SITTING on the only chair in my room, Miriam was happy. I can tell when she’s happy because she squirms in her seat and puts me in mind of a Westie wriggling its backside in joy.

Eric, my wine merchant, sitting on my bed, was equally happy. I can tell when he’s happy because he tilts his head a lot and clasps his hands between his thighs like a small boy.

I was happy because sitting in my wheelchair I was slugging down a large glass of a superb bordeaux smuggled in by Eric. I was extremely happy because for once I wasn’t paying for it.

The cause of Miriam and Eric’s delight was the subject close to every French man and woman’s heart – food. On discovering she came from Nice, Eric tightened his clasp on his hands and for the next 20 minutes the pair discussed the relative merits of different olive oils. They then moved on to pissaladier, a Nicoise speciality; a sort of sophisticated pizza made with caramelised onions and, of course, olives.

Me? I slugged happily on knowing that there are moments when to introduce my speciality of the breadless crisp "sandwich" and when not to.

It was my second encounter of the day with the French passion for cuisine. Overall in the country standards are dropping as fast food, microwave meals and pre-cooked restaurant dishes take over from the produce you'll find in a family-run bistro. Even the great cities can no longer claim superiority when set against the UK’s. But of course they do all the same. While there may be a tight-lipped awareness that it is true, you will never hear it acknowledged.

However, in La France Profonde, old beliefs never die and chief among them is still that only the French can cook. This does not, of course, come from the experience of either travel or taste. It just is because it always was.

So it was that earlier that day I had lain on my other bed in the physio hall and heard two men discussing steak. It was 9.30 in the morning when decent people are contemplating the effort of a second cup of coffee or attempting a piece of toast. These two were arguing about cuts of beef and whether to sear or not to sear, butter or not and even when the garlic should be added … never if.

"Madame Cook," shouted one, his thigh and ankle in two separate weights as he worked his leg outwards from his treatment bed. "What do you do?"

"Honey, I make a reservation" was too flip and tricky a reply at this juncture.

The other man had by now leaned over the large plastic ball on which he was rolling his feet to wait for my answer. The pair beamed in my direction. Hell.

The answer arose and there was nothing I could do to stop it as the electrodes pulsed my thigh muscle, or maybe it was because Lydia, the physio, had turned them up to 20.

"I don’t," I said. "I don’t buy French beef. I don’t like it. Too tough. No taste. Not hung long enough." I dropped my head on the pillow. Spent.

The silence was palpable. Legs, arms, weights, crashed to the floor. Well, not really, but they might as well have done, such was the tension in the room.

And then, from a corner cage, where she practised moving her fingers up and down the squares, came the voice of a woman to whom all seem to defer.

"Madame Cook has a point," she said. "We don’t hang it right. Our beef is only good for stews. Now, take a good steak of horsemeat and then you’re talking …"

Well, the electrodes came off, the legs were re-bandaged, the wheelchair was drawn up and I was off, leaving behind one hell of an argument about the merits or not of pork. My work there was done.

And here I was again: nodding and smiling like an imbecile as Eric and Miriam moved on to North African food which, of course, plays a huge role in Provencal kitchens. I was going to butt in and add a few bons mots as I do know a thing or two about that area but they were soon on to which earthenware cooking pot provided the best base notes.

Fortunately, Eric can reach for and uncork a bottle without breaking his conversation so I just held out the glass and returned to smiling. Therefore my concentration was not at its best when I realised they were asking me for my favourite recipe.

So I wasn’t really thinking anything when I said: "Egg and chips. Or rather, double egg and chips." They looked at each other. I took another slurp.

"Eggs and chips, Fidelma?"

I had to continue.

"Well, we just say egg and chips, even if there are two," I said seriously.

Miriam nodded. "En cocotte?" she asked.

"One could, but personally I prefer to fry," I answered.

"And it is imperative to use malt vinegar."

All three of us nodded wisely.

Ha! I may not be walking the walk but I can talk the talk.