Never Order a Trilogy

I should know better. Trilogy is on my black list of words to be banned from menus. How can a trilogy of foie gras improve on either a whacking great slab of the stuff with some warm toast and cornichons on the side, or some seared liver, crisp on the outside and melting within? Answer: it can't - especially if part one of the trilogy insults both duck and diner by freezing it into Foie Gras Ice Cream. And don't get me started on the Foie Gras mousse dribbled in to a shot glass with some overly sweet carrot puree. The whole plate was an essay in pointlessness.

All of which made the main course a surprising delight. Pink pigeon breasts, plump roast garlic and thick slices of ceps is a proper Burgundian meal. It was a soberly conceived and impeccably cooked dish as was the pairing of veal sweetbreads and morels on the plate opposite me. I greedily finished both after the sweetbreads' owner gave up halfway through, no doubt saving room for the eighth portion of Epoisses of the week.

Burgundy was full of good food. My notebook is crammed with hastily scribbled notes about Oeufs en Meurette, Jambon Persille, Ox Cheek, Poulet de Bresse, Cote de Beouf, Dauphinoise spuds, Pigeon, Ceps and, bien sure, Epoisses. But eating this way, twice a day, is excessive. A week is enough, by Friday I was dreaming about broccoli. Frequently the only greenery was a handful of lamb's lettuce wilting under the weight of some pan seared gizzards. Back in London, the soup pot will see some action this week. A coarse minestrone put me back together yesterday and a weak miso broth awaits tonight.

I've returned with some good addresses though, including Ma Cuisine in Beaune and L'Auberge du Vieux Vigneron in Corpeau near Chassagne (anywhere patronised by Anne-Claude Leflaive has to be good). Check them out if you are in the area - and don't worry there won't be a trilogy in sight.