Many years go when life wasn’t challenged by all the things I am now immersed in, I enjoyed a stint as a food writer and worked for The Financial Times, where I had the roving brief of travelling around the world on luxury food stories. One such trip took me to Alba in Italy to go truffle hunting in the height of the season. Chefs from around the world are invited to this annual event which culminates in a very grand dinner at the palace of the President of Piedmont. There were eight courses with truffles on each – apart from the last, which was the sharing of a bowl of Ferrero Rocher (despite their French sounding name, they are Italian) . It was just at the time when they had the TV advert going here about them being served at an ambassador’s reception so the Brit contingent secretly sniggered under our heavily starched napkins.

Things spun round full circle yesterday when I attended an amazing lunch at The French Ambassador’s home organised by the luxury club Walpole which is based at ... The Financial Times. All wonderfully bizarre – drinks on the terrace on the first day of spring to celebrate the best of British luxury in the French ambassador’s house with a fully kitted out Scottish chap playing the bagpipes on the lawn. And me, the boy from a poor village in Bangladesh.

I love these told fashioned touches like classic butler service where the guy stands behind you at the table with a tray which has the main course on it which you turn around serve yourself while trying for the life of you not to drop anything. A very young Y’quem was served, which everyone loved.

Sadly I had to leave early so I have yet to find out if the old Ferreros were whipped out at the end.