I will always remember the day, many moons ago, when I brought Christmas crackers back to my parents in France for the holidays, alongside a tall, blue-eyed, wavy blond-haired British boyfriend bearing a vague resemblance to Prince William. They looked at the boxes with much curiosity and stared at le boyfriend with equal intensity as he diligently explained the rules (tu wear le paper crown sur toi tête): trinkets flying everywhere to a clueless French audience.

In the meantime, the said boyfriend was growing paler by the minute. That was because he was facing an onslaught of dishes and wines he could not possibly refuse – toasts, canapés, mises-en-bouche, entrées, plat de résistance, trou Normand (sorbet with spirit, supposedly helps with digestion), fromage, dessert and mignardises (chocolates and little treats at the end of the meal served with coffee or yet another glass of Cognac). And were those alien-looking crustaceans (whelks) worth losing your life to E. coli for, even in the name of l’amour?

The Telegraph London