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.

We had come to perform two simple tasks: sitting in judgment over wine and food

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.

We had come to Paris to perform two simple tasks: sitting in judgment over wine and food. Our hosts were the Fayards, Olivier and Enzo, whose Grand Cru Classé family vineyards come from Sainte Marguerite en Provence. They were as charming as they were hospitable, but also serious. Their commitment to their craft, their ambition for their bottles, were palpable. Effort had not been spared; nor had confidence. In a two-rosette restaurant and in a dining-room in which Edward VII would have felt at home, the wines were accompanied by – me judice – a two-and-a-half-rosette meal. David Bizet, the chef at L’Oiseau Blanc, had prepared a six-course feast to accompany the wines. Any falling-short on either side could not have been concealed. There was no falling short, only a symphony of maitrise.

Humble pie would have seemed wholly out of place in such a repast, except for one point. Over the years, I have been reluctant to accept that rosé has any business intruding itself into a serious glass. I must now admit error. There is good rosé and the Fayards produce one, drawing heavily on vermentino: rolle, in French. Their 2023 had depth and structure. It could have done with more time – perhaps even a few months in oak – but it has considerable promise. This is proper wine.

So are their whites and reds. In each case, there is a minerality. One expert, clearly in exile from Provence and its coastline, insisted that the terroir drew on sea breezes and scrubland: he could almost hear the seabirds calling. The white, from 2021, wholly rolle, is just about ready. It has a delicious freshness, but here again there is a complexity which will keep. I suspect that, in French hands, the rolle grape will grow in stature.

The red was an impressive blend of syrah and grenache. I have tasted the 2021 and 2023: both still youthful, in a way the French expect, whereas we rosbifs prefer a bit more bottle age. All in all, it was a splendid occasion: time to forget Paris’s problems and succumb yet again to its enchantments.