I have never been one to read a map properly, which is how I found myself reversing down a single-track lane outside Bouxwiller with a boot full of sauerkraut and absolutely no idea which turning I had missed. The sauerkraut was meant for the holiday cottage, you understand, not some elaborate prank. I had got overexcited at a supermarket just past Strasbourg and bought what I can only describe as an industrial quantity of fermented cabbage. My partner sat in the passenger seat with that particular expression of British stoicism that says, "I married this person voluntarily."

The cottage itself, when we finally arrived, was one of those half-timbered affairs that make you feel like you have stumbled into a medieval illustration. Dark wooden beams, whitewashed walls, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of the previous guest's attempt at tarte flambee. I took this as a challenge rather than a warning.

Within an hour I had unpacked my sauerkraut onto every available surface and declared my intention to cook something authentically Alsatian. My partner suggested I might start with something simpler, like boiling water. I ignored this and set about making choucroute garnie, which I had eaten once in a pub near Colchester and therefore considered myself qualified to reproduce. The recipe I found on my phone was in French. My French extends to ordering beer and apologising. The resulting dish was edible in the way that hospital food is edible: technically nourishing, spiritually devastating.

We ate it anyway, sitting at the wooden table with a bottle of Riesling that cost less than a London pint. The wine was excellent. The choucroute was educational. I told myself that failure is simply the first step toward mastery, though in truth I suspected my relationship with fermented cabbage had peaked in that supermarket car park.

The next morning I walked into Bouxwiller proper, which took twelve minutes and involved passing three separate bakeries. The smell of kugelhopf drifting from doorways should be classified as a controlled substance. I bought one still warm from the oven and ate it walking down the Rue du Chateau, getting sugar on my jacket and not caring even slightly. The baker, an elderly woman who spoke no English and tolerated my French with the patience of a saint, threw in a bag of madeleines when she saw my expression. I have never been so cheaply bought.

The local market happens on Saturday mornings in the Place du Marche, which I discovered by following a woman carrying an empty wicker basket with the purposeful stride of someone who knows where the good cheese lives. She did know. I bought Munster that smelled like it had opinions, and a sausage the vendor described with a gesture I interpreted as "this will see you through winter." My partner raised an eyebrow at my purchases but said nothing. We have been together long enough that she recognises my market fever and knows it passes eventually, usually around the time the fridge stops closing properly.

That evening we found a winstub, one of those traditional Alsatian taverns with checked tablecloths and wine served in stout little glasses. I ordered baeckeoffe because the name made me laugh, and received a casserole of meat and potatoes that had been cooked slowly enough to make my choucroute attempt feel like an act of aggression. The landlord, a substantial man with a moustache that deserved its own post code, asked about our holiday in broken English. When I admitted my cooking disaster, he laughed so hard he had to lean against the bar. Then he brought us complimentary flammekueche, which is essentially Alsatian pizza except thinner and more honest about itself.

I ate three slices and felt something shift in my understanding of what food could be when made by people who had not learned their techniques from a translated webpage and misplaced confidence.

The remaining sauerkraut stayed in the cottage fridge until our final morning, when I carried it to the bin with the solemnity of a funeral procession. Some experiments teach you what you are capable of. Others teach you where the good restaurants are. I consider both valuable, though I know which lesson I will actually use.