Chez Julesthe zucchini beignets were fine.

then the carbonara showed up, a raw yolk sitting on top like a crown, and I forgave the kitchen for the overly battered zucchini. Antibes on a warm night, with a bottle of old-vine Burgundy on a white tablecloth and nowhere to be in the morning.

the zucchini first, because it’s the local thing. beignets de courgette are a Niçois classic, traditionally made with the flowers, picked that morning and fried in a batter that should barely be there. that’s the bar. these were honest, but the batter won the argument. forgettable, and forgiven.

the carbonara is why you go. for a dish people fight about this much, it’s younger than you’d think: the name first turns up in print in 1950, as a Roman thing American officers went looking for after the city was liberated in ’44. the Roman rules are short: egg, cured pork, pecorino, black pepper, and a pan hot enough to make a sauce but not hot enough to make breakfast. here they leave the yolk whole on top and let you finish the job: break it, stir it through, and it becomes the sauce. unbelievable. no notes.

the wine was Domaine de Rochebin, from a hilltop above the village of Azé in the Mâconnais, down at the southern end of Burgundy. vieilles vignes, old vines, which give less fruit and more of what matters. a pinot noir made for a terrace on a warm night, which is exactly where it went.

dessert, because restraint is for other people: mousse au chocolat, crème brûlée and crème caramel, three arguments for eggs and sugar. then poire williams, the clear pear brandy the French pour cold after dinner to settle things down, and an espresso to undo the poire williams.

and then Queen Maeve for a nightcap, a Guinness, because the night wasn’t over and neither were we.