Now for the dining, sightseeing portion of vacation

I was asked the following: "Did you see anything on your vacation except the inside of wineries?" Yes. We saw vineyards and tasting rooms.

It's the unexpected that leaves the sharpest memories, as we drove through Germany and Alsace and the Alto Adige in Italy's far north. Lindau Island in Germany, in Lake Konstanz, was an unexpected pleasure, an easy going vacation town sprinkled with surprising grace notes.

St. Peter's, a modest little alabaster church at one end of the island, is one of Lindau's grace notes. Plain, just about deserted on the evening when we stepped inside, you were immediately struck by the spirituality of the place. And then near the altar you saw them, twelve 16th century wall murals by Hans Holbein, some fading, totally unprotected, just ... well, just there. The 12 stations of the cross.

I thought of them a couple of days later when, foolishly, we followed the hype and signed up for the tour of Linderhof, Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria's rococo pleasure castle, with its ornate sculpted peacocks and lavish bed embroidery. The place was mobbed. You waited over an hour for a castle tour, which went off every 10 minutes or so. All that for one man's self indulgence, while in St. Peter's, a place of true meaning, nothing but solitude.

The Hotel Turm in the northern Italian town of Fie was a grace note. "You are an artist, is that correct?" the owner, Stefan Pramstrahler, asked Linda. Yes, correct. "So you would like to see what we have in the hotel?"

It was a trip through an art gallery. Original paintings by such as Dali, Klimt, Otto Dix, Picasso, lined the halls, the rooms, the health spa, even the garage. Ancient Russian icons, medieval wood carvings. How many? Maybe 250 pieces, maybe 300. Everything was done with style and exquisite taste, even the ironwork on the railings, the areas of rough marble flooring. We saw doors that went back to the very beginnings of the building, to the 11th or 12th century, doors that almost seemed built in miniature, to accommodate the smaller people of that era. It was a hotel that took your breath away, and the rate sheet was modest. This was no Trump Castle.

I decided that we would drive out of our way to visit my old post in Landstuhl, where the big army hospital is, where I was stationed 50 years ago. Then we would drive the seven or eight K's up the road to Vogelweh, where our team, the WACOM (Western Area Command) Rhinos, played its home games, and I'd show Linda the field where we played, the gym where I boxed (TKO by LeRoy, Ezekual, Roker at 2:38 of the first).

A big mistake. I had visited my post one time in the last 50 years and seen my barracks without too much hassle, but that was before the word, Security, entered the vocabulary. This time I didn't recognize it. There used to be one gate, now there were five. A German security firm called Pond had been hired by the US Army to handle things. We needed a "sponsor" to get us on the post. I finally got one through the Public Affairs Office, a corporal who couldn't figure out which building had been my old barracks, even though it was the one in which he was currently billeted. It looked totally unfamiliar. It had had a paint job, to get it to conform with the rows of similar buildings. I didn't even take Linda inside.

OK, let's look at the field, at the gym. The Public Affairs lady had called ahead to get someone to come down to the security office and get us in. She had spoken to the NCO at the gym, who went by the name of Sergeant Fred. I called him when we got down to Vogelweh, which now goes by the name of Pulaski Barracks. He said he couldn't spare anybody and hung up. No sense getting mad ... look, I lived in the temporary duty barracks here...I just want to show my wife where I ... etc.

"Try me in half an hour," he said. I called in half an hour. Nobody home. I kept trying. The German security guards weren't happy about my using their phone. Finally I reached him.

"Look, I told you there's nobody here." Gosh, what's a sponsor, anyway? Just grab a guy who has five minutes to kill, who can come down and sign us in.

"No is no, see?" And then it all started coming back. The Army. The tight, stupid faces. The denials--just to show they could do it. The barracks sergeant who cleaned out my locker the day the football season ended, and threw out, among other things, draft cards I'd gotten from the Colts and the Browns.

"Let's get the hell out of this place," I said to Linda.

I haven't mentioned restaurants yet. Every trip we make we rate them on a 10-point system that's too complicated to go into right now. Then we rank them all from one to whatever. Before I give you our top ten, let me say that the only Michelin French three-star establishment that Linda and I ever ate in together was ranked tied for 22nd of 29 restaurants.

Now I know you want to say, aha, reverse snobbishness, but let me explain. We are rating not only the quality of food, and there's no question that the chefs at our three-star place could put away those of the modest restaurants that got higher rankings. We're judging the quality of the whole experience. And when you look back at something and groan, then it has fallen short

The Auberge de L'Ill in Illhaeusern is Alsace's only three-star. It has proudly carried that banner for as long as anyone can remember. Everyone speaks of it fondly. Less stuffy, less pricey, a really friendly feeling, and so forth. I ate there 31 years ago, all by myself, a very modest little meal, mainly because of the funds situation. It was delicious.

I don't know if the place has changed that much, or maybe I have or perhaps just the times. The first thing that happens, on setting foot upon the threshold is that you are instantly made aware of your status, not only as a diner but as a human being. This is established by where you are placed in the room, or rooms.

Thus the Japanese gentleman and his female companion (wife?), both of them beautifully and expensively dressed, got the table overlooking not one, but two of the carefully maintained gardens. Next rung belonged to those who got the table looking out on one garden. They had the look of spenders. Then came those who were placed in the center of the room because, I would assume, they wanted to be seen. Then came Linda and me, not at the lowest rung. That was reserved for the loud German fella (actually a pretty funny guy; we engaged him in conversation for most of the evening) in the shaggy sweater, accompanied by his tootsie girlfriend.

I was dressed neatly if not expensively. Tweed jacket and black turtleneck, my Gerard Depardieu look. No, not a shirt and tie, but acceptable, if not prosperous looking. Looks a little crazy, actually. Might get a bit troublesome when into the old vino. We got the seat adjoining a window, but a window leading to nothing...a yard, some nondescript machinery, you know, nothing you'd want to look at, but still...glass!

The fifth-rung German and his ladyfriend got the seat under some wall decoration thing that looked like a huge pan. God forbid it should have come loose. Both of them would have been crushed to death.

Well, like idiots we fell into the trap, the 142-euro tasting menu. That's per person, and it wasn't served unless both of us got it (The Redhead made the sacrifice). And as these meals usually go, the amuse bouche was lovely, the next course was light and friendly, and then boom, boom, boom, here they came, the cream sauce specials, three straight courses, each heavily creamed.

And your system rebels. Getting the bites down becomes a struggle. The third one was a trio of little veal medallions and some mushy green gnocchi. I was finished. I realized that if I took one more bite of either of those things I was in danger of throwing up. There should have been a photographer there to take a picture of me leaving a piece of meat on the plate. The last time that happened was, I believe, in 1958.

I kind of got interested in the timing of the service. They'd bring you a course. It would take you about a minute and a half to eat it. Thirty minutes later you'd get another course. I began timing it. Almost 30 minutes to the dot. Yes, this was planned Thus, if you had a five course meal, there was no way you'd get out in less than two and a half hours, three hours for six course, etc. Our meal took three and a half.

And what were you doing when you weren't eating? Sweating. The heat in the room became unbearable. Linda said she was getting dizzy. Me, too. When we finally emerged from the place, we were like miners who had been trapped underground for 10 days, gasping and clutching at the cool night air.

I won't get into the rest of it, the cheese platter, followed by four, count 'em, separate desserts. "Who can eat all those?" I asked Linda. "She can," she said, motioning to a lady at the center table whose mouth was opening like an alligator's. Oh yes, the bill. No I won't get into that, not at all. I'm too ashamed.

People we spoke to continued to rave about the Auberge. But some of the restaurant people we got to know told a different story.

"At one time that style was fashionable, but they haven't changed with the times," said a chef at a small restaurant where we ate a couple of times. "It's a style the Michelin people can understand." Well, not us.

Here, then, are our top 10 in Germany, Alsace, Luxembourg and Italy's Alto Adige:

1. Hotel Turm, Fie, Grade 9.22.

Highest grade we've ever given. Best restaurant in Italy we've ever eaten in. Herr Prahmstrahler is also the chef. His cooking is light and delicate and unforgettable. Huge, natural wine cellar with rarities from the region?at modest prices.

2. Tie between Luc Brendel, LaTable du Gourmet in Riquewihr, Alsace, and Wald Hotel Sonorra, Dreis, Germany, 8.17.

Magnificent French cooking with an Alsatian twist at La Table. Best sweetbreads I've ever eaten. The Wald Sonorra is one of those countrified landmarks people flock to. Very fancy. Considered one of Germany's keynote restaurants, but we didn't know it. We just stumbled in late on a Sunday afternoon?and had a marvelous meal.

4. Rotisserie Ardennaise, Luxembourg, 8.06

Another of those Sunday "got lucky" meals. Fresh escargots and steak au poivre.

5. Three-way tie among Le Bouc Bleu in Beblenheim, Alsace; Zum Treppchen in Beilstein on the Mosel in Germany and the café at Schloss Johannissberg vineyard in the Rheingau, 8.0.

Bouc Bleu, a pretty little place, became a real favorite. Husband-wife team. He's the chef, she's from the Southwest of France and supervises the wines, notably Gaillacs and Madirans. Zum Treppchen bowled Linda over with its selection of giant baked potatoes stuffed with all manner of wonderful things and a dessert that the owner, Rita Schneider, explained was from her home in the Tirol. It's called Kaiserschmarm and it consists of shredded pancakes and raisins in vanilla ice cream. "You're not doing it justice," Linda says. "Light and delicate, still warm when we got it ... " OK, OK already. Our lunch at the Schloss was very light, but everything was perfect, including a fresh trout. You can't get that in restaurants in the US.

8. St.Michael, Alto Adige, 7.835

An inexpensive workingman's place a few K's from the inn where we always stay. Of the five or six times we've eaten there, Linda has had the turkey in pepper sauce, I'd say four times.

9. Hotel Flair Landsknecht, St.Goar, Germany, 7.56

Perfect white asparagus in Holandaise sauce, terrific wines of the Mittelrhein from the owner's vineyard.

10. Hotel Uhrerhof Deur, Bulla, Alto Adige, Italy, 7.5

We've stayed here for years. Owned by the Zemmer family, and the papa, Walter, formerly the head chef at the Greif Hotel in Bolzano, does the cooking. Dinners are included in the very modest hotel bill, which is just fine with us because his menu is full of surprises, everything done with the lightest possible touch.

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