KEY POINTS:
The favourite TV show in our household right now is Rick Stein's Mediterranean Escapes (Prime, Sunday nights).
No doubt the severely doctrinaire frown upon these foodie travelogues in which the presenter, in this case an indefatigably upbeat middle-aged Englishman in a Ralph Lauren polo, trundles from one lavish feed in a picture postcard setting to the next.
Yes, these programmes are essentially celebrations of self-indulgence whose target audience is well-heeled Year in Provence wannabes and, no, Mr Stein doesn't come across as the type to lie awake at night worrying about whose finger is on Pakistan's nuclear trigger. So be it: we're on holiday and only fools and saints spoil these precious escapes from reality by acting on their New Year's resolution to become Mahatma Gandhi on a mountain bike.
One way to make these programmes less of an exercise in inert vicariousness is to get the inevitable book of the series and prepare a meal to be consumed after you've watched Stein and his obliging cast of wizened peasants and sweating chefs follow the same recipe.
Obviously you're flirting with disappointment, whether because of a failure of execution or that well-documented syndrome whereby a Greek dish served in a seafront restaurant on a Greek island looks and tastes so much better than the same meal prepared and eaten at home.
On the other hand, as Stein keeps telling us, Mediterranean food is about freshness and simplicity, and watching this show is almost guaranteed to reactivate appetites dulled by festive season excess and its dreary aftermath: interminable and increasingly unpalatable leftovers.
I can report that our barbecued butterflied leg of lamb with the Corfu version of Briam - oven-baked summer vegetables - and a Puglian dessert of strawberries in Primitivo with vanilla was a resounding success, so much so that my wife went back for seconds, an almost unheard of event. Our next stops are Morocco (chicken casserole with preserved lemon and olives) and Sicily (orange cake).
I'm a sucker for food/travel shows because in my hedonistic scheme of things the two are inextricably linked. I have a limited capacity for sightseeing, whether it involves the wonders of nature or civilisation. Rather than endure The Louvre with its conga line of moon-faced rubes and white noise of reverent whispers, I'd rather be discovering an authentically smoky bistro and settling in for an unhurried lunch.
While I have a grudging admiration for the high-mindedness and stamina of culture vultures and history buffs, one feels pity and, let's face it, a degree of contempt for tourists who view the local cuisine as something akin to bird flu and seek sanctuary and sustenance beneath McDonald's' golden arches.
The British holidaymakers in Majorca, whom Stein quizzed about their eating habits, could have stepped straight out of Monty Python's Watney's Red Barrel sketch, shunning the foreign muck in favour of pizza and KFC. They were only there for the sun: if Blagdon-on-Sea had better weather, they'd never venture abroad.
Watching Stein after a week's holiday, especially in a food and wine destination like Martinborough, provides a context in which to reflect on our own supposedly world-standard tourism and hospitality product.
We ate well at four different venues, including a vineyard restaurant which coped stoically with our extended family group, including five infants. The accommodation, however, was like the curate's egg - good in parts.
We arrived at our large, well-situated, dog-friendly, and expensive rented house (for which payment in advance had been demanded and furnished) to find that the pool, barbecue, and oven hadn't been cleaned. An air bed wouldn't inflate - it was quickly replaced - and the pool heating system proved intractable. Like New Zealand's electricity system, the laundry arrangements were utterly weather-dependent: there was no dryer so after a damp, overcast day-and-a-half we were out of dry towels.
On the second day we ran out of hot water. It turned out that the management hadn't bothered to check that there was gas in the gas cylinders. The owner, who lived locally, told us where we could get the small bottles filled and promised to cover the cost. He didn't offer to come over and do it for us, as one might have expected an embarrassed host to do. He did undertake to send someone over to fill the large bottles. They turned up two days later. There was much to like about the place and while the above caused some inconvenience and dark mutterings it scarcely detracted from what was a hugely enjoyable holiday.
But it wasn't cheap and when you pay a premium, you're entitled to expect a bit extra rather than have to settle for a bit less. This country has a lot going for it but we can't leave it all to nature.
