In the basemenent of Maciej Rzankowski's bakery, Cukiernia Samanta, there's a 100-year-old poppy-seed grinder that's been in the family since 1927 - much like the business itself.  It started with his grandparents, in the southern Polish town of Zakopane, up in the Tatras mountains.  And it's still there over 80 years later, and still going strong: Zakopane only has a population of about 26,000, but on the last Thursday before Lent ('Fat Thursday', the Polish equivalent of Mardi Gras) he sells 47,000 pączki doughnuts. 

Since 1927 there have been many changes in Poland, much of which we found reflected in the history of Cukiernia Samanta. There's a lot that his grandparents wouldn't recognise: it's changed from a one-shop operation into an out-of-town factory supplying cafés all over town.

But there's a lot they would recognise, too. It's still an avowedly local, family business, still has the same eye for quality, and the loyal customer base who wouldn't let him get away with anything less. And having tasted a selection of delicious freshly baked goodies - both in one of the downtown cafés and after our tour of the factory - we're sure his grandparents would have been proud of all of them.

I'd known the Czechs liked their beer, but I'd had no idea they were so good at making wine.  Until we happened to visit Kroměříž, an unpronouncable old market town in southern Moravia, Czech Republic.  In the centre of town there is a huge archbishop's palace, complete with peacocks in the gardens and hundreds of barrels of aging wine in the cellars.  It turned out they'd been making and storing wine here for 800 years, and it tasted pretty fantastic too.  In fact we're drinking a bottle of their rulandské šedé right now.

The Czechs certainly like their beer - in fact, they drink more of it than anyone else. One of the world's best-known beer styles, pilsner, is named after the Czech town of Plzeň; and the name of one of the most famous brands (deservedly or not) derives from the brewing centre of České Budějovice (or as the Germans call it, Budweis).

They've also been brewing it for a very long time.  In Český Krumlov, they've been brewing since at least the 1300s, with records showing they were granted a charter to brew and sell beer in 1336.  And at the Eggenberg brewery, they still make beer the same way - local organic ingredients, secret recipe and all - producing a rich, tasty, slightly yeasty brew known for its dramatic effects on the youthful appearance of the local womenfolk and on the digestive systems of tourists.

Having spent the morning cycling round the Bodensee in southwestern Germany (well, part of the way - it's a big lake), and the afternoon crossing Germany on mind-numbingly boring motorways, we arrived at Deggendorf, a small town nestled beneath the foothills of the Bayerisches Wald, a little later than we'd meant to. 

Every hotel we found was booked up or hideous (unless you're planning a large corporate conference), or both.  It seemed the whole world had also decided to stop in Deggendorf and look for accommodation due to a nasty accident blocking the mororway.

When we knocked on the heavy wooden door at Domaine Weinbach we weren't sure we were in the right place.  Having had it recommended to us by our friend Jono at Chez Panisse in Berkeley (who knows a thing or two about wine), we were confident their wines would be good, but only if we could find them... 

Having driven up and down the picturesque little Alsatian valley at least four times, we finally decided to pull into the winery despite the enormous 'Domaine Faller' sign and the distinct lack of inviting 'tastings' signs for tourists like us which are displayed prominently at so many other wineries.  And when Colette Faller peered round her front door at us, she didn't look sure we were in the right place either.

It's not easy being an Alsatian cheesemaker.  Yes, you get to live in a beautiful valley in the foothills of the Vosges mountains.  And yes, you get to produce the traditional Munster Fermier, one of France's tastiest (and smelliest) cheeses.

But tradition brings rules, regulations and responsibilities as well as tastiness (and smell) - not to mention expense.  And it's not easy to make a living from cheese alone anyway.

We stayed with Chantal and Dany Roess at their farm in Soultzeren, where they make Munster (amongst other things), and they told us all about what they do, how they do it, and how they see their role as upholders of the traditions of cheese.

This week, while the US government was recalling the largest ever amount of commercial beef (apparently, cows from the Westland/Hallmark Meat Co so sick they couldn't walk properly have still been ending up in diners' Happy Meals), we were playing with Farmer Cornet's very happy baby cows on his farm in Viviers-sur-Artaut.  

One of his cows had just given birth to twins, one of whom Michel was bottle-feeding twice a day himself as the mother would only feed one.  (Nature can be cruel too, let's not forget.)  The twins were having some trouble using their legs, but then they were only 5 days old.  All their older relatives were walking around happy as can be, probably because Michel gives care and attention to each and every one.

With only seven nights and seven days in Paris, narrowing down our shortlist of 36 restaurants to a feasible dining regime was no easy task. 

In the end we managed six bistros, two fancy restaurants and over a dozen bars, cafes, boulangeries and patisseries, plus five outdoor food markets and two cooking classes, leaving a couple of hours to quickly nip up the Eiffel Tower and round the Louvre.  

Did we go a bistro too far?