This season's Gstaad

The men don black polo necks (Loro Piano cashmere), neatly tucked into slimline Prada ski pants; the women have moved on to the white Chanel snowbunny suit, muff in hand, with matching hat to salopettes. This is Gstaad, the Swiss ski resort so conspicuously jet-set (listen to that roar of Gulfstreams touching down at nearby Saanen) that it makes the rest of the Alps look like a theme park. It's synonymous with playboys (Richard Burton, Gunther Sachs, more recently, our very own Robbie Williams), and unashamedly stuck-up (nothing we Brits can't handle).

For outsiders, it is also hell to decipher the inside track. So pull out that Black Amex card, and blow the bonus on a weekend in this pretty, fairy-tale village (replete with Bond Street stores) tucked into a gentle fold in the Bernese Oberland.

Retreating to Charly's Tearoom for a reality hit. This is the nearest Gstaad gets to a greasy spoon - plastic tablecloths, nasty pink-and-peppermint-green d?cor - remaining ground zero for a steaming Swiss hot chocolate served sans attitude.

Checking in to The Palace Hotel. This Disneyesque, 100-room hotel on the hill may be snotty about skiwear in the lounge area, but, to be fair, it makes all those women in Dior feel awkward (apparently). Concierge is impeccable, service sleek, and rooms capacious with real-size Herm?s bathroom accessories. If you can't get a reservation, don't fall for the competition, reschedule. Gstaad is The Palace.

Getting an outside table for lunch at Rialto on a sunny day. It's the best spot for people-watching (restaurant is adjacent to the Promenade, the town's main drag). Also, the best place to be spotted yourself ("Dahling - you look so well. Isn't he a gem? Best surgeon in all of Switzerland."). Be patient, though; waiters know the pecking order here, which means unknowns can expect to wait at least one hour for a beef carpaccio salad.

Borrowing a chalet from friends at weekends when they decamp to New York. Otherwise rent.

Ask in town for Matti (one of the best brokers), or speak to Alpine Chapters (020 7722 0722) about its new offering, the £30,000-a-week Chalet Christina.

Wearing Chopard rings over ski gloves, in style of the New Russians now teeming like leather-clad ants (another strange coupling seen at The Palace: fluffy slippers worn with Gucci dress). Pick up rocks at new Chopard on Promenade, or Cartier, for cash.

Dating a Rosèen girl. Le Rosey, the Swiss school which relocates to Gstaad in winter, has possibly the world's highest concentration of diamonds among the under-18s. Heiress also likely to be beautiful (long legs, skinny Voyage jeans, sun-kissed nose anointed with large dollop of Cr?me de la Mer). Impress her with hair slicked back (a la Euro-trash) and Friday table at The Cerf (small, charming restaurant in nearby village of Rougement where affairs can be conducted with discretion). Flirt shamelessly over shared raclette.

Making a friend of an Eagle Club member. This is Gstaad's superexclusive, highly secretive $12,000-ayear private members club, reached by cable car. Regulars include Taki and Adnan Kashoggi. At least a second home in Gstaad is essential to qualify.

Pre-ordering Cristal on ice at GreenGo's nightclub. You want it chilled when you stride in with the ladies, permatan aglow, to your reserved banquette (single-word monikers will do - Valentino etc) on a Saturday (not before midnight).

Sashaying down the slopes to Eggli, the best mountain restaurant, getting there in advance of the 1pm lunchtime rush for a deck chair, replete with real-fur wraparound blankets. Smoke thins or Cohibas and pick at cr?pe.

Way to go

Sophy Roberts flew to Geneva with British Airways (0845 773 3377) which currently has returns from £133. She stayed at The Palace Hotel Gstaad (doubles from £309 per night). Reservations through Mason Rose (020 7235 3245; www.masonrose.com).