He was holding a bottle of unlabelled white wine in one hand, and a tiny glass of golden liquid in the other. ‘Montbazillac,’ he announced, indicating the glass. ‘Our famous dessert wine, and the perfect partner for the foie gras.’ He set it down in front of Steph, and then poured Meredith a glass of the paler wine from the bottle.

Meredith, used to ordering – and paying – for exactly what she wanted, was about to protest that she’d have what she bloody well asked for, merci.

‘Try a little, at least,’ he insisted with a smile. ‘It would be a crime to drink Sancerre. And think, you would become notorious – the tourist who ordered Sancerre in the middle of Savarin!’

Meredith took a sip, annoyed that he seemed to be mocking her. To her irritation it was absolutely delicious: flinty, as she liked her wines, and yet with overtones of fruit that never strayed into sweetness.

‘The grapes are grown no more than a mile from here. Is there not a special pleasure in knowing that, when it accompanies your confit d’oie?’

‘I know,’ Steph interjected, suspecting that Meredith might say no simply because she didn’t like being told what to do. ‘You must be the famous Philippe!’

The man bowed, an ironic expression lighting up his warm brown eyes and producing engaging crinkles in the corners. ‘Not so famous in the circles I suspect your friend moves in. Enjoy your meal.’

Meredith had been about to comment that his jacket didn’t exactly look like suitable wear for a kitchen, but she could imagine his sardonic reply. No doubt she was more used to pristine overalls and the white chef’s hat of five-star establishments, he would reply; and she would somehow end up looking foolish again.

Instead she waited till he had left. ‘How is he famous?’ she enquired huffily.

‘He grew up here, then went off to Paris and ran his own restaurant – with three Michelin stars. He’s just come back to Bratenac to start again and rediscover his roots.’

‘I bet he lost one of his stars and knew the whole thing would go pear-shaped,’ Meredith said cynically. ‘So he’s come home to keep the food local, seasonal and very, very simple, and give a positive spin to his failure at the same time.’

‘Meredith! Don’t be so mean. I think he’s rather wonderful. Also, his father’s ill, who used to be a big influence on him when he was growing up. Taught him to cook and everything.’

‘He’s got dementia, as a matter of fact,’ interrupted Jackie from the next table. ‘Wanders round the town making a spectacle of himself.’

‘Is there anything that bloody woman doesn’t know?’ hissed Meredith under her breath. She added at normal volume: ‘Poor man. I do sympathize. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty ill myself. I’ve just had a cancer diagnosis.’