I’m a rosé convert

Paris is more than a city. It is a state of mind, an aspiration. Though it glorifies the military, it remains feminine and beguiling. Its heroes moved effortlessly from triumphs on the battlefield to triumphs in the boudoir. The very stones of Paris seem redolent of the dreams and ecstasies of past lovers, and of their frustrations, follies and pains. Heloise and Abelard loved and suffered here.

In many respects, alas, contemporary Paris has fallen a long way from romance. Everyone has stories of rubbish, dirt and rats. The days when bon chic, bon genre set the tone for the Grands Boulevards are long gone. Today, the scruffiness is enhanced by McDonald’s and Starbucks. The very crimes lack grandeur. Several of the banlieues have been overrun by squalor and violence, while the cops only patrol them in armoured vehicles. It might seem inconceivable to sojourn in Paris without going to Saint–Denis, yet that would now require a military expedition. That this magnificent church should be barred to civilisation is itself an affront to civilisation: almost a throwback to the days when the revolutionaries destroyed the tombs of the French monarchs. It is to be hoped that those despoilers quickly found their way to the guillotine. If only it had been earlier.

But pessimism must not prevail. Most of the reasons for visiting Paris are as joyous as ever. This is a capital of art, and also of gastronomy. ‘Gourmet’: the word entices one to roll it around the palate, as a linguistic aperitif and in pleasurable anticipation. There are good non-French cuisines. The Italians know how to make ingredients sing. The Spaniards understand jamon and fish: the Japanese, raw fish. But at its finest, French food culture still surpasses them all.