I'm not sure whether this is an epicure's paradise or aversion therapy for gluttons. Three Michelin-starred restaurants, seven stars in two days. That's about 343 courses in a 30-hour period. I love my food. But there are limits. Baiersbronn in the Black Forest is a gorgeous contradiction — cold enough to sting your eyes, warm enough to burn your face.
We stay at the five-star hotel Bareiss, with its own three-star Michelin restaurant.
The hotel's restaurant looks rather formal. "Six or eight courses?" the maître d' asks. "Eight," of course. Diane, my partner, is full and we're still on the pre-starter starters, or amuse-bouches, as those who know call them. These tiny tasters are served on bent silver spoons and most seem to be variants of goose liver.
The courses that follow include salmon in black rice and scallops in creamy sauce. Then there's the turbot and white truffle. Diane says she'll have it without the truffle. The maître d' looks at her with pity and contempt. When the truffle is grated on my plate, I can't do anything but sniff. I bite into it. It is delicious beyond words. The desserts are great. I don't leave a thing on my plate.
The chef, Claus-Peter Lumpp, walks up to us. He congratulates me on my appetite and looks daggers at Diane. "So you don't like truffle."
Run, swim, press-ups, crunches. And ready to tackle three-star Michelin number two. Harald Wohlfahrt at Restaurant Schwarzwaldstube has held three stars continuously for 15 years. It is more relaxed here and the maître d' puts us at ease. He gives Diane a knowing smile. "Ah, I hear you don't like truffles, madame." News travels fast in Baiersbronn.
Everything has a lovely Asian tang. I've worked out the essence of nouvelle cuisine. Anything common is a strict no-no (no chicken), anything rare or young is welcome (foie gras). My favourite is a sweetbread ravioli in a gossamer pastry topped with truffle.
Diane says she can't come to Michelin fiesta tonight.
"Don't eat anything," I say.
"It's not that. If I see you eat anything more, I'll be sick."
I set off to the Schlossberg, run by Herr Sackmann and a mere one-starrer. Of all these chefs, he is the most creative, forever playing with scale. So an anchovy assumes whale-like proportions next to Lilliputian veg. One of the desserts is a huge chunk of Black Forest gateau in miniature — the cake equivalent of a Dinky car. As for the truffle, he doesn't wait for the main course. A creme-egg-yolk-truffle concoction should be revolting but it's to die for.
Would I come here for a week's holiday and eat in these places every night? Of course not. Would I save up for an age, come for three days and have the treat of a lifetime? You bet.
