I love Paris in the spring time

A year ago I decided I never want to go back to Paris. Ever, ever, ever. We’d travelled up from gentle old Provence where even the gruffest of the villagers give us the time of day and by 11 am on our first morning in the French capital I’d had enough.

We’d had a late breakfast where we were charged extra for the butter and jam to accompany the stale bread. My mood lightened momentarily when some freshly squeezed orange juice materialised, but actually it was another excuse to bump up the cost. When the bill arrived a small glass of the juice, which had been volunteered rather than ordered, turned out to cost €11. To make matters worse it had been watered down. As the day continued so did the rip-offs.

We asked for some house wine near the Louvre. Two tiny glasses and a bill for €22 later I’d had enough.

“Is that really the cheapest wine on your menu?” I asked.

The waiter shook his head, “no, but the house wine is Chablis, and you asked for house.”

My temper was as dark as the sky. It rained for the rest of the weekend, I caught a cold and back in England my grandmother died. As we left the Gare du Lyon and headed back to Provence I was sure I never wanted to return.

That was a year ago. After Christmas Tanya came up with the idea of meeting our friends for lunch in Paris. The TGV takes three hours from Aix and the Eurostar the same time from London. We sent out an email and three months later on March 01 we all met up for Champagne under the Eiffel Tower and then lunch.

The restaurant we’d chosen was La Fontaine de Mars. Loved by people who know Paris it had been billed as the thinking person’s bistrot with fair prices and excellent food. As we entered a red semi-circular curtain was drawn back to reveal the restaurant. The stage was set - could Paris redeem itself.

The first good sign was that the waiters spoke to us in French. I am the first to admit that I’m not fluent, but I can hold my own and I don’t accept this nonsense that Parisian waiters are only being polite when they speak English - they are trying to establish a psychological advantage over the customer.

Not this time, the waiters from Fontaine de Mars were exemplary throughout the meal - not one snotty glance at the four children under 4 wreaking havoc in their restaurant. The décor lacked that knock you in the face Frenchness that distinguishes some of the great Brasseries - your Bofingers and La Coupoles. There were no mirrors and no art deco lamps hanging from cavernous ceilings but there was a bustling familiarity about the room and comforting weariness to the wallpaper and chairs, which was nicely offset by the crisp white linen of the tables and the polished sheen of the old wooden bar.

Despite a menu full of French classics - Toulouse sausage, cote de veau and fish soup - our London friends excelled themselves, 12 out of 14 ordered steak frite. I tried some. Crispy on the outside, reassuringly under done (by English standards) on the inside, and accompanied by home cooked chips and a light béarnaise, it made me smile, as did the wine list. No sign of rip-off Paris here - a bottle of dry sauvignon for 11 euros - that was the price I paid for a glass of house wine by the Louvre. The red was priced in a similarly friendly manner.

The only complaint was the foie gras which arrived on a bare plate. Foie gras on its own, is a nice, if unremarkable experience. Foie gras served with a sweet reduction - fig, raspberry, quince it really doesn’t matter - dances across the tongue, particularly when accompanied by some texture enhancing cracked peppers. It’s really not that hard.

But that’s my only whinge. Other dishes including snails smothered in garlic and lightly dusted with parsley were exemplary. The bill after three and a half hours (the lunch was rather liquid) in the city, which after my last visit, I’d christened the rip-off capital of the world came to 60 euros ahead. No one rushed us, we were allowed to linger as long as we liked and when one of our party turned up over two hours late - his excuse a training run for the London marathon in the Bois du Boulogne - rather than dismissively telling him the kitchen was shut, the chef put his whites back on and started again.

The next day we had a walk in the Jardin du Luxembourg and watched as small children sailed toy yachts across the pond - a much grander version of the Aldborough Boating lake I frequented when I was young. Before we got the train home we lunched in the Brasserie European opposite the Gare Du Lyon. From the outside it looks nice, but unremarkable. Inside it is a revelation, all mirrors, baroque lighting and waiters in penguin suits slaloming between tables. The food was quick, and perfect for the morning after an overindulgent evening, chicken with a tarragon gravy and mash potatoes and rosemary infused roast lamb.

Nearby hidden inside the Gare Du Lyon in one of the city’s greatest brasseries - Le Trein Bleu - where we’d considered eating, but the European provided the same, if not a better, theatrical dining experience. The customers had been lured by the food, not the reputation, and there was no danger of encountering the curse of the famous restaurant - rows of guide books on the tables.

We caught the 3.16 home to Provence. Paris, I had to confess, had been great fun.