the logical next step seemed to be a leisurely lunch. (Check in tomorrow for the restaurant roundup.)

After lunch, the clock was ticking. We had 90 minutes before we needed to be picking up luggage back at the hotel. Time, it seemed, for one more church.

La Madeleine is a neoclassical pile just off the Place de La Concorde. From the exterior, it's distinguished by its exact resemblance to a Roman temple, imposing Corinthian columns atop a solid stone platform holding up a highly decorated pediment. And also by its position opposite its matching building, the Asemblée National, sitting on the other side of the Seine across the Place. The interior is less impressive, mainly because the line of coffered, oculus-pierced domes that run down the nave are dark, dirty and desperately in need of renovation. This brings a touch of gloom to the whole place. Looking past that, however, you see the strict neoclassicism continued in here. The statues in the niches could just as easily be Jupiter, Juno and Mercury as the saints who stand there today. The most unique element of the interior, however, is the distinctly un-Roman organ, which has seen a long line of famous musical directors including Saint-Saëns and Gabriel Fauré. The church regularly hosts concerts and we were lucky enough to be wandering while the organist was in full flow. As with Notre Dame, the music transformed the experience.

And then it was all over. The clock hit 4:30 and it was time to grab luggage and head for the airport. We'd rolled a massive amount of sightseeing into three days, but not so much that we'd exhausted ourselves. Primarily because each night we refreshed ourselves with some truly fine dining. To read about that, you'll have to come back tomorrow.