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There are good times to visit Alsace, France’s smallest region, tucked in alongside Germany to the country’s east and snuggling up to Switzerland to the south: when, for instance, late summer streams into early Autumn and yellow grapes begin to hang heavy on the enclave’s vines; when the passing of the seasons brings a wave of russet and copper to the edges of its collection of ancient villages or when, in midwinter, snow sweeps across the Vosges mountains and into its valleys, introducing more than a hint of Hans Christian Anderson to its cobbled streets and half-timbered houses.

There are many good times to be introduced to the pleasures that define a holiday in Alsace. But when you are mid-way through the eight week Liver-Cleansing diet is not one of them.

From the moment I arrived in Alsace clutching my week’s supply of soy milk I knew my kilo-busting regime of no meat, no dairy products, limited caffeine and restricted alcohol intake, was in serious danger. “Excuse moi”, asked our alluring Alsatian guide over breakfast that morning “but whaddar yooor beveridge daysires?” Put like that, who could resist a bowl of steaming caffeine or the even more terrifying double-whammy of cocoa and milk known hereabouts as “chocolat”?

Something had to be done. If Alsace was not to undo in a matter of days several weeks of miraculous self-discipline, I had to be strong. I scoured my itinerary for signs of hope. Thankfully, the word “museum” appeared relatively frequently. Maybe the region’s string of renowned museums - from the magnificent car and train colections in Mulhouse to France’s largest open-air attraction, the Eco Museum, displaying a life-sized history of Alsace - could distract me from the gatronomic battle ahead.

But then I saw the words: “ Cooking Course with Annie Huber at the Hostellerie du Pape, Egusheim” emblazoned over much of remainder of the itinerary. There was no point denying it. This was what I had enthusiastically signed up for in my dark eat-anything days of a few months back, imagining, fancifully, that mastering Alsatian cuisine might be a useful social tool in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs. Oh how ironic this now seemed after my discovery of the thousand-conversation-launching (“I lost 14 kilos in the first two weeks”, “I don’t miss meat at all”, “some of the food is really tasty” etc etc) Liver Cleansing Diet.

For the two days leading up to the cooking class I struggled valiantly with an army of temptations. They appeared, hardly unexpectedly, at breakfast, lunch, dinner and at regular intervals in between, as a small party of us toured nearby medieval villages like Kaysersberg, Ribeauville and Riquewhir. Here even the omnipresent window-boxes full of pampered pink, red, purple and white geraniums looked like some nouveau chef’s futuristic fantasy of food. “Mais oui”, you could imagine Alfonse saying as he ran his hands though his extravagantly coloured geranium salad, “c’est LE new wave”. Outside, among the vineyards where, now in October, the new grapes were being harvested, it seemed that in Alsace, all roads led to food or wine. Apart from the 170 kilometre Wine Route which we were partly following, we also saw signs for the “Cheese Route”, the “Beer Route”, the “Sauerkraut Route” and even a “Fried Carp Route”.

But all things considered, I was doing all right. It has to be admitted that I was being given fortitude by an iron-willed Scottish vegetarian in our party. I couldn’t help but admire the firm but winning way she repeatedly said no to dishes like smoked shoulder of pork, chicken in riesling and lamb and pork casserole. I was faring less well with the series of delicious white wines for which Alsace is famous. In fact I was knocking them back in a daze of unmitigated pleasure, from the newest of newly pressed vintages drunk as a fizzy, fruity apperitif through fresh and light Sylvaners and Pinot Blancs over lunch to the fullbodied Rieslings and equally ample Gewurtztraminers, served with dinner.

I wouldn’t admit it to myself but by then I had already slipped, succumbing first to an Alsatian Onion Tart jam-packed with heavy cream, butter and slices of bacon and then later to another of the region’s specialities, mercilessly led on once more by the bedroom linguistics of our Alsatian guide. “What are you having, Gabrielle?”, we asked innocently one lunchtime. “Well”, she replied, “I waas previosly seduced by the chou-croute”. “Yes”, I spluttered, before my brain could catch up with my tongue, “I’ll have one of those too” and was later confronted by a large portion of the cabbage-based dish (no problem) sodden with goose fat (big problem).

Yet, in the end, it was Annie Huber’s cooking classes that proved my nemesis. Held in a small hotel in the snail-shaped village of Egusheim at the heart of Alsace’s wine route, her two and three day courses pose a serious threat to anybody who regards food as simply something you eat. It begins with the woman herself, a dark-haired forty-something with twinkling eyes and a genuinely warm manner, who exudes such enjoyment in preparing food that you can’t believe you’ve spent years toiling grimmly in the kitchen. Then there are the fresh local ingredients she plays with: onions, shallots, chives, hefty trout and pike-perch just out of the stream, and all manner of tempting meats. Finally there is the irresistible lure of tasting what you have had a hand in shaping. I was particularly taken by a simple peasant dish of layered sliced potatoes, onions, butter and bacon called Roigabrageldi. At the outset of our first hard-earnt lunch I was still insisting that I was a vegetarian. But by its end I had fallen fowl to Coq “Au riesling”, to the obvious mirth of all the bona-fide non-vegetarians on the course.

Still, there remained my exercise regime to get me back on calorific track. Afternoons were planned cycling in the surrounding vineyards and walking in the nearby Vosges Mountains. But even these good intentions became seriously undermined. It turned out the cycling was with a mob called “La Bicyclette Gourmande”. This name has obvious implications. Sure enough it was all uphill for me from when we encountered a genial old picker proffering brand new grapes to the stop we made at the centuries-old Trimbach winery in Ribeauville. Our trek among the pine forests and lakes of the Vosges was also frought with danger. First we popped in on a roly-poly Alsatian farm wife and watched her brewing outrageously smelly Munster cheese to the accompaniment of tub-thumping Bavarian music. Her name? Madame Burger. Later, we were subjected to a traditional farmer’s meal at a hillside inn.

By the week’s end I am in a state of calorie enduced delirium, about to kiss goodbye to the Liver Cleansing Diet for good. But even in this weakened state, I can’t quite bring myself to follow the beguiling Annie through the preparation of our final dish. For some reason I’m a little sensitive about using my hands to separate several goose livers - grown artificially corpulent due to force-feeding with maize - to create the perfect Foie Gras.

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