BEING the token Parisienne wherever I happen to find myself, I am, against my ill, forever held up as the representative of my people, the unfailing authority on all manner of things French.

Of course I am expected to possess all the attributes of the Frenchwoman , whatever this might mean. I often fail the test, if the obvious veil of disappointment that inevitably darkens most people’s faces is anything to go by when the dupery is revealed.

I come across as a fraud, a pale imitation of the leggy, glamorous woman of mystery, a Gauloise dangling from her dainty fingers, they imagine and I am somehow supposed to emulate.

I tick one box however. According to those closest to me my frightening consumption of bread and cheese and uncontrollable road rage apparently redeem me in their eyes and makes me a bona fide and incurable Parisian. Does this mean that politeness, patience and lactose intolerance rules you out as a potential member of the tribe?

Regardless of whether I fit the stereotypes, my entourage has put me to good use, as a sort of sniffer dog for ersatz French cuisine. I should be able as a native to detect the fake from the genuine and give any eatery my stamp of approval.

It is in a similar quest for truth that I dispatched on a recce mission to the Sofitel London St James at the heart of the swanky Pall Mall one balmy July weekend.

The French chain promised a lesson in genuine ‘art de vivre’ on its website and so here I was, out to expose any specious claims or adopt it as my new home, as the case may be.

But after ten years in this country, I was starting to feel less and less able to spot true unadulterated Frenchness from expert imitation. I feared that my ‘radar’ may have lost its potency.

That's the wonders of the melting pot. You blend in but how much of what makes you undeniably one of your nation do you shed along the way without even realising?

Stepping into the hotel’s foyer after a leisurely stroll past the dazzling lights of Piccadilly’s billboards, I felt my nagging concern fading away. The interiors’ opulence washed over me and I was ready to embrace my culture.

The French chatter around us certainly helped ease me back into it and would provide an apt soundtrack to our stay.

Built to house the headquarters of the army banking agency, Cox and Company, later Cox's and King's, the building was subsequently taken over by Lloyd's Bank. It remained in the hands of bankers until Sofitel transformed it into a 125,000 sq ft luxury five-star hotel.

From the St James Bar inspired by Coco Chanel's 1920s Paris apartment to the rococo Rose Room with its soothing tones and snug furnishings, every corner of the hotel exuded French chic.

Adding definite cachet was the choice of Pierre-Yves Rochon - the firm behind the elegant decor of some of the Ritz Carlton’s flagships and the restaurants of renowned chefs like Joel Robuchon - as its designer.

Comfortable and extremely spacious our room followed that aesthetic to a tee with stylish mahogany furniture and a whimsical clock-print wallpaper in the hall. The olive and chocolate colour palette lent a Haussmann-era feel to our abode for the night.

The stunning bathroom with its check pattern tiling, imposing bath and range of Hermes soaps left me daydreaming of a languorous soak.

This was possibly the tea talking. Yes, the tea. Seconds into my thorough exploration of our plush room, my radar flared and I spotted on the console by the Nespresso coffee machine muslin bags of my favourite tea, Dammann Freres. Not quite as high-profile on this side of the Channel as it ought to be, the brand is what Dom Perignon is to champagne, the best – in my humble opinion. I was in ‘paradis’.

As the way to a Frenchwoman’s heart is through her stomach (a cliché which has proven true), I was wooed by Sofitel with the gift of a French picnic. The mammoth hamper balancing perilously on my partner's arm, we went on our merry way to St James Park to devour our gargantuan banquet. Any thought of making it to Green Park was quickly shelved. The basket was simply too heavy.

Like children on Christmas day we settled down on the soft fleece blanket provided by the hotel and set about unpacking our treats.

The wine test tubes (the best way I can describe the long glass containers) certainly caught our intention and were duly poured into minute glasses before our thoughts returned to food.

By the envious stares of our growing audience – we were the only picnickers on this sun-drenched day with two sets of plates, cutlery, wine, soft drinks and enough to feed an army let alone just two of us – our little display was quite a sight.

Starting with generous helpings of heirloom tomato salad with tapenade and basil, we worked our way through smoked salmon and cucumber baguettes with dill cream, pickled mushrooms, peppers and cabbage in individual jars, fruit salad, Camembert, fruit pastes and caramelised walnuts.

The highlight was by far the tuiles - thin, crisp, savoury wafers - washed down with cranberry juice and followed by soft chocolate cookies and a must of any descent ‘French picnic’: moist madeleines.

Replete and relieved at the now more manageable weight of the basket post-meal we duly returned our hamper and made use of the plump bed, crashing in a food daze.

But determined to make the most of a weekend in the capital we soon recovered our strength. In our pursuit of timeless French chic, we headed to the National Portrait Gallery, a mere two minutes away to ogle never-seen before photographs of Audrey Hepburn sporting an array of her favourite Givenchy designs.

The thought of dinner firmly put out of our minds, we however indulged in a few cocktails at the St James Bar, imagining for an instant Coco Chanel in similar surroundings in her Paris home enjoying, like us, an aperitif.

The prospect of bidding Sofitel London St James au revoir the following morning after a sound sleep and the promised soak was a terrible blow, only softened by a gourmet breakfast of blueberry pancakes, back pudding and bacon – my only concession to an otherwise genuinely French weekend. Even in France I have always shunned continental buffets for greasy spoons.

Whether aroused by luxury or a genuine sense of kinship, I was overwhelmed by patriotism as we took our leave. If this was the best my people had to offer, I wanted to be a part of it.

PANEL

Marion stayed in a superior room. Prices start at £380 per night.

The picnic package can be booked at www.sofitel.com until August 31.

The package includes:

-25% off on a three or four-night stay

- a picnic basket

- late checkout until 3pm.

Sofitel London James is located at 6 Waterloo Place SW1Y 4AN, 02077 472200.