James Bond was not a gourmet. In England he lived on grilled soles, oeufs cocotte and cold roast beef with potato salad. But travelling abroad, generally by himself, meals were a welcome break in the day, something to look forward to, something to break the tension of fast driving, with its risks taken or avoided, the narrow squeaks, the permanent background of concern for the fitness of his machine. In fact, at this moment, after covering a long stretch from the Italien frontier at Ventimiglia in a comfortable three days (God knew there was no reason to hurry back to Headquarters !), he was fed to the teech with the sucker-traps for gourmandizing tourists "The Hostelleries", the "Vieilles Auberges", the "Relais Fleuris" - he had had the lot. He had had their "Bonnes Tables", and their "Fines Bouteilles". He had had their "Specialités du Chef" - generally a rich sauce of cream and wine and a few button mushrooms concealing poor quality meat or fish. He had had the whole lipsmacking, he had had quite enough of the Bisodol that went with it.
Ian Fleming, On her Majesty's Secret Service. 1963