The Plaza Athénée in Paris is the hotel of my dreams. Not because of the restaurant with its three Michelin stars and its chef, Alain Ducasse, one of the Galacticos of world gastronomy. Not because of the bar run by Thierry Hernandez who is to cocktails what Pele is to football. Not because of its Eiffel Suite which, for a mere £4000 per night, will provide you with a mind-bending view of the Eiffel Tower on the opposite bank of the Seine.

What caused the dreams which haunt me still are the pillows. Yes, you read it correctly. I said pillows; the things your head lies on when you sleep. At the Plaza Athénée you are not expected to rest your head on any old pillow. Au contraire. What would Monsieur prefer? Maybe a wheat pillow or a horsehair pillow or, to help those aches and pains which come from a hard day’s shopping, an osteopathic pillow. Or perhaps, with all of your allergies, you might prefer a synthetic pillow.

Which explains why I slept so well at the Plaza Athénée. My suite, which did not have a view of the Eiffel Tower but instead overlooked a quiet courtyard, contained two flat screen televisions and a fridge with enough provisions to feed and water the Household Cavalry.

After sampling Thierry Hernandez’s latest creations, some of which – like his iced lollies of alcohol - appeared to stretch the rules of physics, I chose his signature cocktail, the Rose Royale, champagne and raspberry juice. By then it was time for dinner. Alas, Monsieur Ducasse’s establishment was full so I settled for the Relais, whose décor has been inspired by the liner Normandie. The native oysters and steak tartare were as good as they come. My only disappointment was the absence of St Marcellin, the finest cheese in the world (but only when it is in perfect condition). Never mind. By then my wheat pillow was beckoning.

The breakfast ceremony took place in the Ducasse gastronomic cathedral where I learnt that the pastry chef had just been awarded the title of the best Pastry Cook in the Universe for the millionth time. And sure enough a tsunami of pastries, each one fluffier than the last, appeared before me. I turned down the Egg of the Day, a complex dish with nuts and truffles and instead majored on coffee and ethereal croissants. Everything was going swimmingly until the Plaza Athénée swung into action. In front of me, all alone on a plain white plate, sat a single solitary St Marcellin cheese in perfect condition.
God bless the Plaza Athénée.