There are five of us here for a special occasion - KB’s birthday - and I can’t imagine a better place to stay than Hotel Tremoille. It has been undergoing an extensive renovation itself, 16 months of upgrading which has turned Tremoille into a very fine mid-sized hotel in the heart of Paris’ ‘Golden Triangle’, just a few minutes’ walk from George V Avenue and the Champs-Elysees. The hotel describes itself as offering ‘unpretentious luxury’. I would prefer ‘understated, stylish’ living, as represented by the picture of the lounge in our suite (above). The white, painted walls create a light, classical, relaxed atmosphere, offset with dashes of bright colours here and there in the soft furnishings. A special feature was the south-facing long balcony, looking out to the magnificent Napoleon III apartment buildings opposite. It was a perfect place to sit on this bright and surprisingly warm January day (below).

As good as the shopping is in London, there is something extra special about the experience in Paris. Maybe it’s the wonderfully wide boulevards, the wider, more interesting choices on offer or the superior level of service,  but strolling down the Avenue Montaigne going from designer store to designer store is a much more enjoyable experience than wading through hundreds of chavs in Knightsbridge on a Saturday afternoon, or dodging the crass sports cars which race through the narrow, cramped environs of Old Bond Street.

We have another unpleasant reminder of home when we line up to queue for a table at the legendary Paris cafe, Laduree. There are two Brits, a young man and woman, behind us, who don’t realise that there are two queues - one for the cafe and another for the patisserie. The woman, in particular, gets very angry with customers who stroll past her for the latter; she thinks they are queue jumping. Finally, she loses it with a startled Parisian, making no effort to express her displeasure in French. Mystified, but understanding that she is insulting him, he tells her (in very rude French), to ‘shut your gob’. We are relieved that the boyfriend had no clue what he has said. We pretend to be German. Despite this silly moment, and extremely cramped conditions, having afternoon tea at Laduree in Paris is just one of those things you have to do.

Over the past three years, we have sampled, more or less, the best that London dining has to offer, having been at all five restaurants with two Michelin stars (and refusing to abide by the absurd booking rules of the ridiculous Gordon Ramsay). As we speed away from Hotel Tremoille, through a long stretch of the Bois de Boulogne, towards Le Pre Catelan, two questions are going through my mind. The first is, how much of a difference is there, really, between two and three Michelin stars, and can a layman like me really taste the difference? The second is, does Michelin hand our three stars in Paris more readily than they do elsewhere? On the basis of our evening here, the answers have to be ‘definitely yes’ and ‘probably no’.

Arriving at Le Pre Catelan, tt feels like you’ve landed in the middle of the French countryside rather than a spot just a couple of miles from the Champs-Elysees. Best described as a ‘Napeoleon III pavillion’, the dining rooms are very ornate without being over the top.

One expects the standards of service in a place like this to be good, but they are outstanding at Pre Catelan. The maitre d’ is extraordinarily attentive, and very appreciative of my fellow diners’ efforts to converse with him in French.

Creative, culinary leadership comes from chef Frederic Anton. M Anton was a mystery to me, but the next two hours would give me an insight into his wonderful imagination and skill.

My starter is a visual feast: truffles set in a jelly with thin layers of beetroot dotted throughout. It looks like something from outer space. For the main course, I choose venison cooked in a ‘sauce Poivrade’, washed down with a very nice bottle of Chateau Beauregard Pomerol.

For everyone, I believe, the highlight of the evening is the ‘exploding apple’ dessert, a glazed green ball filled with Carambar ice cream, cider and sparkling sugar. What a fabulous way to end a birthday.

The bonus at the end of the evening is that this magnificent three-star restaurant is actually cheaper, quite a bit cheaper, than the two-star equivalents in London. If this isn’t an argument for adopting the Euro (so  at least we can see we are being ripped off), I don’t know what is!

We end the night in the lively bar back at Hotel Tremoille. It has been a perfect day in the French capital.