Bring on the foie gras, but hold the cabbage

There's more than green leaves on the menu at Alsace's Michelin-starred restaurants. Christopher Hirst eats his fill

The "choucroute route", which threads through Alsace in north-eastern France, is one of the world's least likely tourist assets. You might not know that Alsace produces 5,000 tons of cabbage per year, around 65 per cent of the French output, much of which is consumed locally in the form of choucroute (better known in Britain as sauerkraut). The "choucroute route" offers the chance to "visit cabbage plantations and choucroute producers, with the possibility to taste regional specialities based on choucroute in various restaurants". Though this might not be everybody's idea of the dream holiday, some people would leap at the opportunity.

The "choucroute route", which threads through Alsace in north-eastern France, is one of the world's least likely tourist assets. You might not know that Alsace produces 5,000 tons of cabbage per year, around 65 per cent of the French output, much of which is consumed locally in the form of choucroute (better known in Britain as sauerkraut). The "choucroute route" offers the chance to "visit cabbage plantations and choucroute producers, with the possibility to taste regional specialities based on choucroute in various restaurants". Though this might not be everybody's idea of the dream holiday, some people would leap at the opportunity.

A few years ago, the American food writer Jeffrey Steingarten designed his own "choucroute route" in an attempt to find the perfect recipe for this delicacy. In his book The Man Who Ate Everything, he describes the consequences of eating choucroute garnie a l'Alsacienne (the garnish is customarily a variety of pork products) twice a day for five days: "Your wife's face turns green, she claims that yours has too, and you both lie immobile in a netherworld between sleep and wakefulness for the next 18 hours." It was with this slightly worrying prospect in mind that my wife and I embarked on a weekend exploring the gastronomic treasures of Alsace.

Fortunately, other possibilities are offered aside from steaming bales of fermented, shredded cabbage. Though it is the smallest region in France, 190km from top to tail, Alsace contains almost 30 Michelin-starred establishments. Paris aside, this is more than any other region in France.

We started in the Alsatian capital, Strasbourg. Over the centuries, Alsace was snatched back and forth by France and Germany. During the 19th century, it was possible for a Strasbourgian to have swapped nationalities five times during a lifetime. It remains a border city. If they feel the urge, citizens can breakfast in France, lunch in Germany and have dinner in Switzerland.

We went for a simple, yet sustaining supper in Au Crocodile (two stars). After eight or nine courses, including fried foie gras with sautéed rhubarb, turbot in a nut crust, a roast duck carved at the table, and the most perfect cheeseboard I have ever encountered, we waved the white flag when presented with dessert - a cylinder of paper-thin brandysnap filled with lightly stewed strawberries.

Over coffee, accompanied by a small mountain of petits fours and truffles in case we were still peckish, the Crocodile's chef-patron, Emile Jung, explained the philosophical underpinnings of foie gras, another Alsace speciality. "The most important thing is to catch the bitterness - a subtle, delicate bitterness that allows it to taste its best in the mouth," he declared.

Feeling not unlike foie-gras geese ourselves, we waddled off to visit a producer of the celebrated pâté the next morning. Marco Willman, whose Foie Gras de Liesel shop is in the village of Ribeauville, pooh-poohed any Anglo-Saxon misgivings about this luxury food. "Foie gras exists only because it is natural. Les oiseaux need energy for migration, which they keep in the form of fat in the liver." Mr Willman did not raise the birds, it transpires. His geese livers came from Hungary. We learnt about the importance of smell, touch, appearance and weight in assessing the quality of liver, the removal of the hepatic nerve and the admixture of 13 spices and brandy. Before embarking on a generous sampling, we were instructed to let the pâté "melt in the mouth like chocolate". The aftertaste was still dancing on my palate as we drove for lunch.

Fortunately, the confusing nomenclature of Alsatian communities (we found ourselves circuiting Wettolsheim when we should have been in Wintzenheim) meant that we were able to enjoy exercise in the form of a vociferous argument, and thereby work up a good appetite for lunch, before we found the tongue-tripping village of Niedermorschwihr.

Despite being an hour late, we were given a warm welcome in the Caveau Morakopf, our first Alsatian winstub. These are cosy, pub-like joints, with wood beams and red gingham tablecloths. Though excellent, the lunch was unremittingly porky. After an amuse-bouche of fromage de tête - like our brawn, but with the advantage that it tastes of something - we had a starter of more fromage de tête. Then the main course was presented: "La langue!" Why is tongue so disconcerting? Is it because we use a tongue to eat the tongue? However, the first morsel of pig's tongue demolished any misgivings. It was tender and tasty, somewhat like corned beef.

The afternoon was spent in a mild doze, while wandering along the Alsace wine route in the foothills of the Vosges mountains. One of the villages appeared to consist of Hansel and Gretel houses made of multicoloured marzipan. One yellow home was exactly like a wedge of cheese. This Disneyesque version of Mitteleuropa attracted a multitude of tour parties. We escaped by driving up into the stupendous forest that crowns the Vosges range.

Less than half an hour after leaving the depths of the forest, we were in Colmar, a city whose centre is little changed from late medieval times. We had supper in a canalside winstub called the Caveau Saint Pierre. More beams. More cold-weather cuisine. It was probably a mistake to tackle choucroute garnie so soon after a substantial pork lunch. Though it was an excellent rendition of the Alsatian favourite, I managed no more than a sausage or two. My wife fared little better with her delicious oxtail stew, though I did what I could to assist.

At 9.30am on Sunday, the centre of Colmar was all but deserted. The mighty bell of the ancient cathedral tolled through half-timbered streets. By 10.30am, the streets were filled with tour groups, photographing the picturesque Quai de la Poissonier. Though this backwater is now sadly bereft of fishmongers, I noticed a fish restaurant serving carpes frites and zander. My appetite was returning.

For lunch, we returned to the wine trail. "Don't all these villages look the same?" I remarked to my wife as we walked down a street of marzipan houses. Then we came to a house like a wedge of cheese. We were in the same village, a celebrated beauty spot called Eguisheim, that we'd stumbled upon the previous day. At the end of an impossibly cute alleyway, we found our lunching spot.

Despite being in one of Alsace's most celebrated tourist traps, La Grangelière proved to be a serious restaurant, as evidenced by its clientele of well-heeled bourgeoisie. "Would you prefer white asparagus or fried foie gras?" I asked my wife. The question proved redundant since both arrived, in some profusion, on the same plate. The main course of grilled red snapper offered remission from the high-cal intake, but this was a brief respite before we were presented with a slender round of blue cheese with maple syrup that had been flashed under a hot grill. We were able to make no more than a stab at the unexpected anglais dessert of rhubarb and strawberry crumble.

It's possible to pack a lot into a weekend in Alsace - certainly a lot of food - but there are limits. Next time, I'd like to try a baeckeoffe, a casserole of beef, pork and lamb with potatoes, and traditionally cooked in a baker's shop (I saw one emerging from a horse butcher's in Colmar). I'm also tempted by the tourist routes devoted to trout, Munster cheese and matelot (a stew made with freshwater fish), but I don't think I'll bother with the choucroute route. The dish is a bit too hefty for a chap of modest appetite.

GIVE ME THE FACTS

How to get there

Christopher Hirst travelled with Air France (0870-142 4343; www.airfrance.com). A return flight from Gatwick to Strasbourg-Entzheim costs £189. Ryanair (0871-246 0000; www.ryanair.com) flies from London Stansted to Karlsruhe-Baden in Germany, which is 30 minutes' drive from Strasbourg, from £23.

Where to stay

The writer stayed at Beaucour-Baumann Romantik hotel in Strasbourg (00 33 3 88 76 72 00; www.hotel-beaucour.com) and Hotel Amiral Blue Marine in Colmar (00 33 3 89 23 26 25; www.envergure.fr/bleumarine.fr).

Where to eat

Au Crocodile, 10 rue de l'Outre, Strasbourg (00 33 3 88 32 13 02; www.au-crocodile.com).

Caveau Morakoph, 7 rue des Trois Epis, Niedermorschwihr (00 33 3 89 27 05 10).

Le Caveau St Pierre, 24 rue de la Herse, Colmar (00 33 3 89 41 99 33).

La Grangelière, 59 rue du Rempart-Sud, Eguisheim (00 33 3 89 23 00 30).

Les Foies Gras de Liesel, 3 route de Bergheim, Ribeauville (00 33 3 89 73 35 51; www.alsacefoiegras.com).

Further information

Comité Régional du Tourisme d'Alsace (00 33 3 89 24 73 50; www.tourisme-alsace.com).