Earlier, the little old ladies next to us had applauded the protesting high school students with their amusing home-made placards. But the arrival of a group of around fifty black-clad anarchists intent on a punch-up changed the atmosphere and, as the tear gas drifts our way, it is time to make a sharp exit. In the process, one of the hooligans collides with a member of our group and quickly proffers an “excusez-moi, madam”. Very polite revolutionaries around here…

Its just as well I’ve chosen a restaurant in the ‘urban vineyards’ above Nice for dinner, well away from the sound of breaking glass and the acrid gas that has us coughing and spluttering.

On the way to the posh-but-not-too-pricey Maison Bellet I ask our Uber driver whom he favours for president next year. Taxi-drivers rank just below farmers on the misery barometer and he announces that he is for the left-wing firebrand Jean-Luc Melenchon. On the way home, his colleague is for the extreme-right Marine Le Pen – the centre ground is fast disappearing in a riven French society.

Time to forget about all that as we settle in to Maison Bellet perched on the hills overlooking the city. Oh good, they have an excellent Cremant de Bourgogne on the wine list, a great alternative to over-priced champagne – Cremant is poised to be the next big thing in Britain as the Prosecco fad dies down. Flavoursome but subtle, it’s fruity effervescence banishes the last irritation of the foul-tasting tear gas. The perfect post-riot pick-me-up.

We order a couple of sharing platters to mull over the menu which promises a cuisine with Niçoise flavours. One comprises small squares of the local Pissaladiere, a pizza-like savoury without tomatoes and heavy with onions and anchovy. The other a well-presented mix of charcuterie and fine cheeses. A good choice when we have gluten-free and vegetarian considerations on our table of four.

I opt for the octopus tentacle starter on a bed of crunchy vegetables with bergamot flavoured olive oil. It gives me the chance to reminisce about a colleague’s maths-teacher wife who was notorious for her malapropisms and attempted to explain binary numbers to pupils using the example of an octopus with eight testicles… John, the lad frae the Broch, selects ouef cocotte with a crème forestiere and Comte cheese sauce laced with truffle.

I was converted to octopus tentacle in the Old Boatyard in Arbroath but it has yet to be matched anywhere. The climate-change driven invasion of our waters by cephalopods is unlikely to lead to a demand for octopus and chips any time soon but I confidently predict that it won’t be long before Arbroath’s fish merchants start smoking the delicacy.

Our starters duly arrive and I’m presented with a small, withered looking tentacle – it looks like this octopus was a blue-badge holder. It’s ok but not remotely up to Arbroath standards. Meanwhile, my companion is raving about the delectable unctuousness of his choice.

Hopefully, my main course of duck breast roasted with a rosemary jus and served with large conchiglioni pasta shells stuffed with confit duck leg and mushroom will come to the rescue. John chooses the half-lobster tagliatelle in a sage butter sauce.

We’re trying the local Bellet red wine produced by the neighbouring vineyards. It’s a tiny appellation distinguished by using two unusual and local grapes in the blend – Folle Noir and Braquet, both new to me. It’s not too strong at 13 per cent but its deep ruby red, intense fruit and tannins make it seem stronger. An interesting wine to sample in its own terroir.

This place is a cut above the hordes of carb-heavy, micro-wave pinging tourist restaurants in the old town of Nice below but it still needs to up its game. My duck breast arrives in fine tranches accompanied by four or five large pre-prepared conchiglioni stuffed with a concoction that is so greasy not even the Chateau Bellet can cut through it. In contrast to John’s tagliatelle, which is presented with a lobster head climbing out of the plate, the presentation of the dish is beige, boring and unattractive.

Predictably, the lobster tagliatelle is announced to be a triumph while I’m left fretting about the lacklustre duck.

Next our waiter, reeking of Gauloise cigarettes, brings the desserts and now we see how this restaurant can excel. Both desserts are works of art, beautifully presented to the point where it seems a shame to tuck in. My Praline Pleasure is a slab of peanut biscuit base topped with a praline crust sandwiching a ganache of milk chocolate and caramel. The creation is finished off with three ascending hoops of dark chocolate. It is delicious but way too rich for me and is eagerly devoured by my companions. John’s gigantic passion fruit macaron with raspberry cream is equally pleasing to the eye. The patisserie chef, at least, is on the ball!

Verdict: 7/10
https://maisonbellet.fr/