Like many of its wines, Bordeaux would have been better with a bit more time

Bordeaux has been a savvy commercial centre since Roman times.  It's a river town with an
enormous port on a wide, slow bend in the Garonne.  This Mississippi-like river snakes through Southern France, providing a watery highway linking Toulouse, Bordeaux and the Atlantic.  The Bordelais have exploited their geography by becoming pragmatic brokers and traders.  Their most famous export, of course, being wine.

This commercial heritage is reflected in an efficient tourism office, one of the best I've ever experienced for offering agendas and sorting details.  We gave them a simple mission: "We're here for a day and a half, we'd like to get an introduction to the region, but we're most interested in tasting and buying wine."  I suspect that penultimate word triggered an increased level of attention.

Of course, our first visit to Bordeaux undoubtably deserved more than 12 hours of sightseeing, and the logic of the map said we should have stopped here ... the 2/3rds point between the Normandy Coast and Gascony ... en route.  Instead, logistics forced us to squeeze it in to the two nights between the end of cooking school and the beginning of our week-long cottage rental.

The tourism office has a dedicated wine desk, unsurprisingly in what's arguably the world's largest production area for fine wines.  We quickly ended up here, where the desk manager sorted a tasting for us that afternoon, and an all-day tour the next day that would cover the city highlights before heading out to the august wine region of St. Emilion.

There are a bewildering number of places to taste wine in Bordeaux, of course, but most are introductions to the region that give a similar overview.  Compare and contrast the left and right banks, end with a Sauternes.  We'd done an excellent starter course with Berry Brothers in November (covered here), so wanted something more specific.  We were looking for interesting wines from smaller producers that didn't export much; reasonably-priced jewels we could lay down and reveal with a story at a dinner party in a few years' time.  The tourist board sent us to The Wine Corner, a small shop in a street running north from the cathedral which, we were assured, did highly personalised tastings and specialised in smaller vineyards.

Appearances deceive
Our first few minutes weren't promising.  The shop wasn't much bigger than a galley kitchen, we had to wait for other customers to clear out even though we'd made an appointment and the girl serving us was no local, but a Russian.  But all was not what it seemed.  Experts from all over the world come to this oenological Mecca to hone their skills.  She knew her stuff.  The shop front was the tip of an iceberg; when you wind down some circular stone stairs you find yourself in a warren of 18th century cellars with a cozy tasting alcove furnished with two plushly upholstered bar stools.  Our Russian spent time upstairs diagnosing our tastes and talking through possibilities.  After identifying the four we wanted to try, it was downstairs to the cellar, where she put the wines in a sensible order and walked us through the tasting notes and cellaring potential of each.

We'd opted for an organised tour the next day based on two warnings you always hear about Bordeaux.  First:  It's a huge area, and if you don't know where you're going you can spend hours driving aimlessly amongst the vines.  Second:  Few vineyards are open to walk up trade; you have to arrange tastings in advance.  There was a third tip we heard repeatedly:  Go to St. Emilion.  And so we were off, on a 25-seater mini-coach, for a short city tour followed by lunch at a St. Emilion vineyard, a drive around the AOC and a wander in the eponymous town.

The city tour was an excellent idea.  Bordeaux is not your typical provincial wine town like Beaune, Greve-in-Chianti or Napa.  It's France's 6th-largest city, with history, additional industry and government (it's the regional capital) to add to the wine.  The city centre is walkable, in theory, but the bus covered everything faster, with commentary.  The mostly 18th-century riverfront is gorgeous; the Place de la Borse and its fellows as palatial as Versailles, but built to celebrate commerce rather than monarchy.  The Alee de Tourny is a gracious rectangular space of the same period that called Piazza Navona to mind.  In fact, there's block after block of magnificent 18th century architecture that makes it clear this place was dripping with money while Paris' poor were storming the Bastille.  It's no wonder that the Girondin movement, a counter to the lead revolutionary party, was based here.  They lost, but they're commemorated in a stunning memorial column.

Other eras pop in to mix things up.  There are two city gates Eleanor of Aquitane would recognise, and though the cathedral where she contracted her marriage to Louis of France has seen several makeovers since her time, it's still resolutely gothic.  As are a whole string of impressive churches across town.  The Romans exert their presence with the ghostly remains of an amphitheater.  There's even a modern district similar to Paris' La Defense, and a Richard Rodgers-designed courthouse with funky inverted towers that mimic the Medieval tower next door.  Getting a feel for the place in a morning, or even a day, was a bit laughable.  Turns out Bordeaux has 362 official monuments historiques ... only Paris has more.  But the bus made a valiant attempt and left us with the understanding that there's plenty to see here before you even start to think about wine.

Then it was off to St. Emilion, the 30 minutes of highway driving before we saw a vineyard validating the warning about how big this place is.  The next surprise:  it's quite flat.  Every wine district I've toured relies on steep slopes, and I've accepted the general rule of thumb that the good stuff comes from high up, while the vines in the valleys yield the cheap table wine.  That's definitely not the case here, where some of the world's most expensive wines are grown in flat fields or gently rolling hills.

Our winery tour took place at Chateau Grand Corbin-Despagne, a grand cru in the northern part of the district close to the border with the equally-famous Pomerol.  The tour was standard:  start in the vineyard to discuss growth and harvest, into the room with the fermenting tanks to go over the making, finish with the barrels to talk about ageing.  The regional difference seems to be an obsessive degree of quality control.  From regular pruning of each vine to control exactly how much sun each bunch of grapes gets, to sorting the fruit grape by grape, to minutely varying the temperature of the fermenting vats as needed to moving the wines through different barrels, this is a high-intensity wine making process.  You can certainly understand why something so labour-intensive demands such a high price.  Although a sceptical voice inside of me was thinking, surely you can produce equally nice wines in other regions without all the faffing about?

The class of '85

Perhaps, but doubtless not with this sophistication and ability to age.  Over a buffet lunch we tasted four different wines, going all the way back to their 1985.  That one was a tour-de-force of complexity, giving entirely different experiences from first taste to finish and showing off why good, old wines are so treasured.  And so expensive!  These days they produce both a showcase wine and a secondary and we actually preferred the junior partner, bringing a case home to age.  It's classic Bordeaux, with light tannins, red fruits, earth and even a hint of liquorice that should mellow and deepen with laying down.

Our postprandial drive wound us through St. Emilion's extensive vineyards, dotted with historic chateaux, humble farmhouses and the mid-sized producers between them.  There's plenty of gorgeous architecture to marvel at, the landscape has enough variety to be constantly interesting, and the tour guide was a treasure trove of historical titbits about what happened, where.  One thing was certain: the whole region is doing very, very well.  Our Russian wine tasting hostess and the Chinese ads we saw for wine tours made it clear that the international super-rich are pouring in here, buying expensive labels to prove sophistication.

The top-end wineries are responding to the trend, building lavish additions, investing in their operations and producing ever more complex wines to justify the escalating prices.  Our guide, however, told us a salutary tale.  The super-rich she's been exposed to aren't interested in the nuances of taste, or the complexities of food matching.  They're ticking an acquisition box that validates their wealth.  She's had people say to her, "I've already bought and drank a €300 bottle.  Why should I buy another?  They all taste the same."  I fear that by escalating prices to take advantage of a current trend, the wine makers of Bordeaux may have a problem when the high rollers drift to the next "must have".

Our final stop was the town of St. Emilion itself, which ended the day on a sour note.  I suspect this is one of these places like Taormina or San Gimignano that transforms back into a picturesque stage set at night, after the group tours leave.  But in the middle of the day, with every street body-to-body with tourists, it's horrible.  The Medieval ruins, stately towers and giddily-angled streets fade beneath the braying hordes.  Few seem to have any interest in what's around them.  They're eating ice cream, browsing through tacky, wine-themed gift shops or stopping to block traffic as they debate where to go next.  In a square at the heart of town, a busker "entertains" in a voice so irritating we thought he must be asking for money to stop. We found the whole place charmless and irritating, and were happy to have so little time there.

Fortunately, there was one redeeming feature.  The monolithic church is worth pushing past the crowds to see.  A local nobleman returned from the first crusade so impressed by the church of the Holy Sepulchre that he decided to create his own version in St. Emilion, hewing a Romanesque church out of the living rock to house the bones of the monk who gave name to the place.  It's an other-worldly, subterranean wonder, unlike anything I've ever seen.  It's more like a Game of Thrones set than a recognisable piece of European history, even with the modern incursion of the metal struts necessary on some of the columns to keep the whole thing from collapsing.  And, best of all, access is limited and only by ticketed, guided tour.  Meaning it's the only place in St. Emilion where you can find space to breathe, while being with people who appreciate their surroundings.

We packed an enormous amount into a day and a half, found plenty to enjoy and bought several cases of treasure for the wine fridges.  But, bottom line, we like Burgundy more.  From the sightseeing to the vineyards to the style of wine, the other famous wine region touches our heart a bit more.  Bordeaux, doubtlessly, deserves more time to prove us wrong.  But we had to go.  A cottage back in the sleepy Gascon countryside was calling.

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.

Trio of restaurant discoveries is Paris' Christmas gift

One of the greatest delights of London life is the fact that places that, from America, are “trips of a lifetime”, become quick and familiar weekend getaways.

Paris comes with an enormous cultural legacy. If you haven’t been here before, or are not sure of repeat visits, it’s almost impossible to relax under the burden of required trips to museums like the Louvre, the Gare du Nord or Musee de Cluny and visits to architectural blockbusters like the Eiffel Tower, Versailles and the Place de la Concorde. But when Paris is easily accessible … the equivalent of a trip to Memphis or Chicago from St. Louis … you can cross a threshold where you’ve done the major sites and no longer feel compelled to pursue the tourist round. It’s then that you can simply wander, window shop and dine, free from cultural guilt.

Which is exactly how the Northwestern Girls spent their recent pre-Christmas weekend. We were concentrating on food, wine and whatever holiday shopping made sense given the punishing strength of the Euro. It was a blissful and relaxed weekend, though the exchange rate made it frightfully expensive.

Our base was the Hotel St. Louis – Marais, long my favourite landing spot in the city. I love this part of town, with its gracious 16^th century architecture, classy boutiques and quiet back lanes. Though adjacent to the Seine and within walking distance of most major sites, it seems quieter and less overrun with tourists than other parts of town. The Hotel St. Louis is an old townhouse with less than 20 rooms. It’s gracious, charming and has a bit of historic flair. Think B&B rather than amenity-rich hotel, however. We shared a junior suite on the very top floor. (There’s no lift here, so be sure you have the energy for long flights of stairs before booking.) The exposed timbers, cathedral ceiling and lofted gallery gave the room great interest, while the three beds (one main, one in the loft, one tucked under the sloping eaves) and modern bathroom made it wonderfully convenient. At 160 euro a night for the room, not bargain basement prices, but certainly fine value for money when split between three.

It was a great weekend for wandering. We stumbled onto an outdoor market in the Marais, filled with local producers who'd brought cheese, preserved fruits, foie gras, wines, etc. in from the countryside. Foie gras, in fact, was to be a theme of the weekend. Not only did we indulge in restaurants, but we kept stumbling into specialty shops offering samples and holiday deals. In fact, the French grasp the idea of free samples in a way still alien to the English; by lunch on Saturday we'd been offered five types of foie gras, chocolate truffles and a wide variety of wines, all gratis. How civilised. Our rambles over the weekend took us around the Place des Voges, through the M

arais, around the Saint Germain des Pres and down the main street of the Isle St. Louis. Good window shopping, as there seem to be more independent boutiques left in Paris than in London these days. But there were few bargains, so we bought little. It was only at the very end of the weekend that we made it over to the "Grands Magasin", the huge department stores with the famous Christmas decorations. Impressive lights, and window displays far better than anything in London, but still not a patch on Marshall Fields' State Street extravaganzas.

Shopping was nice, but it was eating and drinking (and the accompanying conversations) that made the weekend. Find No. 1 was Roger la Grenouille (28,Rue des Grands Augustins), a classic neighbourhood bistro in the heart of Saint Germain des Pres. If you remember enough French to know that grenouille means frog, you won't be surprised to learn that the place specialises in frogs' legs, with one normal menu and one of froggy delights. Hillary was the adventurous one, starting with a pile of legs cooked with small tomatoes, pine nuts and olive oil. Very tasty and, yes, pretty much just like chicken. I, however, was compelled to go for the trio of foie gras, featuring one slice duck, one goose, and some foie gras creme brulee. Our main course orders encompassed prawns, scallops and beef, all cooked to perfection. I can't imagine returning to Paris without coming back here.

Tied for second place were our restaurants for Saturday dinner and Sunday lunch. Saturday found us at Vins des Pyranees (25 rue Beautreillis), a bistro just around the corner from our hotel in what was once a wine importer ... ergo the name. The place came highly recommended and the menu was classic hearty cuisine; French comfort food. Yes, the French can elevate steak and chips to an entirely different meal than the equivalent in most other countries. Embrace the simplicity and enjoy. My one criticism would be the crowd. There were enough people packed cheek-by-jowl in here for me to wonder about fire regulations. Probably due to it being a pre-holiday Saturday night, but not a place to do if you're looking for a quiet, romantic meal.

For Sunday lunch, after discovering that two of our choices were closed, we literally stumbled onto Le Grand Colbert. ("Look, that place is open. It looks nice. Hey, it's in the guidebook. Hey ... it's famous.") Turns out Colbert (2 Rue Vivienne) is one of the city's classic bistros, patronised by many famous people over the years and listed as an architectural landmark. Its interiors are worth the trip alone: tall ceilings, Pompeiian wall paintings, gleaming brass fittings, impressive lamps with globes of frosted glass. You could almost forgive an average meal. Fortunately, the food doesn't disappoint either. We ate off the set menu, making this one of our more reasonable outings. The offerings are simple, majoring on grilled meats and fish, and very nice oysters, but the preparation and serving is done with flair.

French food has a lofty reputation, but it's easy to get bad meals in Paris. I know. I've had them. This time, I got lucky, and now have a short list for all future trips. Who knows. I may even get back inside a museum next time.

Hotel Splendid shows a warmer, simpler side of Cannes

One of the nicer perks of being a European executive is the location of our regional trade shows. Americans tend to get shipped out to Las Vegas. We find ourselves in Cannes. Believe me, even if you're not a fan of the French, there are far worse places to spend a hard-working week. Especially in early November.

It's Gartner IT Symposium week once again, thus I've been sparkling with exuberance for my employer, working the crowds and blogging and twittering for all I'm worth back on to the corporate web site. The majority of my time has been spent in the basement of the unlovely Palais de Expositions, a lump of '60s era concrete that does this gorgeous stretch of coast an extreme insult. Except that its vast size and great functionality means that I tend to get down here for one reason or another every year or so. And for that, I owe its brutalist architect a vote of thanks. Because every morning, before reporting for duty, there's a chance to take a brisk mile-and-a-half walk around the bay-side promenade known at the Croisette.



This part of the world has been famous for the quality of its light for centuries, but especially since the Impressionists flocked here. There is no arguing with that. In the early morning as the sun crests the horizon, everything lying beneath seems sharpened and defined, yet also softened in a pastel glow. Quite a trick. The buildings of Cannes ... subtle pink, the lightest mustard yellow, rich cream ... sparkle with the same lustre as the inside of a clam shell. The skies behind are a delicate, watercolour blue, and stretching away beneath them are green mountains punctuated by vivid white escarpments of limestone. It is remarkable, soothing, and a scene to make even the greatest philistine wish he could paint. Because no camera will ever really capture the subtlety of these colours and the calm they evoke.

Of course, subtlety ends with the fading of the morning light, and certainly does not carry through to the shops or residents of the town. This place was "bling" long before anyone thought of the term. We may be in a recession, but the shops along the waterfront still bear the names Hermes, Gucci and Prada, and carefully made up mutton dressed as lamb carry tiny dogs wearning those same brands in handbags that cost my take home pay for the month. That's the part of Cannes I find distasteful, and try to avoid as much as possible. Fortunately, the shops on the main street just one back from the beach, the Rue d'Antibes, are filled with stylish items for more normal prices. I only got one quick shopping break from the show floor, but it was a good one.

I have no great finds to report on the restaurant front. As with previous years, we've rolled into spots that were convenient and available. Food is average and prices are shocking: 23 euro for a small and unexceptional main of prawns provencal (I've had better in London) and 8 euro for a glass of wine was typical. Undoubtably, they can get away with these prices because everyone is either on expense account or too rich to care. Certainly I can't imagine anyone ever coming here on his own money.

Our best meal by far was 12 miles up the coast in Cap D'Antibes, where an Italian friend (yes, the same one who initiated last year's giddy dash to Monte Carlo for pizza) found a small Italian place run by immigrants who delivered the quality and flavours we would expect over the border. Great value, fantastic pizza and ... to the boys' delight ... TVs tuned to the Milan-Madrid football game. Next year, Enrico is considering an outing to San Tropez, so we can complete a Trifecta of pizza on this snooty coast.

Worth noting by name, however, was the Hotel Splendid. The team divided vehemently on this. We are used to staying 100 yards up the Croisette at the Majestic. Which is, granted, a testament to the gold-gilt luxury that Cannes does so well. I've had exceptional rooms here with exquisite views, and been amused to drink in the over-the-top bar, decorated like a 19th century Parisian brothel, watching prostitutes work the convention crowd who look like they've been around since Picasso took his first painting trip down here. The Splendid didn't have a prostitute in sight. No red velvet, gold gilt or oversized statues. It did have a cozy lobby, friendly staff who actually recognised you as a guest and a resident cavalier King Charles spaniel. The rooms were homey, French country blue and white, and came with a welcoming bowl of fruit and a sachet of fresh lavender sewn up in a Provencal-print bag. Breakfast came with the room rate (as opposed to the 30 euro or so we'd rack up in addition before), featured eggs as well as the standard Continental fare and could be consumed on a sunny terrace overlooking the yacht harbour.



Don't get me wrong. I like my luxury. But luxury without charm leaves me cold. This place had a warmth that the Majestic will never match, despite its four stars. The Splendid is still almost 200 euros a night, so don't expect a bargain. But if I were forced to stay in Cannes on my own money, I'd book here.

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.

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.