I’m thinking of getting myself one of those personal attack alarms, something ear-splittingly loud, preferably with a fit-inducing strobe-light attachment and pepper spray dispenser. I intend to deploy it next time I order a pot of tea and receive instead a pot of water with a teabag on the side.

This spectacularly self-defeating practice is something I first encountered in Canada about 10 years ago. At the time I thought it a one-off piece of colonial lunacy but the ghastly habit seems to have become endemic, even in places that ought to know better. Take, for example, the iconic Monte Carlo Fairmont. Earlier in the year I found myself billeted at this breathtakingly expensive establishment during the run-up to the Monaco Grand Prix whilst serving as technical consultant on a documentary about tea habits of the rich and famous. It was here that I very nearly came to blows with a severely inebriated Chris Evans during a heated (and, on his side, woefully misinformed) discussion about the relative health benefits of tea and coffee… but that’s a tale for another time.

The Fairmont

The Monte Carlo gig was supposed to be a relaxed affair, a gentle return to active duty after my near-fatal jet ski accident at the TCA (Tea Convention of the Americas) back in January. I was not quite fully recovered from the head trauma, but my meds were keeping the hallucinations and dizzy spells in check, and it was good to be out and about again.

Breakfast at the Fairmont is taken on a rooftop terrace overlooking the bay. There’s a mouthwatering spread on offer including made-to-order crêpes filled with whatever you fancy, and I loaded my plates generously before taking a seat in the warm May morning sunshine. Fine food, freshly-squeezed pampelmousse, a light sea breeze ruffling my hair – everything seemed picture-book perfect right up until the moment when my pot of tea arrived. Or rather, pot of water with a teabag on the side.

No blisters here

Remaining calm, I called back the garçon who’d delivered this abomination and gave him my standard mini-lecture on the basic principles of tea-making. He duly brought a second pot containing two bags, pre-immersed as requested, but had clearly misunderstood the part about using freshly boiled water. I am not especially heat resistant, yet I was able to grasp the metal body of the pot and raise it from the table without a whisper of discomfort. I held it aloft, perhaps a tad more theatrically than was strictly necessary, and asked Henri-Pierre why my hand was not consequently covered in blisters and wracked with searing pain. He shrugged disconsolately and told me that he could not ‘make the boiling’ because the water came from a machine.

This shocking revelation was altogether too much for my still-fragile cerebellum. The floor seemed to pitch and roll like the deck of a storm-tossed galleon – a sudden wave of hot nausea sent me lurching clumsily towards the edge of the terrace, barging tables and chairs aside. All around me faces turned, tanned skin melting away to reveal leering, gaudily painted skulls. Fearful and disorientated, I made a desperate lunge for the railings and vomited extravagantly onto the balconies below.

A gift from the management

Right now you’re probably thinking: that sounds a little bit weird and scary, and in many ways it was – although I think the episode helped to make my point. At breakfast the next day I was greeted like royalty: Ah! Monsieur Té! Bonjour! This way, s’il vous plait… A source of freshly boiled water had miraculously been discovered and the results were genuinely impressive, but it was a hollow victory, for I could see that none of the other guests were sharing in this bounty. They were still washing down their crêpes and croissants with the same dismal, lukewarm, bag-out silage.

The restaurant manager’s assistant, M. Antoine Santini, intercepted me while I was checking out, and breathlessly assured me that my breakfast tea preferences were now on record and would be automatically honoured should I visit at any other Fairmont or affiliated hotel worldwide. I wanted to shake him roughly by the shoulders and make him understand that this was not a random personal eccentricity like wanting your soufflé garnished with rats’ entrails. English Breakfast Tea should always be made this way. For everyone. Everywhere.

Stupid tea set, undrinkable tea

This wasn’t quite the end of my sojourn in Monte Carlo. Due to an administrative error I’d been booked out of the Fairmont a day early and had to spend my final night at the slightly less glamorous Meridien Beach Plaza down on Avenue Princesse Grace. What kind of gnarled and calloused fist, I wondered, would they make of my breakfast brew here? I was already braced for disappointment, but the reality was worse than anything I could have imagined. As I was being seated I noticed a waiter emerging from the kitchens bearing a large tray of about two dozen teapots . The pots, pre-filled with water, were destined to sit on the tray losing heat for up to half an hour before eventually being doled out to guests with a bag of tea-dust on the side. My throat tightened, the floor bucked beneath me and a familiar hot churning stirred in my gut…