In this column I promised to tell you about an extraordinary meal we had in France. But don’t worry, this isn’t another attempt to rub in how much more wonderful my life is than yours.

The meal I’m describing wasn’t extraordinarily good — it was spectacularly bad. The mediocre food was aided not a whit by the appalling service. In fact, the overall experience was a meal so laughably awful that it threatened to undermine France’s gastronomic reputation for all time. It may be the true explanation as to why French women don’t get fat.

And it started off so well.

The dinner was our planned splurge for the trip. La Voile d’Or, located in an elegant hotel on Cap-Ferrat, came highly recommended as one of the finest restaurants in the area. When we arrived, we were shown to a lovely table in the garden, overlooking the yachts in the harbor. The sun was just beginning to set, giving us an ever-changing view as the night deepened and the lights came on in the town. We were utterly charmed.

Our waitress looked like she was about 17 years old, and seemed as jumpy as if this were her first day on the job, which should have given us a clue. But we were enjoying the view and one another’s company, so we didn’t pick up on it.

She handed us the menus and I noticed that in the classic tradition of stuffy restaurants that I dimly recalled from my youth, there were no prices listed on the ones the women of the party received. Apparently, we weren’t to worry our pretty little heads about the cost.

Which is just as well. When I took a peek at a version with the exorbitant prices, I nearly lost my appetite. It was going to come in somewhere just south of the French Laundry, but as I said, it was our splurge. We were in France, in the playground of the rich, and we were going to live well for the evening. I settled in to enjoy the meal.

No sommelier appeared — surprising in a restaurant of this quality — but we were up to the challenge. We perused the wine list and ordered a nice Bordeaux and a white wine from the Cote de Rhone.

When the Bordeaux came, the waitress started to pour it into small white wine glasses. When we stopped her, and asked for the larger glasses we spotted at the next table, she explained that the type of glass you received depended on what wine you ordered. (Apparently our $150 bottle was plonk.) After receiving an icy glare from my sister (who, as the parent of a teenager, has perfected “The Look”), she scurried away and brought the larger glasses — then failed to pour the wine.

After many applications of “The Look,” along with the entire table employing the universal “where is our waitress?” head-turning that works in every restaurant in the world except, apparently, this one, it finally made it to our glasses.

The white came too. It tasted rather strange, but I couldn’t put my finger on the problem. In the fading light we didn’t notice its brownish tinge. We made the mistake of approving it and poured it for the few white wine drinkers — who universally hated it.

We discussed it for a while, and I called over the waitress and asked her if she thought it was oxidized. She looked terrified and hurried away, bringing back the manager. In my best French I asked him to taste it and comment on whether it was oxidized. Instead, he gave me a lecture, explaining that the problem wasn’t poor cellaring and a wine that had gone off. No, the “maderization” was a characteristic of that particular wine that we stupid Americans had ordered. (OK, maybe that’s not exactly what he said. But that was his meaning.) (And I checked, and it isn’t.)

We told him we’d drink the red instead. He took away the half-filled bottle and the almost untouched glasses.

Need I mention that he didn’t take it off the bill?

It wasn’t going well, but the red wine was good, and we were a cheerful group, and did I tell you how beautiful the setting was?

The chef sent out an amuse-bouche. It appeared to be three squishy croutons on a toothpick. It tasted like three squishy croutons on a toothpick. Hmmm.

My first course came. It was salty. Very, very salty. I’d like to tell you what it was, but I’ve blocked it from my memory. The others were equally underwhelmed by their choices.

The main courses came. They were … adequate. And equally forgettable.

The desserts came. They weren’t forgettable. They were quite memorably awful. One looked like a parfait my mother used to make that mixed Jell-O and ice cream, though it didn’t taste as good.

Then fireworks started going off in the distance. The sparkling stars were reflected in the waves lapping around the yachts. The temperature was balmy. There was a slight breeze, with a pleasant, faintly salty aroma. My dinner companions were funny and delightful.

There are many worse places to be than Cap-Ferrat on a warm August evening.

It was a meal to remember, one we’ll be telling stories about for years to come.

But perhaps you can understand why we opted not to stay for coffee.

Sauteed Cucumbers

My trip to France was followed closely by a viewing of the movie “Julie and Julia.” But with the above dinner under my belt, I confess the film did not make me want to imitate Julia Child’s — or anyone else’s — elaborate French cooking. I was struck, however, by a line in the movie effusing over sautéed cucumbers — one of my all-time favorite vegetables.

At this time of year, with everything so fresh in the market, I’m in the mood for minimal cooking. So this simple dish is for those of you who complain that my recipes have too many ingredients and are just too complicated. It’s absurdly easy, but if you’ve never thought to cook cucumbers, it will be a revelation.

Serves 4

1-2 cucumbers

1 Tbsp. butter

1/2 tsp. dried dill or other herbs of your choice

Salt and pepper

Peel the cucumbers, cut in half lengthwise, and scoop out the seeds with a spoon. Cut into 3/8-inch half moon-shaped slices.

In a sauté pan over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the cucumber slices and stir to coat them with butter. Sprinkle lightly with salt and the dried dill or other herbs. Cook, stirring occasionally for 4-5 minutes until cucumbers are tender but still crisp. Serve.

The only green food Eddie will eat is catnip, but Betty could be happy eating nothing but lettuce, cucumbers, zucchini and tomatoes this month. To donate your excess garden produce to her, e-mail amuse-bouche@sbcglobal.net.