Recession upside? The best after-Christmas sales ever

Yes, the economic news is grim. Both companies and personal savings collapsing at speed, more job loss headlines each day, a general feeling of angst across the Western world. But the strange fact about this recession so far is that if you remain employed, and you don’t have to worry about retirement any time soon, many people’s personal finances have actually improved in the past few months. The lowest interest rates in years and plummeting gas prices mean that some people are seeing several hundred pounds a month back on their personal bottom line.

And then there are the post-Christmas sales. I know that (a) I should be saving my money and (b) I really don’t need much. But when someone is dangling lovely clothing in front of you for massive markdowns and you are being told that you can help the American economy by buying … well, who could really say no?

Boxing Day (the 26th) found me at Chesterfield Mall at 8:30, where a hopeful Dillards employee was handing out black garbage bin bags at the entrance to facilitate the massive amounts he expected people to buy. Sadly for Dillards, it was neither as crowded as I’d expected, nor were the deals as good. My bin bag remained unopened. Macy’s was a different matter, with lots of 75% off signs and additional early morning specials. I walked out with a beautifully designed Evan Picone suit for less than it costs me to fill my car’s tank at home. Next off to Frontenac Plaza, St. Louis’ poshest mall, where some of Saks’ markdowns were so extreme you wondered if they were taking a loss. A Cole Haan handbag that retailed for more than $300 came home with me for $65. Selected high-end designers throughout the store were 75% off. Yes, I bought some of them, too. We then attempted West County mall, but by this point the whole city was up and shopping. After losing an hour looking for a parking space (40 minutes of it trapped in a gridlocked multi-story garage), we gave up, leaving me to imagine what glories might have tempted at Nordstrom.

This strategic retreat left some cash in my discretionary shopping budget for Round 2 at the Osage Beach Outlet Mall in Lake of the Ozarks, Missouri, where I was visiting Dad for the weekend. While he couldn’t share my shopping glee the way Mom did the day before, he was wonderfully helpful in carrying bags and had the patience of a saint hanging out on various chairs and benches while I indulged.

I am usually pretty ambivalent about outlet malls. Long experience has taught me that many brands manufacture a whole different, and cheaper, range of clothing for their “outlet” stores, and sometimes the so-called deals aren’t as good as in the department stores. You really need to know your base prices before you can evaluate whether or not you’re getting a deal. While Ralph Lauren and Liz Claiborne were a bust, the Jones New York store was beguiling, with a well-stocked rack of summer clearance stuff for foolish prices. Some people find fulfilment bagging game; No hunter could feel any more satisfied bringing down an elusive buck as I did when I snagged a pair of tailored Bermudas that retailed for $80 for $5.99.

And then came Coldwater Creek. This branch of one of my favourite shops is new since I last visited Osage Beach, and it is a true outlet. Everything I saw on the racks I’d seen in the main stores, and everything was well below the original price. Summer and autumn stuff was priced to clear; plenty of items were 85% or more under the original cost. I bought a pair of formal trousers I had seriously considered buying for full price at $95, and for which I already own the matching blouse, for $4.99. I was nearly delirious with happiness, only surpassed when I found a pair of espadrilles that matched the Jones Bermudas for $4.99. Similar deals abounded, in such profusion that I had to force myself to stop shopping after an hour. I might not have needed that bin bag at Dillards, but I could hardly lift the hefty bag of goodies I emerged with here. Dad had his work cut out for him to haul this largess back to the car.

At this point I officially called it quits and retired to a Mexican restaurant for restorative margaritas, content in the realisation that I’d done my bit to fight recession. God Bless America, and God Bless American Retail.

Finally in the Christmas spirit, thanks to a delay at snowy O'Hare

We all have Pavlovian reactions to certain things that bring out the Christmas in us. Many are shared across whole cultures ... like mince pies and crackers on one side of the Atlantic, cookie exchanges and madcap home decorations on the other. Others are unique to us, drawn from some repeated tradition of our own pasts.

For me, few things say Christmas quite like waiting for a delayed flight in a snowbound Chicago O'Hare airport. Or make me feel 19 years old again quite so well.

University was my first extended period of time away from home, of course. Thus Christmas break was my first real experience with homecomings. I can still remember the immense push towards final exams. The complete, satisfied exhaustion when they were over. (I'm still exhausted after the push to Christmas, of course, but without the satisfaction of an aced final and with the assurance that all the same stresses are waiting for me post-holiday.) I remember the way my mood would soar every minute as the bus carried me from Evanston to O'Hare. It was finally Christmas, and I had two or three weeks of complete R&R ahead. Then I'd get to the airport and, inevitably, there would be some sort of weather-related delay. So I'd settle in, chat with the unusually happy crowd of travelers, always dotted with some other Northwestern students showing signs of post-exam exhaustion, and wait for that St. Louis flight to go.

My family hasn't spent Christmas in St. Louis since my grandmother died in 1986, so that's a very limited memory. But it's as potent as any for me, and washed a flood of holiday cheer through my soul last Friday afternoon as I walked beneath the terminal's arches of holiday decorations and found my flight delayed by two hours. Same cheerful, gift laden crowds. Same civic Santa walking the terminal keeping people's spirits up. Same Northwestern students in transit, Freshmen made obvious by their proud displays of purple university sweatshirts. (My God, did I ever look that young and eager?) And one other Northwestern alumni, class of '86. The delay allowed me to catch a brief but joyous reunion with Craig Jackson, one of my oldest college friends, met over the area rugs in Montgomery Ward's the first day of new student week as we were decking out our dorm rooms. I hadn't seen him for nearly ten years, though we're in regular touch. The happy circumstance added to my holiday cheer. We both looked young and eager and had barely changed since the '80s. Of course.

This holiday spirit was much needed, as I can't remember a season where I've ever felt quite so little festivity. The gloom and doom of the economy set the tone, of course. Any holiday display felt like fiddling while Rome burned. People just weren't in the mood. London, usually an endless whirl of alcohol sodden holiday parties from late November through the last Thursday before Christmas, was spookily quiet. You could actually get a taxi, a table at a restaurant or a seat at a bar without much effort. Parties were almost non-existent. (I usually get invited to 15 or 20; this year there were three.) Christmas lunches dwindled. (You'll note a dearth of restaurant reviews this month.) Instead of merriment, most of us were sunk in high pressure, deeply distressing work activities related to cutting budgets and jobs. The best gift this year may be continued employment and the ability to pay your mortgage. And at least 40% of us, myself included, seem to be hacking away with coughs, cold and flu.

This year may mark the final death of the Christmas card. I couldn't find the time to send my own, and less than 10 dropped through my post. In a world where we are so constantly connected by email, texts and blogs, the old, chatty card with its annual update letter seems as redundant as an auto worker's job.

My travel schedule didn't help. Leaving London on the 18th, not returning until 15 January, what was the point of Christmas decorations? So my cottage, usually sporting better decorations that Santa's grotto at Harrod's, barely made it into the season. A few sprigs of evergreen, a few ornaments on the mantle, a reduced version of my illuminated Christmas village in the front window to make it look like I was at home. Bah, humbug.

And then to O'Hare. And all those cheery Americans letting the spirit of Christmas shine through, managing to wear their holiday cardigans and Santa hats in public with no trace of embarrassment. A nation of people who happily chat to strangers and tell you to have a nice day and mean it. I feel the gloom lifting. Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good respite from reality. Maybe if we all just believe, things will be better in January.

In hope of inspiration, we conjure the ghosts of Fleet Street past

If I were given just one crack at a time machine, I'd be ripped with indecision. Would I head for the Florence of Lorenzo di Medici and watch the birth of the Renaissance? Or would it be to the streets of Marcus Aurelius' Rome to experience that empire at its zenith? Or would my heart take me to Fleet Street in the early 18th century to witness the birth of modern journalism and the fellowship of literary and artistic giants?

Fleet Street has cast a steady spell over me since I was a high school student, first discovering Addison & Steele, Dr. Johnson, Boswell, the Kit Kat Club and all the other fascinating people that made Georgian London throb with literary excitement. Thereafter followed 200 years at the heart of the journalistic and literary trades. The ghosts of the world's finest writers, conversationalists and wits haunt this street. And, most specifically, its pubs. Which is perhaps why I've always preferred the options here, away from the legacy of banking and the braying market traders that occupy the watering holes closer to my own office.

So what better option for a Christmas gathering of PR hacks than Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, where we could drink in atmosphere, not spend too much and perhaps get inspired by the talents of the former patrons? Such were my thoughts as we raised our glasses under the penetrating eyes of Dr. Johnson's portrait.

The Cheese is probably the most famous of the many fine pubs along Fleet Street, and the one with the grandest literary heritage. Although it is, to be honest, a bit of a dive. As all bars with journalistic heritage should be. This was the first pub I headed to in the UK when I was old enough to add such establishments to my sightseeing list. It was the spiritual brother to the journalistic mecca of my college days, Chicago's Billy Goat Tavern ... just several hundred years older and with heaps more fame.

Dr. Johnson lived around the corner and is said to have come here often. Legend has him knocking back a pint while debating definitions for his famous dictionary, Boswell at his side taking notes for his equally famous biography. Oliver Goldsmith, Mark Twain, Arthur Conan Doyle and Charles Dickens were all supposed to have been regulars, too. It is, quite simply, a place of literary legend.

It's also a fine place to meet up with friends for a pint ... even those who don't have a journalistic education to inspire them. Unlike no other pub in London, the Cheese is a dark labyrinth of small, connected rooms with no natural light. It is dark and gloomy, but magnificently so, with wooden panelling and guttering candles suggesting that the rougher days of Georgian London aren't actually that far away. The sub-division into small rooms means it never gets too loud; if you're lucky enough to find a seat then it always seems cozy.

The basement offers another range of rooms, these reputed to have been the vaulted cellars of a 13th century Carmelite monastery. I shudder to think what the poor nuns would think of the antics and conversations that happen here today and punters shift pint after pint from bar to their chosen dark corners. I prefer to contemplate my literary heroes who, I hope, would be inspired to join and contribute to our conversations if their shades happened by.

Of course, the people we really should be remembering are the unnamed hacks, jobbers and ghost writers of centuries past. I doubt the press releases, white papers, web articles and other marketing ephemera we crank out will ever be considered literature, or rise us to the ranks of the famous. The unnamed are the ones who are our spiritual brothers. Until such time as any of us win the lottery, quit the rat race and retire to write something spectacular. But in the mean time ... we can give thanks that we are employed marketers and not starving artists, and we can hope that the ghosts of Fleet Street inspire our efforts. No matter how humble.

Vianden is a fairy tale castle well worth the hike

Last entry I told you about the Northern European Fusion that is Luxembourg's fine food. The fusion concept applies to the country's architecture as well, nowhere more so than in the achingly picturesque village of Vianden.

Vianden lies in the northeast of the country, near the German border. It occupies a stony promontory overlooking the river Ours, a perfect location for a substantial castle. This one is of the fairy tale variety, a jumble of towers, conical roofs and looming walls on a high outcropping above the river. It has a bit of Neuschwanstein about it, yet was all the more pleasant to me because I'd never heard of it. There's something truly glorious about feeling like you've discovered a place. The feeling of discovery was exacerbated by the fact that we were two of perhaps only 20 tourists roaming the castle halls on that gloomy December day. (I've borrowed someone else's photo from a more clement time of year for the illustration at right.)

It's a substantial hike to the castle from the nearest car park; perhaps 200 yards up a fairly steep incline. Then through the gatehouse and you're climbing another 200 yards through castle courtyards over rough cobbles. The tour of the castle itself requires clambering up and down lots of long, steep staircases. This is not a place for the unfit, or, truth be told, for the heavily pregnant. My friend Cora had to take things very slowly.

It is, however, worth the exertion. Everything is in a glorious state of repair, for good reason. Despite its rich history dating back to the Middle Ages, most of what you see at Vianden today is a reconstruction achieved in the 1970s and '80s. Which also explains why, once you're inside, the visit is mainly about the raw architecture of rooms rather than furniture or decoration. There's a procession of lofty halls roofed with impressive Gothic vaulting. One houses a pleasant collection of church vestments and gold and silver ceremonial objects. Another shows off armour and weapons. There's a kitchen, oddly placed in the centre of the building, kitted out to demonstrate life in "olden days". A dining room and bedroom are the only other furnished rooms. Elsewhere rooms have been used as museums to the house of Nassau-Orange, owners of the castle who managed to end up on the thrones of the Netherlands and England as well as running the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg.

At the very top of the castle are two long halls given over to photographs: the first showing the restoration and the second all the famous people and heads of state who've visited. Clearly, this is where anywhere important is brought on official visits. It's fascinating to compare the ruined shell in the photos to what you see today. The best part of this section of the castle, however, is the magnificent views from windows at the top of the photo to the left. You are now at the highest point, a dizzying distance above the tiny town below and able to see for miles over hill and valley.

The castle's two finest features sit side by side. First is the medieval chapel, refurbished a century before the other restorations by Viollet-Le-Duc. That French master of neo-Gothicism last made his appearance in this blog at Vezelay, where he was responsible for much of the abbey we see today. Here at Vianden he was making a point about the importance of medieval paintwork, reminding us that Gothic masterpieces were anything put pale and white. The small but lofty space is vividly picked out in orange, yellow and grey, giving you the feeling you're standing inside some giant, upturned orchid. It's a lovely space that manages to be both beautiful and contemplative. And, on our visit, very, very cold.

The approach from the main body of the castle to the chapel is through a magnificent open loggia, at least two generous stories high, punctuated on each side by large windows framed with trefoil arches. This is called the Byzantine passage, presumably after the wife of one of the 15th century counts who was also daughter to the emperor of Constantinople. It's easy to imagine her insisting on this gracious piece of architecture to enliven her primary residence. The windows on one side look down on the village and river below, and on the other open up onto a rooftop terrace filled with potted plants and trees. There are rampart walks here that give you further fine views of the town below, as well as more interesting angles on the castle's picturesque exterior. It was beautiful on a grim and grey December day; it must be one of the loveliest spots in Luxembourg in summer.

The town of Vianden is just as charming as the castle, winding away down the hillside like a tail wrapped around the animal above. The architecture is a pastiche of German and French, and well worth a stroll. At the bottom of the hill a bridge crosses the river and you'll find the Hotel Victor Hugo, commemorating the fact that the famous novelist spent several holidays here and was an early proponent of Vianden's restoration. Certainly it's easy to imagine the place inspiring Quasimodo. Vianden is the kind of vastly atmospheric, enchanted location you usually only get in novels or film sets.

Gourmet Luxembourg continues to delight with Toit pour Toi

Three visits to Luxembourg have yielded three magnificent restaurant experiences. I remain amazed by the culinary heaven offered by this little-known, rarely-visited bit of Europe. Take the best of traditional French cooking, overlay Germanic, Swiss, Belgian and Austrian touches, fire it with a hip, modern sensibility, and you get a Northern European fusion that’s hard to beat.

Friday night we headed for Toit pour Toi, tipped by the VLM airlines in-flight magazine. Well, almost. Its sister restaurant La Table des Guilloux, owner of two Michelin stars, nabbed the review as one of Luxembourg’s greatest restaurants. Turns out the son of the proprietors, Katell Gillou, has opened his own place across the courtyard from mere et pere. Though lacking its own stars, I find it difficult to imagine being more satisfied than we were with the junior experience.

Both restaurants occupy a converted farm complex in the suburb of Schouweiler. La Table occupies the old manor house, Toit pour Toi the barn across the wide courtyard. Both have expansive walls of glass allowing a view into their warm interiors. The former is all classic elegance, the latter cool, quirky and modern. There’s a flat-roofed, rectangular, glass-walled addition at the barn’s back that, I suspect, looks out over quite a magnificent view. It was dark, but the complete absence of lights implies one of Luxembourg’s typical field and forest vistas. We, however, ate in the main barn building.

Rarely have I seen such a delightful conversion. You ascend from the stone-paved ground floor up a wide wooden stair, currently overhung by a 20-foot Christmas tree suspended upside down and covered with blue lights and red and clear glass ornaments. The peaked roof, held by substantial wooden beams, towers above, showing off venerable stone walls. A bright fire roars in a fireplace the size of a small car. The décor is quirky: a series of oversized profiles of grinning pigs on one wall; a portrait of a wild boar in 18th century formal wear over the hearth, a black, spidery chandelier looking like a prop from a Tim Burton film; ridiculously formal silver candlesticks, blazing with white tapers, contrasting with the simple country-style wooden tables.

We started with the house cocktail, presumably designed to match the quirky interior. A mix of champagne, grapefruit juice and violet liqueur created a brew that was, rather disturbingly, exactly the same shocking purple colour as the legendary “skull juice” served at the fraternity I haunted at University. This, however, tasted a lot better and looked fantastic in its champagne flute, topped with a floating red rose petal. A trio of amuse bouche included a frothy soup of petit pois, slices of saucisson and a cold, marinated white fish with onions, all served on a doughnut-shaped white platter that encircled the candles in the middle of the table.

The menu was more traditional than the décor, but cooked to perfection and presented with great flair. I started with the ravioli of foie gras with a celery cream sauce. Not strictly ravioli, rather pieces of pan-fried foie gras slid in between a long, accordion-folded sheet of pasta; this was rich, satisfying and filling enough to be a meal in itself. My main course of venison with forest mushrooms and red currants, served with Austrian spaetzle and a small poached pear filled with more red currants, was a perfect complement to the tastes in the first course. It would, of course, be almost impossible to consume dishes this rich without a hearty red wine. Having indulged in this much hearty tradition, cheese seemed the necessary finish. The plate was a pleasant but unexceptional trio, the best part being the vinaigrette on the side salad. I would have been a tad disappointed had I not been able to reach across the table to sample a few bits of Cora’s chocolate fondant as well.

Reports on, and tastes of, the other dishes around the table were excellent. Cora’s starter of shrimp scampi was a particularly elegant take on this old favourite, with a batter so light it was almost approaching tempura, and served with a generous salad. Both Cora’s Bresse chicken and Didier’s fillet of beef fell into the satisfying comfort food category. Didier’s dessert of waffles seemed a bit extreme in heft after all that substantial food, but he looked happy.

Only two complaints. The service was spotty, being excellent at times and then ignoring us for long stretches. Particularly irritating when it took three separate requests and 20 minutes to procure water. The wooden farmhouse chairs with their thin cushions are remarkably uncomfortable as you push past two hours at the table. These are problems that are easy enough to fix, and can be forgiven considering the delight engendered by everything else.

At 87 euro per person (71 pounds, 110 dollars) including the cocktails and an excellent bottle of wine, Toit pour Toit is a bit cheaper than restaurants of similar quality back in the UK, though not much of a deal for Americans. It is another proof point in my growing conviction that if you want to plan a gourmet weekend away from London, Luxembourg may actually be your best bet.

Giving thanks for the simple things … including your basic pumpkin pie

It’s one of the year’s richer ironies that I’ve spent both quintessentially American holidays in Luxembourg.

Back at friends Cora and Didier’s for an alternative Thanksgiving, the evening found me alone in the kitchen whipping up turkey cutlets and cranberry sauce while the kids slept and their mom and dad toured the maternity ward of the local hospital. (Baby no. 3 arrives in less than a month.) We sat down to dinner at the terribly continental time of 10pm, fulfilling my objective of getting some variation of the traditional dinner in place before the day closed.

The most important element, of course, isn’t the food but what it commemorates. There is no holiday quite so noble as this one, which encourages people to pause, evaluate and be grateful for all that is good in their lives. And perhaps it’s never been quite so needed as in this grim year, with markets tumbling, uncertainty rising and the entire world in an edgy bad temper. So time to put aside, temporarily, the angst over the future, raise a glass of Didier’s fine Bordeaux and count our blessings.

The scourge of breast cancer remains at bay: Mom’s discovered and eliminated, mine now two years gone and the statistical chances of its return tumbling by the day. (Women over 40 reading this: Have you had your mammogram? The difference between death and inconvenience is early discovery.) I’ve just passed the 50 pound mark in my weight loss, while still managing to eat and drink my way through many a notable evening (as this blog attests). My 70-year-old father is so fit he’s training for an inline skating marathon. Beloved spaniel Mr. Darcy, approaching a venerable 10 years next March, still has a spring in his step (thank you, Pedigree Joint Care) and shows no signs of leaving me any time soon. My friends continue to be a blessing without price. Work offers intellectual challenge, stimulating colleagues and the ability to pay the mortgage. I live in an exquisite little corner of the world and am fortunate to see other lovely bits of it. Sure, there’s plenty to worry about. But in the overall scheme of things, life is remarkably good.

Thank you to all … living or dead, mortal or divine, friend, family or stranger … who’ve contributed.

And so on to the pumpkin pie, the requisite completion element in this worthy ritual. You only have to spend one Thanksgiving in Europe to realise how uniquely American this dessert is. Most Europeans have never tasted it and, if they have, they find it vile. That is because most Europeans, mistakenly thinking this is some gourmet holiday dish, start with fresh pumpkin, follow recipes with a bewildering number of steps and add all manner of odd ingredients. The results, on the few times they’ve been inflicted on me, have been vegetal, too savoury and downright odd.

Pumpkin is one of the few things in the world that is significantly better out of a can than fresh. Most pumpkins sold in stores are intended only for carving, not for cooking. The European habit of substituting other types of squash is equally disastrous. It just doesn’t taste right. Leave the pumpkin sourcing to the fine people at Libby’s.

Pumpkin pie shouldn’t be over-thought. It is a dead simple recipe from the ‘50s and should be kept that way: a tin of Libby’s pumpkin, two eggs, sugar, spices. Dump in pie shell. Bake. The result should be custardy, sweet and the embodiment of the taste of autumn. Didier and Cora ventured their first tastes this Thanksgiving. After a show of horror, Didier admitted that it was very pleasant and polished off the whole thing. A victory for American cuisine. And another thing for which to be thankful.

Unexpected jaunt to Monte Carlo is the highlight of recent Cannes visit

"I know a great little pizza place in Monte Carlo. Shall we go?"

Lines this good rarely turn up in life, much less on a business trip. Or maybe I just don't work enough in the South of France with charming Italians in possession of good local knowledge and a car. In any case, that was the trigger for the most interesting, if slightly sleep-deprived, evening of my recent stint at Gartner ITxpo.

The famous principality of Monaco is about an hour down the coast from Cannes. We'd worked a full day and needed time to change into casual clothes before leaving, so it was well past 8 and very dark by the time we got on the road. Thus we only had elusive hints at what must be spectacular views along the way. Moonlight shimmering on bays far beneath the snaking highway, the lights of towns stretching along the coast, white cliff faces glimmering above the highway lamps. The road is of excellent quality, but clearly a challenging drive with lots of curves, climbs and tunnels. I was very happy, especially given the rain the hit us on the return journey, that I wasn't driving.

Upon entering the outskirts of Monaco's capital city, you immediately notice the prosperity. If Cannes in a flashy, slightly tawdry and very overdressed girl, Monte Carlo is an elegant, tasteful woman who's mature yet still sexy. In fact, think Princess Grace as architecture and you get the idea. Every piece of trim is freshly painted, every building in perfect repair, every sign bright and fresh. I didn't see a piece of litter, a pile of junk or a badly parked vehicle. The whole scene had the eerie feel of a stage set, freshly constructed by the Disney team and waiting for Julie Andrews to waltz through. Of course, it might have just been the cover of darkness. But I doubt it. This place gives new meaning to the concept of "tidy".

The road, bounded by precise stone walls and trim little villas, snakes downward toward the coast. Approaching 10 o'clock on a Wednesday night, traffic was non-existent; evidently in addition to keeping their country in fine condition, the Monegasques go to bed early. While the boys in the front seat got increasingly excited that the twisting roads were exactly the same as those in the Monaco grand prix computer game, the hungry girls in the back were starting to worry that this elusive pizza place would be closed.

We circled the bottom of the citadel of the princes of Monaco, catching glimpses of their fortress palace high above. We drove along the sea front, where a cheerful carnival was illuminated, but clearly closed for the season, and palm trees swayed. Our grand prix drivers showed us where the start and finish line of the famous race was, and, thanks to their virtual experience, explained which hairpins we were cornering were particularly treacherous as we started to climb up another hill. Impressive yachts filled the harbour now falling below us, while the world's most recognisable brand names filled pristine buildings on every side. Flower beds and road verges were landscaped with such artistry they hardly looked real. I never saw a weed or a dead leaf. And through all of this, we saw not another soul. Could any place still be open to serve food in this exquisite ghost town?

But Enrico, bless him, had honed in on the authentic Italian pizzeria like a homing pigeon returning to its nest. Il Triangolo was not only open, but well populated with staff and customers watching football and consuming the delights coming out of the wood fired oven. Simple and unpretentious, I felt more like I was in the local hang out of some unassuming Southern Italian town than in the heart of one of the most elegant resorts in the world. Everything we'd seen thus far suggested pretension, caviar and champagne. Thus it seemed not only a bit odd, but faintly rebellious, to be here consuming a perfect pizza capricciosa and an ice cold beer. And, compared to Cannes, the 25 euros each we paid for the meal was reasonable. Should you ever find yourself in Monte Carlo in need of a common touch, do check the place out. (With your back to the casino, walk into the public gardens and then exit to the right. The road along the side of the gardens will twist to the right. Il Triangolo is in the curve, on your left as you walk up hill.)

After dinner, and now approaching midnight, we took a stroll through the heart of this playground of the rich and famous. The public gardens were well lit and, despite it being November, still lush and green beneath their serried rows of palms. Impressive fountains continued to play in the otherwise-silent night. Below the downward-sloping gardens sits the casino, a grand Belle Epoque building designed by the same man responsible for the Paris Opera. The apple didn't fall far from the architectural tree: it's classical yet bombastic; elegant yet wildly over the top; forbiddingly opulent yet, at the same time, beckoning. No matter how tempted, none of us were dressed for or had the energy to go wandering about such a place, so we had a look through the glistening plate glass doors and let the Russian babes who pulled up in the black four wheel drive head inside to play at being in a James Bond film. Instead we had a wander through the slightly less opulent, and free to enter, smaller casino on the main complex's right flank. Past the lovely architecture and the interiors looked pretty much exactly like the casino on a cruise ship. I suppose one slot machine is much the same as another, no matter how good the architecture surrounding it.

We continued our wander around town, heading to the terrace behind the main casino where we had a view of the yacht basin and, across it, the palace of the princes. Below me sat the boat I would surely buy if had obscene amounts of money; 70 feet at least with a towering mast, gleaming wood and old fashioned lines, she's exactly the kind of sailboat that you expect the rich and famous to dock in these places. I wonder, do they know how lucky they are?

Probably not. But I'm well aware of how fortunate we were to carve such a great night out of what might have been a deeply unexceptional evening in the hotel bar, drinking overpriced wine and wondering what company claimed the guy who just did a deal with the hotel prostitute. Grazie Mille, Enrico, for a far better class of evening.

As business trips go, Cannes isn't half bad

People who don't travel on business always believe business trips are glamorous, exciting and worthy of envy. Most corporate road warriors would rather be home on their own couch. The nice hotels and nights out on expense accounts rarely compensate for the long hours, tedious air travel and personal time lost forever.

If you have to travel on business, however, heading for an industry trade show in the Mediterranean resort in Cannes is amongst the better options.

Cannes is an odd place. As the dear friend who originally introduced me to it always says, it is a town built by the French to extract the maximum amount of cash out of the English. (Although to be fair, it was an English expat aristocrat named Lord Brougham who actually developed the place and started the Anglo influx.) It has a louche opulence reminiscent of Rodeo Drive. The world's most expensive brands face the beach across the palm fringed main street. The architecture is mostly grandiose Belle Epoque, the interiors dominated by gold gilt, crystal, velvet and brocade. The natives wear designer clothes, immaculately coiffed hair, big jewelry and accessorise with small, equivalently attired dogs.

Despite all that, or maybe because of it, Cannes is a bit seedy. Get very far off La Croisette (the main street along the beach) and streets can look positively tatty. In Cannes there are a lot of dodgy clubs and unexceptional restaurants, clearly forgoing quality in their assumption that the tourists will never be back, so they don't need to impress. Meanwhile the hotels all provide food and drink at heart-stopping prices with supercilious waiters right out of central casting. The modern bulk of the convention centre is ugly and unpleasantly industrial, seriously diminishing what once must have been a near-perfect vista of the old town and the mountains beyond. And while it may bring in the glamorous for the film festival once a year, the hulking Palais du Congress is responsible for that other oddity of Cannes: the corporate conventioneer. In strange contrast to all the opulence, this place is filled with business people attending trade shows, meetings and sales kickoffs.

For all these reasons I would never spend my own money to go to Cannes. Neighbouring San Tropez or Antibes both manage to be elegant and have loads more charm. But on business, life could be a lot worse.

To get real pleasure out of Cannes you need to do one or more of these three things: wander through the old town; walk along the beach; have a great hotel room.

At the western end of La Croisette the original Cannes climbs a steep hill, complete with remains of its citadel, a medieval church and atmospheric winding streets. It is amazing how few business visitors ever get here, despite the fact that it's barely a 10 minute walk from the convention centre. Climb all the way up to the courtyard beside the church and you'll have a magnificent view of bay, city, mountains, sea and islands. There's also the wonderfully eclectic little Musee de la Castre up here in what's left of the old castle. The collection comprises American Indian, South Seas native and ancient Middle and Near East artifacts, plus a pretty gathering of French paintings including a whole room devoted to portraits of Cannes throughout the centuries. The paintings confirmed my earlier assertion that the Palais du Congress, while bringing in business, raped the aesthetics of the place.

Even if you don't make it for the view, the old town is worth the walk for the best restaurant in Cannes. The Auberge Provencale bills itself at the oldest restaurant here, in continuous operation since 1860. It's located up the steep Rue St. Antoine and occupies a warm, timber-beamed set of rooms that feel more like a farmhouse than a restaurant. The menu is heavily local, with lots of seafood. I highly recommend their traditional fish soup, served with croutons that you're intended to smear with garlicky, high-fat rouille and float on top, then coat with shredded cheese. Well, the fish is good for you. They do a fantastic dessert crepe, prepared traditionally at the table, flamed with Grand Marnier. And I can also vouch for the sinfully luscious chocolate fondant. (No, I didn't order both. I had a generous dining companion.) Reservations are strongly recommended if you're trying to get in here for dinner, though it was almost empty when we arrived for Friday lunch.

Second Cannes pleasure tip: Walk La Croisette. And I don't mean the inland side with the posh shops. Stroll the mile-plus length of the promenade along the beach. Breathe in the salty air. Look to the watery horizon. Appreciate the distant mountains. You may even be lucky enough to be kissed by the sun, which shines a good deal more here than it does in England. There's no doubt that Cannes is at its prettiest along this walk, especially from the viewpoint of the end of the breakwater on the Eastern yacht basin. From here you get the long stretch of the beach, glistening blue water, the elegant parade of hotels skirted by palm trees and the distant vision of the old town.

Third: Try to get a good hotel room. Most corporate visitors stay in one of the Belle Epoque hotels along La Croisette, and their rooms vary dramatically. For every one that looks out onto the bay, there are two or three that are tucked in odd corners or look out over the inland town. I seem to have an odd kind of luck when it comes to Cannes. It's always worth trying to flatter the hotel staff into a room with a view. I have been there three times and have lucked into an absolutely magnificent room each time. My introduction was a lovely room with balcony, dead centre of the front of the Carlton Inter-Continental. Second trip I was an honoured guest of the event organiser and ended up with a mini-suite on the top floor of the Majestic, complete with wrap-around balcony. This time, back to the Majestic. No balcony, but maybe something better. A room in the corner of the C-shaped front of the hotel, with generous French doors that opened up on the perfect angle to take in the spectacular view. (Ignoring, of course, the Palais du Congress.)
Recovering from four grueling days of work, my colleague and I were too tired to even venture out of the hotel on the last night. Instead we moved two arm chairs in front of my French doors, opened a bottle of wine and contemplated the view. If you have to spend time working away from home, moments like this remind you that there's plenty of good to balance the bad.

Locanda Locatelli retains its top spot as my favourite London restaurant

Locanda Locatelli. After my week-long flirtation with Burgundy, it was a bit like returning to the arms of your loving husband after a torrid affair and realising that, as enticing as the variety was, he has always been the love of your life. Just one bite of Giorgio’s papardelle with wild boar sauce, accompanied by a luscious Sicilian red wine, brought me to my senses.

Locanda Locatelli has held its position as my favourite restaurant in London since I first dined there five years ago. While I’ve been there four or five times since, I haven’t made it since the inception of this blog (and owe thanks to my friends at The Economist for resolving that grim situation), so I was curious to see, after so many other spectacular dining experiences, if it would hold its place in my heart. Yes. It does. Resoundingly.

I am extremely particular about my Italian food. It is my ancestral cuisine, what I cook most often myself and something with which I believe, without flattering myself too much, I create some real magic. If I’m looking for something better than my own creations I think not of restaurants but to my cousin Mildred Carbone, whose eggplant parmaggiana would pull tears of delight from the most sober critic. My evaluation of an Italian restaurant has always, therefore, been: “is this significantly better than what comes out of Ferrara family kitchens?”

In the case of star chef Giorgio Locatelli and his kitchen staff the answer has always been, and remains, a resounding “si”. Giorgio doesn’t do pretension or fuss. His menu is, at its heart, quite traditional. But he manages to bring something exemplary to every dish he touches. I’ve sampled some of my own best dishes here … sea bass baked in a coffin of rock salt, tiramisu, of which everyone usually says mine is the best they’ve ever had … and Giorgio takes them to a new plane. I don’t know how he does it, but every menu item is infused with a magic that makes it the finest example of that particular dish you’ve ever tasted.

It is, quite probably, his passion. Watch Giorgio Locatelli live, as I have been privileged to do at several events, and you see a man who clearly believes that good food is the foundation of everything from personal relationships to world peace. His cookbook is the only one I’ve ever actually read cover to cover; it’s not a book of recipes, it’s a religious tract on the possibilities of food and love, time and attention, to transform the planet.

This visit, in addition to the boar, I went on to venison with a fig compote, followed by white chocolate ice cream sitting side-by-side with a decadent hazelnut and chocolate biscuit. The sweets were perfectly balanced by a gently sparkling Moscato which proved to be one of the best dessert wines I’ve ever tasted. Yes, it’s all gourmet, but it’s also comfort food. It’s the culinary equivalent of everyone who’s ever loved you wrapping you in their arms and humming a Mozart lullaby. The Fat Duck was more theatrical, the Restaurant la Distillerie in Luxembourg more inventive, but nobody tops Giorgio’s place for the sheer impact of taste on tongue.

The food itself is complemented by an establishment that has maintained its style and service despite the fact that it’s outlasted many another famous London establishment. The décor in shades of mushrooms and taupes, dominated by big, round, convex mirrors that let you check out the crowd without looking too obvious, is elegant and understated. The staff is comprised of adept, cheerful native Italians who are mostly male, extremely good looking and smoothly flirtatious. (This has always been an added benefit for female diners.)

Locanda Locatelli is, of course, both expensive and difficult to book. With its long-standing reputation and its Michelin star, you’re unlikely to get out of here for under £75 per person, even if you are not drinking. But the fact is, if you’re not privileged enough to get an invite to dinner at my cousin Mildred’s, consider this a worthwhile investment. Whether you’re looking for fine Italian cuisine or inspiring comfort food, you’re not going to do better.

Local delights and fine restaurants combine for a gastronomic holiday to live in memory

It was at the end of a particularly fine Burgundian meal that I stretched back, swallowed another soothing mouthful of wine and commented: "You know, the Indians got it right deifying the cow. Any animal that can produce beautiful steaks, great cheese, then shoes AND handbags deserves a fast track to heaven." The only surprise, really, is that the French didn't have the Saint Vache idea first. Because this is a country that knows what to do with its cows. And its sheep. And goats. And geese. For one glorious week, I reveled in being a completely carnivorous, cheese eating, wine sipping hedonist. I thank all the animals, vines and chefs whose sacrifices made our holiday such a delight.

Our relaxed schedule and the fact that everything else was closed at mid-day encouraged us to embrace the long French lunch, and we quickly fell into the habit of finding a nice restaurant and taking our time. We didn't skimp. Since we were having only one large meal per day, it was going to be a good one, at a nice restaurant with multiple courses and good wines. After so long on a fish- and vegetable-laden Weight Watchers diet, every meal felt deliciously sinful. (Despite the excesses about to be described, plenty of activity, light breakfasts and dinners and a week of post-holiday vegetable soup means that only the blog entry, and not my body, carries a permanent reminder of my fall off the wagon.)

So, let's recall those marvelous restaurants in order of preference.

The finest meal of the trip, as so often is the case, was an unplanned and unrecorded little place. In this case it was Le Saint Etienne, about half way along the main street that climbs to the abbey. We were wandering about town, hoping to taste some local wines, when we asked the proprietress of one shop where we might find a restaurant with a good local wine list. She stepped out her door, had a quick conversation with her friends across the street, and soon we were passed over to their capable hands. One of only two occupied tables in the restaurant, we were a bit worried that emptiness indicated a lack of quality. Not so. Instead, it meant that we had the staff lavishing their full attention on us throughout our three hours there.

Three hours because we couldn't help but indulge in one of the chef's menus. We started with a soup of mussels, magnificently concentrated. Then on to foie gras with tomato chutney. Next, a grilled fillet of red mullet with a side of pureed cauliflower and black truffles that was tasty enough to make me a fan of that vegetable for the first time ever. All of that built up to a fillet from one of those adorable Charolais cows, served with a delicate yet piquant mustard cream sauce.
Next came the cheese cart, complete with some local cheeses that we'd been told about but hadn't yet encountered and a full cheese menu to take home as a souvenir. Regale de Bourgogne is bathed in Marc, a local brandy, and covered in brandy-sodden grapes before aging, making it a sweet yet tangy taste sensation. Ami de Chambertin is soft, aromatic cheese so pungent it makes the local Epoisses seem mild. And finally, a rich chocolate cake with a tart apricot and orange sauce. All served with frequent checks from the jolly head chef, who made it seem as if we'd made his day by allowing him to cook for us. This menu was 48 Euro which, though not cheap, was great value for money for what we got.

The unexpected delight of Le Saint Etienne bumped our expected front runner, the Hostellerie de Clos in Chablis, into second place. Expected because this was our one Michelin star rated restaurant, highly recommended by a colleague of Hillary's. We opted for the menu saveur (49 euro) and once again let a chef have his way with us. I was clearly too delighted by the food to take thorough notes, so I can no longer relate the delights that came with every course. But I can tell you that the creme brulee of foie gras might have been our single favourite dish of the holiday. The lobster bisque will live on in memory for quite a while, especially in the way it worked so perfectly beside the Guy Robins 1er Cru Chablis, Montmains 2005, that the sommelier helped us select from a wine list so massive it took real effort to lift. The main course was duck with poached pears and a pinot noir sauce. Just when we were wondering if life could get any better, they rolled out not one, but two cheese carts. One for cow, one for goat. Variety is, after all, the spice of life. This was all served in the delightful surroundings of a formally furnished but wonderfully bright conservatory, where the crisp white linens made the rain sodden skies seem a little brighter.

Not every meal was this lavish, although the all seemed to feature dishes of great quality. In Meursault we enjoyed Le Bouchons, a guidebook recommended restaurant that overlooks the picturesque town square. That's where I went completely traditional, starting with the escargot, dripping in butter and garlic, before moving on to a rare steak. All of which went perfectly with that rich, red grand vin de Bourgogne. And with the long, stomach-settling walk afterwards. In Noyers we ate at the Brasserie Petit Millesime, where I had an Epoisses tart that achieved the rare trick of being both substantial and delicately flavoured at once. I am normally not a fan of lamb but the roast served there, and recommended by our waitress, was fantastic.

We didn't always go posh, and found that even when we opted for very simple places we were encountering top quality. Our one bargain basement meal, at the Cafe Le Republique in Nuits Saint Georges, delighted with two courses (beef and ratatouille, followed by lemon tart) for 12 euro, and an inexpensive carafe of unnamed local red wine. A comparable meal at Le Grand Balcon in Beaune offered an excellent salade du thon and introduced us to what we would come to recognise as a local specialty: fromage blanc. This is, essentially, a mound of something very much like soured cream, served with a large sugar caster. Massive quantities of sugar made it quite tasty, but it was a one-time-only order. If you're going to sin, then doing so with proper cheese seemed so much more fulfilling.

Luscious whites prove to be Burgundy's best surprise

After a week of drinking our way through the heart of Burgundy, I started to wonder if the English language got something wrong using the word as a synonym for a rich shade of red. In my mind, it's now just as likely to mean a pale, almost translucent gold that flashes green in the right light. Because the white wines of Burgundy are just as glorious as the reds. Perhaps, to this palate, even better.

An exploration of Burgundy's whites logically starts in Chablis, a charming town in the northwest part of the county. The landscape is idyllic: Rolling hills of vineyards slope up from the lazily meandering River Serein, forests edge the hilltops like coxcombs, towers of chateaux tease the eye on various horizons. The town itself lies at the bottom of the valley, climbing gently up its own slope. It's easily walkable, and characterised by features that were becoming familiar: an austerely beautiful early Gothic church; bits of old city wall and towers; townhouses of prosperous medieval merchants sitting beside classic 19th century French architecture; a curious domination of wine shops and domaines. (There's also a nice complement of gourmet shops, clothing boutiques and home decor shops, making this one of our better shopping spots.)

Chablis was the best town we visited for available tastings. We spent a lengthy amount of time at William Fevre, one of the biggest producers in Chablis. It was here that I gained my most distinct understanding of "terroir" as our hostess took us through five wines, each produced from vines grown within a few miles of each other, each with a distinctly different taste. Beyond Fevre, we tasted at two more shops and could have availed ourselves of three or four more opportunities. In a region where we'd come to expect closed shutters and locked doors, this was miraculous.

The most important lesson for the wine neophyte? Never say you like chardonnay better than Chablis. Or vice versa. Because they're pretty much always the same thing. Almost all the vines planted around Chablis are chardonnay. Why, then, does the wine here tend to taste so different from the rich, buttery, oakey chardonnays that California drove to world domination? Terroir again. Chablis wines tend to be crisp and fresh with a minerality that's sometimes described as "flinty" or "steely". You can almost see the vines taking in the flavour of the pale, stone-strewn soil. Think lemonade vs. apple juice: both good, but very different. Compared to the rest of Burgundy, and much of the rest of the world, Chablis' chardonnays tend to spend less time in oak and more in steel. I tasted very little here that I didn't like, and found many wines that were both well matched with food and perfectly drinkable on their own.

Many wine experts believe Chablis is good, but that the greatest whites in the world come from the Cote de Beaune 100 miles to the southeast. The must visit names here are Puligny-Montrachet and Meursault. Unlike the marvellously tourist-friendly Chablisiennes, however, we found few wineries open for tasting.

Our best tasting experience here was at Domaine Leflaive in Puligny-Montrachet, rather inevitable because they seemed to be the only domaine in the village open for tasting. (Neophyte lesson number two: do not pronounce the "t" in Montrachet, and do your best to roll that following "r".) Well geared up for tourists, Leflaive operates a hotel and restaurant as well as his tasting room, all of which are obviously targeted at the well-heeled foreign visitor. The staff was friendly, informative and fluent in English, and their performance was complemented by M. Leflaive himself, who stopped by tables to introduce himself and ask what has led us to his house. (We lied and said we'd read about him, because saying "you were the only place open in town" didn't seem particularly endearing.)

As with many of the larger makers we encountered in Burgundy, Leflaive actually produces wines from across Burgundy, owning rows of grapes in a variety of vineyards. Thus we were able to taste a Puligny-Montrachet beside a Meursault and a Chablis. Interestingly, we each had a different favourite.

It's fortunate that we got a sip of Meursault at Leflaive, and ordered a bottle of the stuff over lunch, because we didn't do any other tastings in that equally famous village. Instead, we had a long, meandering, post-prandial hike looking for any of a list of young wine making stars featured in an article in The New York Times. It became obvious, after fruitless searches for two and being haughtily turned away when we found one, that the writer had expected us to be looking for these names on a wine list, not on the back streets of Meursault itself. We didn't even find these worthy names in the local wine shop.

Still, it was a wonderful walk. Meursault sits on a low hill, with its town square at the crest and its affluent streets winding downwards. The streets are filled with prosperous farmhouses and elegant little chateaux; once again, he had a feeling that here was another place that had been prosperous for a very, very long time. When the architecture grew boring, you merely had to lift up your eyes to the patchwork of vines on the surrounding hills to be inspired. The lack of tasting in Meursault proved a point: you don't even have to like wine to enjoy a wine tour, because the landscape is such a feast for the eyes.

We love wine, of course. And those who opened for tastings were rarely disappointed, as one of us was almost always sure to buy a bottle. The ultimate proof of the success of our trip lies in the photo below, with each girl's investment on a different step. Much of this stuff needs to be cellared for years to be at its best, guaranteeing that we'll each have memories of this trip for many years to come.

Burgundy's reds provide an education in life's finer things

Any holiday with my friends Lisa and Hillary is always serious about wine. They both have distinguished palates, read seriously on the subject and invest in fine bottles for their cellars. (I'm less dedicated, but always very appreciative.) As a trio we've done local wine exploration in Italy, Spain and Tunisia, while working our way through a fine array of wine lists, bars, tastings and fairs in other locations.

Burgundy is without doubt the most serious wine region the trio has tackled together, and if you're going to be serious here, you have to start with the reds. The local tourist board suggests six different wine routes, each of which merit a day or more. With limited time we headed right to the centre of the district, concentrating on the Cote de Nuits and the Cote de Beaune. The first stretches North from Beaune to Dijon, the second South. (With really limited time you could skip the vineyards and concentrate on Beaune which, as the centre of the district, has a large number of wine shops and tasting experiences.)

The names on the map are the same ones you've seen on posh wine lists: Gevrey-Chambertin, Nuits-Saint-Georges, Pommard. The wine route is actually a progression of picturesque small villages, each rarely more than two miles from the next, separated by the exquisitely maintained patchwork of vines. Most of the "domaines" (the houses which produce and sell the wine) are in the villages and actually share the fields around them. There aren't vineyards as in, say, California, where one owner controls a wide swathe of fields. Here, multiple owners tend to control a few rows each in a patchwork of fields.

This stems out of the French passion for "terroir"; the idea that the earth itself infuses the wine and food produced on it with distinct flavours, and that those flavours can change yard by yard depending on elevation, the minerals in the soil, which direction a slope faces, etc. Thus one of the first lessons you learn in Burgundy is that you're not just buying the village, you're buying the field. And each field has specific designations. A "grand cru", France's ultimate designation for wine, and the penultimate "premier cru", are not awarded by some judge based on the taste of that year's wine. They are solely dependent upon the field from which those grapes were harvested. Anything that comes from a grand cru field gets a grand cru designation and, of course, a grand cru price tag. (To me, this seems to put surprisingly little emphasis on the talent of the winemaker, but I suppose most of these vineyards have been in family hands for so long there's an assumption of quality.)

Thus the essential accoutrement for any tasting in Burgundy is an agricultural map of the village fields. Which most domaines have sitting atop their tasting tables as a matter of course. It is only by understanding where the grapes come from that you can properly appreciate the nuances upon which French wine is marketed. In general, the everyday wines are grown on the valley floor in fields close to the villages, while the premier and grand crus tend to be on the hillsides. When offered a series of wines to taste here, it is indeed possible for even only moderately sensitive taste buds to pick up the differences. In some cases the differences are extreme. A few thousand yards and a few extra degrees of elevation can make a massive impact and, in most cases, you could instantly taste the quality difference in the premier crus.

We didn't taste any grand crus. In fact, one of the difficulties of a wine tasting holiday in such a famous region is that the more famous the wine, the less likely you are to get a sip. A domaine may only make 3000 bottles a year of one type of wine; the only tastings they offer are to wine writers and industrial buyers. The rest of us have to buy on reviews and faith. Another challenge of this region is that all the better stuff you're tasting isn't meant to be drunk now. "You must keep this for at least five, but preferably 10 years" was a refrain we heard a lot. I will admit, I don't have the taste buds to imagine how this highly tannic, too acidic wine will mellow in a decade, nor do I have the cellar or the patience to let these juveniles mature. My mouth, and my budget, were more interested in things to drink now.

The inability to taste was particularly true in Gevrey-Chambertin, a village of just a few streets that encompasses nine grand crus and 26 premier crus. Napoleon insisted on travelling with the stuff and it's been getting celebrity endorsements ever since. Though tasting wasn't on offer, we did get a fascinating tour at Domaine Drouhin-LaRoze (notably after Hillary and Lisa both purchased bottles for their cellar). The chatelaine of the place, who married in to the fifth generation of winemakers and has given birth to the sixth, showed us around the venerable cellars filled with barrels of French oak and bottles acquiring their requisite age. Above ground stood a complex of gracious family homes and well maintained agricultural buildings, testament that this corner of the world has been prosperous for a long, comfortable time.

A stone's throw away, in a small village square, stood a tiny wine shop that carried a variety of the village's produce. Again, no tastings; it's all about recommendation and trust. I was interested to see what moderately priced wines from this exclusive village tasted like, so followed the shopkeeper's advice and purchased three bottles of plain old Gevrey-Chambertin village Burgundy from winemaker Sylvie Esmonin for 12 euro a bottle. We did our own tasting that night and I found my bargain buy delicious.

Just south of Gevrey is Vougeot, a particularly picturesque village with a single long street bisected by a stream flowing toward a mill with working water wheel, now turned in to a restaurant and hotel. Domaine Bertagne earned our affections here, not only for being open and generous with tastings (we'd had two earlier abortive attempts in the village) but for actually making wine in the courtyard while we were there. I had anticipated seeing more production, and while the yeasty smell of newly-fermenting juice was heavy in the air, this was the only time we saw the winemakers at work.

Another few miles south brings you to Nuits-Saint-Georges, the anchor of this little area. It's particularly famous for its hospital which, like the institution in Beaune, has a long financial legacy based on wine and has a particularly famous wine auction every year. We had a good stroll around town looking for several producers tipped by the New York Times, but our timing was particularly bad. It was 12:30 and everyone save one wine shop was shut up tight. We took the proprietor's advice and, after tasting a glass of the local nectar he had on offer, headed off for lunch. Even after meal time, most of the wine producers' doors stayed closed. They were all clearly too busy making their wine to waste precious time with tourists. Fortunately Nuits is blessed with some charming shops, so we were happily diverted before heading elsewhere.

A different day found us further south in the Cote de Beaune. This is a more mixed area, known for both its whites and reds. The most famous of the latter here is Pommard. Again, few "ouvert" signs were out and tasting opportunities were few. Except that the very clever vintners of Pommard have joined together to communally fund a wine shop on the main square run by a phenomenally friendly and informed young woman who, once she saw the level of our interest, spent at least an hour with us allowing us to taste a variety and taking us through details of each. Unsurprisingly, this made Pommard not only my favourite red wine village but the place where I made my biggest purchase, investing in a 2001 wine redolent with red fruits and just starting to get those earthy tones that the really mature wines have, that will take pride of place at Christmas dinner.

A few minutes up the road was Volnay, where we had the tiny local grower experience I'd been expecting more of. A sign and a barrel topped with a range of bottles welcomed us into Domaine Christophe Vaudoisey's courtyard, then a single shop, office and packing room where the little old man (M. Vaudoisey, I presume) grabbed a key and brought us downstairs into the cellar. In which he allowed us to taste the full range of his labour. It was here that I bought my experiments in cellaring. Two bottles will be living in our host's medieval vaults for seven to 10 years, at which point I should have something extraordinary.

While our adventures in classic reds were educational and delicious, they may have exposed me as a wine cretin. The mostly Pinot Noir based wines of this region are legendary for being complex, subtle and delicate. While exquisite with food, to my palate they don't fare well when drunk alone. I'm afraid that unless I'm matching wine to a specific dish, I still prefer the big, bold, fruity kick of a cabernet or a merlot. It may be a horrifying preference to a wine expert, but at least now it's a more informed one.