Going to France is a bad idea

Hold on. Let me rephrase that. Going to France is a bad idea if you're on a diet. Any time you sit down at the table, the diet devil will be sitting at your left elbow, intent on tempting you to sin.

'A little slice of terrine de foie gras, perhaps?' asks the waiter. 'Or maybe Madame would prefer to start her meal with some snails.'

Snails by themselves would be just fine. But snails come swimming in molten butter flavoured with garlic and parsley, all of which screams to be mopped up with crusty white bread, strictly verboten and therefore thoroughly tempting.

Main courses come piled high with mounds of protein: poulet de Bresse or Charolais beef (the latter capped with a slice of foie gras – which was a bit of a recurring theme last week).

Desserts are orgies of cream and butter and sugar. Not to mention chocolate.

The only thing lacking in all this was fresh green vegetables. I spent all of last week, from first thing on Monday to Saturday evening, in Burgundy, normally one of my favourite places to be. I was there to taste my way through wines made from grapes grown from Chablis in the north to the Maconnais in the south. So far, so good. After all, spitting is considered to be the polite thing to do (even though about a glass' worth of alcohol for every 15-20 wines you taste).

The damage was done, in the main, at mealtimes. Apart from one memorable lunch, where we were treated to fresh seafood, cured salmon and a variety of salads, midday meals were thoroughly unhealthy affairs at which the only edible options were mini quiches, small bowls of creamy purées, gooey cheeses, foie gras sandwiches and, on one memorable occasion, what looked like a pizza covered in pink puke (I think it was some kind of dessert, but I wasn't about to find out for sure).

Dinners were even worse. Somewhat more edible, perhaps, but incredibly lavish. In addition, seating is assigned, so you end up being split up from your mates and placed at tables where you know no one. Sometimes you end up having a fun evening. Sometimes you get so bored your teeth ache from the tedium. One night I was put on a table with three local winemaking couples, who all knew each other. Even though my French is pretty good, I just didn't have the energy to make the effort, so I pretended I could only speak English and got whisked away to another, more convivial, table. Naughty me.

On evenings like this, the food keeps coming. It's not unusual to be served five, six or even seven courses. And none of it's designed for anyone counting calories. Wine is also merrily poured into your glass – but nobody minds if you tip it right back out again and try something else, so at least I can keep the alcohol levels down. As ever in these situations, I just try to aim for small portions.

Despite my best efforts, though, I ended up feeling like a Strasbourg goose the week before Christmas. I wasn't expecting much from my weekly weigh in, either.