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| Benedictine Monks |
The articulate historian journalist, Royce offered to take
me on a Franche Comté tour, this being his territory. Who can refuse on such an invite by an
intellectual scholar. His love of food,
wine, cheese and women, in that order suits me perfectly. From Andelot, we traveled to Besançon, the
capital of Franche Comté, continued on to Salins les Bains, Dole and finally Champagnole.
Having doused on historical facts, sampled multitude wedges
of cheese and sipped many gulps of Appellation Controlé, exchanged our love and friendship, it was time to say our
goodbyes. Clinking our glasses,
reflecting on what might have been, we parted ways. He left for Princeton to lecture on the
Government of Cardinal Richelieu and I
accepted an invitation to Paris to be at
the men’s final at Roland Garros. At Charles de Gaul, we said our fond farewells.
For those who only watch sports from the living room, there
is nothing to match that excitement, that center court electricity and that
overall special exclusivity of an invitation by Longine. They are the timekeeper and the official
partner of the French Open since 2007.
Luncheon in Longine’s tent was an epicurean feast. Fruit de Mer on ice, Salmon Cream Cheese and
Dill Soufflé, Blanquette de Veau, Salad of Belgian endive, Chocolate tart. This was the nearest I have been of feeling
French. It wasn’t just the food or wine,
our hosts, but the ambience, the sport and just being in Paris.
On court, sitting two rows up from the front with the most
beautiful Aishwarya Rai, Longines
Ambassador, the audible sounds of grunting by the players is their way to smack
the ball with maximum effort and authority. The power felt in each swing draws
extreme energy and with it seemingly more force. With each volley, the grunts released the
tension that almost becomes orgasmic. My
fellow seat-mate did not admire such sounds whereas I reveled in each audible
shriek.
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| Nadal's victory at the French Open |
The Spainard, Rafael Nadal won the most intense game, I did
not realize we had been sitting for four straight hours squeezed in the small
green plastic chairs, heart popping at every smash hit he made. After such a long day, the retreat back to
the George V with a Kir Royale at Le Bar set me off for the evening.
Now for the serious trip down South, Air France drops me off
at Nice. The first night was at a
boutique hotel for lovers, Hôtel 3.14
in Cannes. An unusual named hotel but each floor of the 3.14 corresponds to a
universe representing one of the five continents. After much conundrum, it
became apparent that Hôtel 3.14 is a
Pi. Most hotels leave a flower or a
piece of chocolate on the pillow at night, but this was one of France’s Box
of Delights. Nestled among
breath mints and mouth spray, there was an interesting battery charged device,
ready to buzz at the flick of a switch. There also were stimulating lubricants of
dubious nature, one packet for women, one for men. Pictorial sketches included in
case creativity left the imagination. I
was being educated the French way, a giant leap from high-school to post-grad
division.
Morning light shimmering on the Cote d'Azure, aptly named because of its intense skyblue sea is breathtaking.
Cruising down the coastline, we were hosted to lunch at Eden
Roc’s restaurant by the sea, brushing alongside Hollywood’s Brad Pitt, De Niro
and Madonna. They, preparing for the
Cannes Film Festival, and me, just ogling as we sipped Sancerre and crunched on
Salad Niçoise.
The second night’s Box of Delights never got revealed as we
were moved to the Hotel Majestic Barrier in Cannes on Le Croissette. Perhaps not as exclusive as Hotel du Cap Eden
Roc but it had the old fashioned majestic ambience akin to the Edwardian era
with its lobby nooks, scattered expensive leather chairs next to a magnificent
bar. First time, and there’s always a
first time, I allowed an unknown swarthy olive skinned French speaking stud to
buy me an aperitif. Supremely efficient
in his art form, every word spoken, every nuance sprung his secret occupation –
Gigolo Suprème of La Cote D’Azur of the French Rivera. The opposite equivalent to Asia’s Geisha, the
European Gigolo cuts to the chase. And I was left in no doubt of his next move.
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| L'Assietee Provencal rue Quai Saint Pierre |
Moving quickly onwards, my cravings for Moules Marinière had become a fixation and an obsession. Everyone and anyone that encountered me was grilled on which restaurant served the best mussels and it came down to L’Assietee Provençal capturing my attention and my stomach. Al fresco dining with views out to the harbor, on the Quai Saint Pierre sipping my champagne as I await my order, basking in the sights and sounds, to my right was someone who looked like Bradley Cooper. A moment’s excitement and then it was gone as my attention went to the arrival of the Moules Mariniere wafting its aroma as it sat in front of me. It could’ve been Brad Pitt or Daniel Craig, or any hunk for that matter, the stomach won over all urges.
Like a kid in a candy store, my eyes were popping out of its
sockets to the enormity of the portion.
These French people eat a lot.
The shells glistening with wine and cream, every morsel tasted of
simplicity mixed with quality equals sheer excellence. I mopped the creamy
sauce with all the bread, sipped champagne, wondered out aloud, if this is
heaven, God take me now! Satiated, the
possibility of my entré seemed over indulgent.
A twenty minute interval was needed.
“Un intervalle de
vingt minutes s'il vous plait” fluttering my eyelashes. Voila, he understood.
Never in twenty-four years of abstinence from all nicotine
indulgences did I slip up. But the
twenty minute interval opened up repressed addiction and I succumbed to a
Gauloise, inhaling the fragrant smoke, mastering the technique of filtering it
through the nose to get maximum aroma.
This is going to be a long, slow and delicious night.
My pillow token at the Majestic Brassiere was classy, a
small box of chocolates, a hand written French love poem, and a fresh lavender
bag to put under the pillow case enhancing sleep.
Leaving the Majestic early morning in a convertible white
Mercedes, heading east destination Monte
Carlo. Jacques, the Monegasques guide at my pleasure is born and bred in Monte
Carlo. His family has been in Monaco for
centuries. Approaching Monte Carlo on the Moyenne Corniche with Jacques at the
wheels is one of the most beautiful highways in the world. Jacques’ brother Sebastien, Deputy CEO for
BNP Paribas, will be joining in the evening’s soiree at the Casino.
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| Le Metropole |
A little elegance will be required for this evening’s event
so it was off to Le Metropole shopping center, home to over 80 boutiques
specializing in luxury items.
A black
Dior outfit with Manolo Blahnik heels and a Gucci clutch set me back a few
thousand, but my womanly mind justifies these deficits and gains with equal
calmness knowing my luck will be with me at the roulette table.
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| The Casino |
Wish me luck.