Mention Mauritius and most people think honeymoons, or maybe golf. Get them to dig a bit deeper and they’ll probably come up with diving – or maybe the dodo that flourished here until passing Portuguese sailors discovered how good these curious birds were to eat, which signalled the beginning of their end. 

I’m not a golfer, I’m allergic to honeymoons and diving definitely gets up my nose. My priorities in visiting this beautiful island were different. Somewhat like the Portuguese sailors, I came full of curiosity about the food of Mauritius. Given successive European influences on the culinary culture of the place (Portuguese, Dutch, French, British), I figured, plus input from the Arab, Indian and Chinese world, not to mention the syncretism of black African, European and Indian cooking that is Mauritian Creole cuisine, it seemed a fair bet that the food would have more to offer than the average island paradise. I was not disappointed.

Top-class international hotels are rarely distinguished by their understanding or appreciation of indigenous food. Most play it safe with anodyne cooking that neither enchants nor offends. The island’s top hotel, the Royal Palm at Grand Baie, is something else. Its speciality is fine, French-inspired food subtly imbued with local accents. Menus are in the capable hands of Chef Michel de Matteis, who arrived recently from the Mirabeau in Monaco and is still sufficiently new to the island to be dazzled and delighted by the island’s fragrant sweet spices, fruits and vegetables and abundant exotic fish. 

Together we paid a visit to a neighbouring market gardener and poked our noses into sweltering polytunnels of multi-coloured peppers and tiny tomatoes (known here as pommes d’amour), which are grown to the chef’s specifications. Later we checked out the market in Rose Hill, stacked high with diverse beans, pale green chubby chayotes (alias chou chou), vibrant yellow pattypan squash, burnished egg-sized aubergines and Victoria pineapples, which are not much bigger than ostrich eggs. 

Mauritius has some great street food (gadjaks or snacks), which perfume the air in the streets surrounding the market. We stood in line for dholl puri (similar to tortillas or chapattis but made of yellow lentil flour and spicily filled) and nibbled at fragrant beignets de bringelles (aubergine/eggplant fritters) and spicy, vegetable-filled samoussas. 

Later I spent an instructive couple of hours at L’Aventure du Sucre, an extraordinary museum dedicated to the island’s principal crop (60% of the island’s cultivatable land is given over to sugar cane). Housed in a former sugar mill, it graphically depicts the sugar trade routes and the island’s 250 year-old history of sugar-growing with its reliance first on slaves brought mainly from Mozambique and, after abolition, on the so-called ‘hill coolies’ imported from South India. 

The visit ends with a sugar tasting – different grades, colours and textures - and there’s a first-class restaurant, Le Fangourin, which manages skilfully to appeal to locals and tourists alike. If you’re lucky you may happen upon genuine Mauritian gems such as vindaye (from vin d’ail) – an extravagant dish which combines mustard, saffron, chillies, garlic, oil and vinegar with firm-fleshed fried tuna or octopus.

Back at the Royal Palm I volunteered my services as guinea pig for some of the chef’s new dishes at La Goelette, the hotel’s main restaurant. It’s a gorgeous pavilion with its arms thrown open to the ocean, sheltering under a steeply thatched roof from which, at night, discreetly positioned lights twinkle and twist. 

Chef Matteis’s menu is full of surprises. You might meet a succulent bonbonniere of prawns wrapped up like candy in a delicate, sesame-speckled tempura batter and poised over a mango-based sauce. Or there could be something that sounds alarmingly like roast baboon but turns out to be a firm-textured, fine-flavoured, tropical fish called babonne (grouper or garoupa), sweetly spiced, pan-fried and served with chunks of chayote and frilly yellow pattypan squash, the kind that I’d seen piled up higgledy-piggledy in the morning market. 

The chef’s delicate, bite-sized samoussas transmute the heavy-ish, deep-fried, street-side versions into fragile filo parcels, baked and filled with bananas and served with ice cream for a cool contrast. Another warm-cold combination features slices of caramelized Victoria pineapple and papaya served with a lemongrass sabayon and a rum sorbet. 

The hotel’s second restaurant, with a handful of tables seating just twenty-eight arranged around the spa pool, is open only in the evening. (The name - Natureaty – is a definite turn-off, though it sounds a lot more appealing when pronounced in the French accents of the gentle, doe-eyed Mauritian staff.) 

When first opened, it leant heavily on the health card – surely the kiss of death for any food. They’ve relented a bit on this approach, stressing instead the subtlety and beauty of the high-flavour, low-fat, European-Asian inspired dishes rather than counting their calories (and dumping aspartame along the way in favour of real sugar – still the island’s principal crop). 

The crab sushi was brilliant, though in the gloom (the lighting is very subdued) I got into a fight with the accompanying wasabi – the wasabi won. I took refuge in some tiger shrimps, delicately flavoured with smoked tea and served on a plantain puree with a frothy mushroom ‘capuccino’. 

Desserts play on a restrained number of fruit themes (strawberry, mango, passion fruit or coconut), with smooth sorbet variations set against warm brik pastries or millefeuilles. 

Otherwise, for brunching or long, late lunching, there’s the Bar de la Plage, which shelters under a series of huge thatch umbrellas with the waves lapping at its feet. On offer are great salads, carpaccio of tuna, local smoked marlin, sundry pasta dishes, sorbets and ices. 

At the slightest provocation - even without any - a waiter in crisp white shorts and knee-high white socks will materialise at your side on the beach proffering a chilled Phoenix (the island’s beer), a rum daiquiri or a fruit cocktail. 

The final option is to make full use of the terrace or balcony of your suite for meals. Breakfasting on home-made croissants and a fabulous array of tropical fruits, you’ll most likely be joined at table by some cheeky little saffron yellow birds with loads of chutzpah, who stage repeated raids on the bread basket. And at least one candlelit dinner (preceded by liberal applications of anti-mozzie spray), lulled by the music of the ocean at your feet, is a must.