It's planned with military precision. Run, swim, sit-ups, press-ups, crunches, eat. Rest. Run, swim, sit-ups, press-ups, crunches, eat. It's the only way to survive. I'm not sure whether this is an epicure's paradise or aversion therapy for gluttons. Three Michelin-starred restaurants – seven stars altogether – in two days. That's about 343 courses in a 30-hour period. I love my food, and am famous for my obscene capacity. 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. The air is so fresh, so piney, you want to down it in one. By day, the forest is alight with reds and golds, oranges and browns, greens and yellows. By night it mutates into something darker – mysterious at best, deadly at worst. Respect the forest, warn the locals.
We stay at the five-star hotel Bareiss, with its own three-star Michelin restaurant. Such luxury is so far out of our price range, it doesn't bear thinking about. So we don't. (And luxury it is – from the bathrobes and the numerous swimming pools to the trays of petits fours that are magically replaced every time we leave the room.)
Baiersbronn is a freak of a food haven – few places in the world can boast two three-star restaurants in a five-mile radius. (To put it in context, London has two.) All the hoteliers talk about local produce, family business, the old-fashioned way of doing things. There is a sense of solidarity – they know they have to work together to maintain standards and keep the region special.
So to battle, and this afternoon we're playing at home. The hotel Bareiss restaurant looks rather formal, as do the boys in bow ties drinking in the corner – they could have walked straight out of 1920s Vienna. "Six or eight courses?" the maître d' asks. "Eight," of course. Diane, my partner, is already 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. Another thing about Diane – she's vegetarian, gluten-free, unadventurous with food. She passes me her spoons when the maître d' is not looking.
The courses that follow include salmon in black rice, scallops in creamy sauce, baby deer so tender it feels obscene. Then there's the turbot and white truffle. Diane says she'll have it without the truffle. The maître d' looks at her with a mixture of pity and contempt. When the truffle is grated on my plate, I can't speak, can't think, can't do anything but sniff. I hold the thinnest slice between my fingers and moan. Mmmmmm! It's like the orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally, only more explicit. The desserts would sit happily in Tate Modern, the wines are brilliantly outrageous. I don't leave a thing – not off my plate, or Diane's.
The chef, Claus-Peter Lumpp, walks up to us after the meal, by which time I'm virtually prostrate. He congratulates me on my appetite and looks daggers at Diane. "So you don't like truffle."
Run, swim, press-ups, crunches. Not eaten for the best part of 24 hours and now ready to tackle three-star Michelin number two. Harald Wohlfahrt at Restaurant Schwarzwaldstube looks like Mr Bean and has held three stars continuously for 15 years. It is more relaxed here, and the maître d' puts us at our ease. He gives Diane a knowing smile. "Ah, I hear you don't like truffles, madame." News travels fast in Baiersbronn.
"But I do," I squeal, desperately.
"Yes, we know you do, sir."
Everything has a lovely, light, Asian tang. I've worked out the essence of nouvelle cuisine – anything common is a no-no (strictly no chicken), anything young, rare or cruelly fed is a yes-yes (bring on the foie gras). My favourite is a sweetbread ravioli in a gossamer pastry topped with truffle. I'm in fungus heaven again – burrowing, sniffing and shaking with pleasure. Next time round, I'm coming back as a pig.
Swim, press-ups, crunches. Diane says she can't come to tonight's Michelin fiesta.
"You don't need to 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 amazing chefs, he is the most creative, forever playing with scale. So a single anchovy assumes whale-like proportions next to lilliputian veg. One of many 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.
At the next table, a severe-looking woman in large specs and a frumpy dress arrives. As she eats, she is transformed. When each course arrives, she closes her eyes, sniffs, smiles ecstatically and whispers to her man. By the end, she's a dead ringer for Aphrodite. As I leave, I tell her how much I enjoyed watching her eat. She looks at me as if I'm mad.
I'm already becoming nostalgic for my Michelin meals. They are hideously expensive, pretentious, cruel and indulgent, but who cares?
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 pig out in one for the treat of a lifetime? You bet. And the rest of the time? I'd stay at sensibly priced Hotel Tanne and stuff myself with slap-up non-Michelin meals (trout so fresh it's almost breathing, properly sized pheasant breast, ice-cream with blueberries), walk it off during the day, eat sausage and maultaschen (ravioli) for a tenner at the hiking tents, and smell the truffle wafting through the air. •
Get there German Wings flies London Stansted to Stuttgart, from £70 return; germanwings.com
Stay/eat at Hotel Bareiss, €316 per room per night; eight-course meal €175. Restaurant Schlossberg, six-course meal €122. Restaurant Schwarzwaldstube, five-course meal €135. Hotel Tanne, €106 per room per night; four-course meal from €27.
