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About 1975, we would potter down through France by car and indulge in the gastronomic excesses of Provencale cuisine.

When the open countryside gave way to mountains and we reached Provence, we sniffed the thyme and basil scented air and swore we could detect garlic carried on the breeze. On this occasion, we wound our way through the rocky outcrop, studded with spiny, yellow flowering broom and down to the coast, Nice and the Mediterranean sea shimmering under a white hot sky. We parked the Citroen in the shade of the palms on the sweeping Promenade des Anglais, and delved into our travel bible, the Red Michelin Guide. So afraid of mislaying ‘the Word’ it was practically strapped to the thigh.

We had a plan. Hotel first. Then, an inexpensive restaurant where we could eat for two nights and on the third evening, explore the gourmet establishments of the region.

Nice provided a tiny restaurant, the Chez Nicole on the Cours Salaya behind the Promenade. Its walls were snuff coloured and shiny, impregnated with generations of Gauloise cigarette smoke. It was basic. Knife, fork, spoon and hard wooden chairs. Huge tureens of leek and potato soup and pork terrine were handed from table to table with Madame keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings. The menu never varied. Plain steak, or lamb chops, chips, salad, cheese, coffee and a half litre carafe of red wine, all for Frs12. (£1.50) As the only English in the house, entente cordiale prevailed, and there was much salut-ing and waving of wine bottles.

Every third evening, we dined sumptuously. At L’Abbaye, under a dark blue sky, it was aromatic, herb lamb parcelled in vine leaves. La Belle Epoche, furnished in plush red velvet, had the distinct air of an old fashioned bordello. Maidens, in Edwardian dress, scarlet, green and gold trimmed, served corn fed chicken from the Auvergne, smothered in melted Roquefort cheese and Pears Belle Helene, covered in chocolate sauce and sliced almonds.

Then we found the Auberge des Seigneurs. In the old walled quarter of Vence it was tucked under the wing of the Chateau de Villeneuve. Built in 1538, it was a weathered stone building with vibrant cerise and purple bourganvillia clambering up its ancient walls. As the heavy, wooden door swung open, the pungent smell of garlic and roasting meats wafted round the small foyer.

As we were shown into the main restaurant, the impression was of a high windowed, long, light room. It was plain and simply furnished, because, as we realised later, no distraction from the serious business of eating could be permitted. Long, scrubbed tables, ran down the centre, on which jars of wild flowers were placed at intervals. It was laden with wooden bowls of fresh apricots, nectarines and peaches and round platters of cheese. Fringing the walls, red and white checked cloths covered small, square tables, on which stood a guttering candle, stuck in an empty Chianti bottle. Sitting on an enormous black, ebony wood dresser, against one wall were three very large decanters filled with some unrecognisable liquor. But it was the far end of the room that drew the eye. Gently rotating on a long spit above red hot coals, were sizzling joints of lamb, chicken, duck, and guinea fowl. Glistening and running with juices that spat and hissed into the fire below, they were browning to crisp succulence.

Escorted to our table by Madame, we were left to peruse the menu. Our eyes grew rounder by the minute, remembering food in England, was still unsophisticated by French standards. We agonised over our choices, Should we have the fish broth? Hmm, p’raps not. Traditional onion soup, with thick toast covered in Gruyere cheese floating on the top, or creamed lettuce soup, chilled? Snails in wine to follow, or Coquilles St. Jacques? All that garlic and tomato. There was lamb brioche, veal Riviera style, and cassoulet. Cassoulet? Redolent of mediaeval, siege warfare and desperation, stewed rat, cat and any other unsuspecting rodent, however updated, to sausages, pork and beans, somehow didn’t appeal. In the end, we settled for one chilled lettuce soup, one onion soup, Coquilles St Jacques, Moules Marinieres, two stuffed Guinea fowl with Gratin potatoes and cream, salad, and Flambéed Pineapple in Kirsch or Souffle au Grand Marnier. Wine? Husband says he remembers a full-bodied, red Burgundy.

At that moment, a diminutive rotund, well fat really, personage appeared. Immaculate in snowy, white apron, a starched white chef’s hat was perched above a flushed, chubby face and wobbly jowls. He gave the cooking meats a cursory poke with a devil’s fork. Turning to face the room, he pursed his lips and gazed at the incumbent diners. He inclined his head in gracious greeting, returned to the spit, gave another desultory poke at the meats and off he waddled.

Our meal began. First to arrive, a huge, golden, puff pastry square, filled with cheese. It was apparently, only an appetizer. We demolished the first two courses with suitable noises of appreciation. Dauphinois potatoes and the guinea fowl, stuffed with thyme, parsley, spices of nutmeg and cloves and apparently sherry was a riot of flavours. I remember feeling piquant sauce dribbling down my chin, reminiscent of the famous food guzzling scene in the film Tom Jones, played by Albert Finney. We decided we deserved to be thoroughly sick. However, a pause, at least half an hour, allowed some respite.

Monsieur le Patron re-appeared, this time pursed lips replaced by a huge smile creasing his face. He was bearing an enormous bouquet of long stemmed, red roses nearly as big as himself. He processed round the room, and with legendary Gallic charm and a small bow, presented each woman with a flower. As he approached our table he carefully placed a rose between his teeth before presenting it to me. Husband’s eye brows disappeared out of sight. I stifled a giggle and accepted it, I hope, with grace. Looking back I wonder whether this latter was a figment of my overheated imagination, but it was that kind of occasion.

And so the cheese. Apparently, in a moment of almost serious despair, President de Gaulle once said "How is it possible to govern in a land where there are more than four hundred different kinds of cheese?" David and Charles, 1973 La Bonne Cuisine, Paris. I could only agree. From blue veined Roquefort to crusted Brie, from soft, sour goat to smelly Camambert, Gruyere. . . I counted at least thirteen varieties on the cheese board.

As we slumped over the table groaning, we seriously doubted our capacity to deal with the pineapple pudding and soufflé. One final heroic effort, we decided, and a request for tiny portions. Tiny portions didn’t exist in France then. The pineapple flambéed with a spectacular whoosh, and was then lowered on to a hillock of ice cream. The soufflé had peaked to perfection. We drew a collective, deep breath and plunged in.

We sat back, uncomfortable to bursting point, and waited for coffee. We worked out, that in true French style, we had been consuming food for nearly three and a half hours. 

Then, for the third time, Monsieur appeared. He was making his way steadily down the long room, with us firmly in his sights. We exchanged looks and watched his approach with apprehension. Had we, unaware, contravened some item of French etiquette, been inadvertently rude, in our less than perfect French? But no, he was beaming. He peered into our now empty coffee cups. "Ha," he said "Ha," looking at us both, and raising his index finger, he turned, and waddled across to the dresser.

Standing on tiptoe, he reached for one of those huge, liquor-filled decanters. It was almost as big as he was, and as he teetered precariously, he was in serious danger of falling over and emptying the contents over his spotless whites. He managed to remain upright and returned to us, pink faced with effort, but still smiling. On closer inspection, the contents of the decanter looked distinctly unpromising. An unpleasant shade of grey, there was some kind of grotesque, prematurely gnarled young tree growing in it. With a flourish, he poured about an inch into our coffee cups, then with a wicked leer, and rolling his French r’s to good effect, he said, "Pour-rrr, l’amour- rrr". We snorted with laughter and somehow we must have made appreciative noises, but I have to say it tasted of very old, unwashed socks. He winked, bowed and toddled away.

We fell out into the balmy Mediterranean night. "Pour l’amour be blowed," said husband between fresh bouts of helpless laughter. "I can tell you, when I get to bed and lie down, my stomach will develop independent suspension. It will stay put if the rest of me even tries to turn over". Memorable?