Last week, while vacationing at our home on Salt Spring Island, I was invited to the premier of The Bourne Ultimatum in Los Angeles. A friend of mine, we’ll call him PC, is one of the producers and one of my husband’s oldest and best friends. I got to know PC quite well when he was filming parts of the movie in London. I’ll talk more about the movie later, but in a nutshell it was fantastic. Action, action, action!
Sitting in front of me on the plane to LA was Spike Lee. He wore a baseball cap and a bright yellow jacket with ‘Brazil’ written on the back of it. After a few minutes, Dr Dean Ornish, well-known for writing several books about how diet can reverse heart disease got up from his seat, approached Spike and sat down next to him. He introduced himself and offered his card. Why this conservatively dressed, middle-aged doctor would be chatting up Mister Lee, the King of Hip was beyond me. Maybe he was pitching a sequel to Boyz in the Hood, where a balding Jewish doctor saves the rappers and homies from death by cardiac arrest. After all, anything can happen in Hollywood.
The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills arranged a car to whisk me to the premier, although I barely moved in grid-lock traffic. Luckily I got there in time to see the last of the stars being interviewed on the red carpet. Ben Affleck, as attractive as a GQ model, was there to support his friend Matt Damon who looked the anti-thesis of Jason Bourne in a sharp grey suit and black striped tie. And by the way, he looks much better in person than he does on screen. I walked into the theater directly behind Julia Stiles who looked lovely in a floor length, white cotton dress. She probably felt wonderfully girlie in her summer frock after getting down and dirty filming her tense chase scenes through the streets of Tangiers. PC had kindly given Julia my book, The Italian Connection, to read. She’d make a great Christina! I introduced myself to her as she walked into the theater. She was a bit taken off guard, but when she put the face with the name of the author she smiled and said that she'd received the book, and then apologized for not having had the time to read it. She was very gracious and polite. The woman she was with interrupted us (in true Hollywood fashion) and then ushered Julia into the theater.
Joan Allen, who plays a CIA internal investigation agent, glided like a swan along the red carpet. It looked like a starvation diet combined with rigorous Pilates sessions had given her the sculpted body that she proudly showed off in a strapless black and silver dress. I thought she looked great, but I overheard a man next to me say that someone should force-feed her a plate of pasta. Others that I got a glimpse of were Jennifer Garner (all smiles and dimples), Ellen Pompeo and Joely Richardson. I only saw one ghastly plastic surgery nightmare: a woman who looked like a plumped-up Barbie doll with huge fake boobs, swollen lips and a shiny face. She preened for the paparazzi like she was an A-lister but I knew better.
There were several people in the crowd that looked familiar but I couldn’t place where I had seen them. One man in particular seemed to be getting a lot of attention. He was cute in a messy-blond-hair-and-blue-eyes kind of way. I racked my brain, but his name still didn’t come to me. Was he a break-out reality TV star? A supporting cast member of some Emmy winning show I had no idea about? Your guess is as good as mine. He continued to sign autographs and be interviewed by television reporters, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who he was. Half-way through the movie, it came to me: Larry Birkhead, the father of Anna-Nicole Smith’s baby girl. I found it strange that a crowd of people would want his autograph, but was absolutely shocked when a young girl about 11 wanted mine! I was flattered but felt bad that I had to tell her I wasn’t anyone famous. “That’s okay,” she said as she smiled and handed me her notebook filled with illegible signatures. I felt foolish actually signing my name, but the girl was on a mission to get signatures and I didn’t want to disappoint.
The movie played on several screens in different theaters at the ArcLight Cinema in Hollywood at Sunset and Vine. It flew by with one action-packed scene after another including a fight scene in a grungy bathroom in Tangiers that went on for five minutes before Bourne killed off the assassin (“asset” in CIA parlance) played by Joey Ansah, a hot English actor of West African descent. Shame to see him go as it would’ve been great to see him again in a sequel. I also learned that he performed his own stunts. Unbelievable! Stunts were a huge part of the movie, and when the credits came on at the end of the movie about 20 names of the actual cast members were listed and then the names of the stunt people rolled on for what seemed like five minutes.
I honestly have no idea how PC and his crew managed to film all those chase scenes in major metropolitan cities. PC told me that they literally had to close down the streets. Not an easy feat in Manhattan, Madrid, Moscow, Tangiers and Paris. In fact the police car that the Jason Bourne character had stolen and then drove like a madman through the streets of Manhattan (and ultimately ended up demolishing) was featured like a piece of art in the foyer of the Palladium at the after-party.
After spending so much time with PC and having dinner with him when he was dead tired—usually having just flown back from New York or Morocco or wherever (and sometimes he was out of the country for only 18 hours to re-shoot a scene), I really felt for the guy. But after seeing the movie it was clear that all his hard work had paid off. It truly was a full-throttle, pedal to the metal ride.
While PC was filming in London, he asked Lindsay and her 8 year-old friend if they’d like to be an extra in the movie. Of course we were thrilled and even took her out of school for the day. My husband and I escorted Lindsay to Waterloo Station and waited and waited and waited for 6 hours until they said Lindsay was up. She and her girlfriend put on their navy blue school coats, donned their straw boater hats with thick blue ribbons (picture Madeline) and walked over to the escalators where they were instructed to hold hands and stand while the stairs descended to the main floor where absolute mayhem was taking place. Bourne was running for his life, trying to avoid getting taken out by another assassin. At this same time, my husband was walking around the station talking on his cell phone (surprise surprise). He was captured on film (five times!) but adorable Lindsay and her friend were cut. That’s Hollywood for you.
The after-party at the Palladium was a zoo, at least 1000 people. I sat at PC’s table and chit-chatted with his other guests about their various movie projects. Seems like everyone’s in the biz. Matt Damon, his family and entourage were surrounded by security so I didn’t have a chance to speak with him, but I did have the opportunity to meet him in London. He’s very friendly, humble and has a wicked sense of humor. When I returned to the Four Seasons after the party, I switched on the TV which happened to be tuned to Jay Leno interviewing Matt. Obviously, it wasn’t live as he was still partying at the Palladium. I enjoyed watching the interview, which reinforced Matt’s charm and self-deprecating sense of humor.
The following morning I awoke to the bright LA sun blasting into my room—WAY TOO EARLY! Unable to fall back asleep I decided to go out for a walk. I asked the concierge where to go, and he looked at me like I was crazy. “No one walks in LA,” he said, “But there’s a great gym on the 4th floor.” Since I’m more of a fresh-air girl, I asked him to show me on a map where all the huge mansions were. I was hoping to peak into the homes of the stars. He pointed to an area above Sunset and highlighted the best way to get there. After passing a car dealership that rented Ferraris and Cadillac Escalades, I ended up in a more modest neighborhood called the flats of Beverly Hills, which consisted of lovely homes, manicured lawns and tree-lined streets. The place was as dead as a cemetery. The only action I saw were a handful of gardeners blowing around some leaves, a personal trainer unloading an exercise ball, a mat and some small weights from his SUV, and a yoga teacher who emerged from her hybrid Honda with a personalized license plate that read YOGA4U. By now it was only 9am but the sun was blistering. Too hot for me, so I aborted my plan of hiking up to the mansions. As I stood at the top of Hillcrest (one of the several palm-lined streets that you see in TV shows and movies) I heard some yelling and honking and then saw a man in a convertible Mini Cooper flipping off a guy in a blacked-out black Bronco. Bad move. The guy in the Bronco honked back and forced the Mini Cooper to the side of the road. This quiet neighborhood had finally come to life but I wasn’t sticking around to see what happened. Californians (especially those in LA) are known to carry guns like mothers of newborns carry diapers.
When I returned to the Four Seasons I ate my breakfast on the outside patio, only to have a guy next to me light up a cigarette. I couldn’t believe it! Here I was in Beverly Hills where your body is your temple and I’m sitting next to a guy smoking. After a bit of writing and a quick shower I grabbed a cab to LAX. By now it was stifling hot and very humid. The driver asked me if I’d like air conditioning—for $2 extra. I had never heard of this surcharge before, but I guess with gas prices through the roof this stuff happens. I said “sure”, but after five minutes of suffocating, I told him I’d like to cancel my air con upgrade and open the windows. Not sure which was worse. By the time I got to the airport I could taste the metallic exhaust fumes.
Even though I had a great time at the premier, I could hardly wait to get out of there. In fact I barely lasted 24 hours. The combination of skin-searing sun, traffic, pollution and all the posers was more than this Island Girl* could handle.
*For those of you who have spent time with us in Canada you'll recognize Island Girl as the name of our De Havilland Beaver.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Bordeaux or Bust
February 2007
The Wetherby Hillbillies and two friends from Washington DC flew British Airways down to Nice to meet some friends who live in Monaco. We had dinner with them at the two Michelin-star restaurant, Oasis, near to their home in Theole-sur-Mer. If you’d like to read about this stunning part of the world, as well as more about Oasis, please refer to my posting “Tale of Two Cities.”
After spending a night at our friend’s gorgeous villa, we all piled into a super-fast Lear 45 and flew to Bordeaux. Craig, our friend from Washington DC, provided non-stop entertainment. He boarded the plane carrying a French guide book, wearing a beret on his head and a silver, Burgundian tasse a vin, or “tastevin”, as it’s more commonly called, around his neck. On each of the comfy 8 leather seats, an itinerary of our week was printed in the style of a fancy wedding invitation. I saw that we would be given a private tour of several Premier Grand Cru chateaux, as well as Chateau d’Yquem, famous for its sweet Sauterne.
Craig, after asking Grover several times, “Daddy, are we almost there?” started singing car songs: “One hundred bottles d’Yquem on the wall, one hundred bottles d’Yquem. Take one down, pass it around ninety-nine bottles d’Yquem on the wall.” We finally shut him up by popping a bottle of Dom and passing it around.
We landed at the Bordeaux airport (not too tipsy because it was such a quick flight) and were met by Ben and Georgina from Justerini & Brooks in London. They were kind enough to arrange the entire trip for us and did an outstanding job. Outside the airport next to the parking I noticed a small vineyard. Not certain if anyone actually made wine from the grapes, but at least it got all the visitors in the mood for a week of tasting. I can’t imagine the cement terroire being ideal for planting, but possibly the diesel fumes create a unique bouquet to the finished product.
I’ll touch on a few of our visits:
First stop: Haut Brion in Graves-- one of the five Grand Cru, premier growth chateaux of Bordeaux. We had lunch with Jean-Philippe Delmas, the managing director. This was my introduction to our daily four course meals served with at least five wines. Haut Brion is known for its distinctive reds (the gravel on which the vines grow provides a taste and finish unique to this region), but they also served two whites which were the best I’ve ever tasted. For the remainder of our trip I kept comparing them to the other whites that we had tasted on the trip, saying they weren’t as good as the wine at lunch at Haut Brion. My husband laughed and said that’s like saying, “Wow, that Porsche drives so much better than the Ford Fiesta.” To be fair, none of the wines we tasted were in the same vehicular league as a Ford Fiesta, but apparently the two white Graves, the Chateau Haut Brion Blanc (very expensive and extremely rare--only about 500 cases made) and the Laville Haut Brion are considered to be some of the best in the world, and rarely available for purchase.
Chateau Smith Haut Lafite:
Florence Cathiard, the owner of this beautiful chateau and massive vineyard, had us over for drinks in her home and then joined us for dinner in her newly created casual dining room, called the Table de Lavoire which was built on the premises of the place where the local ladies would wash all the wine-pickers shirts. Natural hot springs still gurgled outside the restaurant and antique washboards and buckets decorated the room.
Florence is an attractive, fit woman in her late fifties. She told us she bikes everyday throughout her vineyard to stay slim. But I also noticed that when the dessert menus were presented she swiped her hand in front of her and said that she never takes dessert. ‘Jamais!’ She was as adamant about not taking dessert as a New Yorker who never takes s*** from anyone. I’m sure I’m not the first traveler to France who has noticed that the French don’t drink coffee or tea, but ‘take’ it. They also don’t eat bread with every meal, but ‘take’ it. But she did say that she ‘drinks’ a large pot of specially-blended herbal tea after each meal. All of the women raised our hands and in unison told the waiter that we’ll have what she’s having. It wasn’t as dramatic as the Meg Ryan scene in When Harry met Sally, but this woman was obviously doing something right. She will host Le Fete des Fleurs this year, the annual wine-tasting festival, at her Chateau and told us that she will “serve her white 2000, because she wants to show the world that we age well.” Of course she was referring to the wine, but in my opinion she’s aging even better.
Chateau Smith Haut Lafite also has a fantastic spa on the property called Caudalie. It was started by Florence’s daughter and son-in-law. They utilized the waste from the grapes and turned it into products for the skin and bath. This line of skin products and body treatments is known as vinotherapy. After one too many four-course lunches, five- course dinners and nearly a barrel of wine over the past few days, I needed to sleep in and skip one of the morning wine-tasting sessions. Instead I took a run through the vineyards and spent the morning getting a Cabernet body scrub and facial. Time well spent indeed!
After a leisurely bath, a pot of hot lemon-water and some freshly-squeezed honeydew melon juice for breakfast, I met the group for lunch at the Lion d’Or in Margaux. Apparently all the wine makers in town lunch there. I wish I had brought all my single girlfriends with me because every seat in the house was occupied by an extremely handsome man—something I never see in London.
Chateau Mouton Rothschild, another Premier Grand Cru chateau:
This chateau was the most interesting. Their cellar was dark and musty but we could still see that it stored some amazing dust-covered bottles of wine—a few dating as far back as 1848. We watched the winemakers test the wine from the barrel for sediment, holding a candle to the glass. This is considered the classic French way, and has been done like this for hundreds of years. I also saw one of the wine makers whisking up some egg whites in a copper bowl. I’m thinking: who ordered an omelet? I asked, and was told that the egg whites are placed in the barrel to help remove any impurities from the wine. Apparently the 2005 vintage only needed one egg white, while some vintages need as many as six.
Chateaux Mouton Rothschild is also well-known for hiring a famous artist every year to design their label. Artists from Picasso, to Chagall to Warhol have all left their mark on these distinctive bottles.
I forgot to mention: I’m highly allergic to mold and as a consequence I’m not supposed to drink wine or eat cheese or chocolate (apparently the cocoa is made from beans that have mold residue on them) This kills me because I used to eat dark chocolate and drink red wine every day! It never affected my weight, and it put me in a good mood, so I thought why not? In fact, I didn’t even consider it to be indulgent; as far as I was concerned red wine and dark chocolate were an essential part of my diet. But unfortunately a horrible fungus has invaded my body, wreaking havoc in my gut and nearly destroying my lungs. At the time of my first allergy test my lungs were reduced to functioning at half-capacity. For someone who’s an athlete this result was quite shocking. I don’t take this condition lightly, but on a wine-tasting trip to France it’s impossible to avoid wine. And since cheese is served with every meal, as well as chocolate, I certainly fell off the proverbial wine cart. I did draw the line, however, when I smelled the mold as we descended into the dark, musty cave at Chateau Mouton Rothschild and saw that the walls were covered in a thick, black fungus. As politely as possible I excused myself from the group and sprinted back up the stairs.
Upstairs in the tasting room, the director poured us each a glass of their 2000 vintage which is apparently quite collectible because it’s the year of the millennium. I noticed in the wine shop at the chateau that these bottles sold for 525 Euros. He also poured us a glass of the 1998, another great vintage and although one isn’t supposed to drink it for at least another 5 years I had no problem swallowing instead of spitting. We also had the opportunity to taste the very young 2005 which is meant to be one of the best vintages since 1989.
The tasting room was set up as a proper wine bar with long marble tables and tall stools. After sniffing, swirling and spitting several world-class vintages, including the blockbuster 2005, I sat down to enjoy a glass of the 1998 (which is considered too young to drink by the wine aficionados but not for me). Craig swaggered up to the bar, swirled his glass of wine and asked me if I came here often. He then offered to buy me a glass of wine. Good lord.
That evening, after a quick change, we walked through the muddy vineyards from our chateau, Marajollia in Margaux, to Rauzen Segla the chateau owned by the famous French fashion house Chanel. We were met by the Managing Director in his living room. He had a roaring fireplace and a glass of champagne waiting for us. He explained to us that the chateau was built from the ground up just ten years ago, and was particularly proud of the fact that the floor boards, made in Germany, we’re built to creak so they sounded old. The inside of the house felt more like an English country house, with its hunting pictures on the wall and Chippendale dining table, than a chateau owned by one of the most important design houses in the world.
Lunch at Pontet-Canet:
The owner, Alfred Tessseron, an adorable man in his late 70s raised the Union Jack flag for our visit and then apologized after hearing our American accent. While at lunch an email from an associate came through on his Blackberry. He barely knew how to use the thing, so he handed it Ben. The email was a board alert from Robert Parker saying that his 2003 were motherf******* amazing. (I actually saw the email and he did indeed use asterisks to finish spelling the adjective.) 2003 was the summer of the deadly heat wave that hit most of Europe and killed over 10,000 French. It also killed off many of the grapevines. After reading this alert, Ben got on his Blackberry and sent out a mass email to all his sellers requesting any amount at any price of Pontet-Canet 2003.
Alfred’s charmed oozed as much as the warm gooey center of our chocolate soufflé. He explained how he and his brother have managed the vineyard for the past 30 years, but when they were younger his father ruled them and the farm with an iron fist. He also told us that both he and his brother farm quite differently from their father. For one, they age the wine in cement fermenting tanks which is almost unheard of in Bordeaux. He also said that they prefer smaller yields, but their father always liked a big crap. No, this isn’t a typo. We we’re trying so hard not to laugh. Of course he had meant to say a “big crop”. I looked across the table at Craig and saw that his face was turning red. Ben, sitting next to me, kept his face glued to the soufflé on his dessert plate. Somehow our group of jokesters managed to give this dear man a pass--but after lunch we all busted out laughing.
We were running late, so after a few pictures with Alfred and a big “thank you” we sped off for the airport. The same pilots who flew us to Bordeaux from Nice were standing outside the terminal flagging us down. They told us to leave the cars at the curb—we had a tight landing slot at Northolt, a military airfield just outside of London, so we needed to take off right away. We settled into the plane and didn’t even think about popping a bottle of champagne or drinking anything alcoholic for that matter.
The one thing I regret is that I forgot a supply of bleach trays. I really wish I could’ve left one on each seat (like a party favor) because our teeth were blue from all the tasting and spitting. I also felt sick from the fatty and moldy food I had eaten, but it was a great experience and my husband really enjoyed himself. And since he likes to limit his air travel to less than an hour, this was a perfect trip for him.
Back in London we were invited to a dinner and tasting by Justerini & Brooks and Federic Enjérès the Managing Director of Chateau Latour, another Premier Grand Cru chateau. We had also visited him in Bordeaux and tasted several of his stellar reds. Coincidentally he graduated from Stanford University, close to our house in Portola Valley and near my husband’s office in Palo Alto. Jancis Robinson, a well known journalist, who’s been writing a wine column for the Financial Times for nearly 20 years, also joined us.
The descriptions Monsier Enjérès used to describe the wine were straight from Wine Snobs 101: “you could feel the wine smiling as it swirls in your mouth, the accessibility of this wine is delightful…. Then his descriptions started becoming more like how a French man must really think: “This wine eeez like a beautiful 18 year old woman. She eeez beautiful now, but can she possibly age well?” He swirled his glass and kissed the air. "She eeez easy and goes down well—thee flesh is plump and ripe.” I looked at my husband who was snickering as much as I was cringing. He turned to the man next to him and said: “Not sure about you, but I’d like to know where I can get some of that.”
Luckily Jancis Robinson shot back at him. “Okay,” she stood and held her glass high, “if we’re going to speak in this context, I’d say that this next wine we’re tasting is like a pumped- up athlete who looks good but has nothing to say.” Touché.
The Wetherby Hillbillies and two friends from Washington DC flew British Airways down to Nice to meet some friends who live in Monaco. We had dinner with them at the two Michelin-star restaurant, Oasis, near to their home in Theole-sur-Mer. If you’d like to read about this stunning part of the world, as well as more about Oasis, please refer to my posting “Tale of Two Cities.”
After spending a night at our friend’s gorgeous villa, we all piled into a super-fast Lear 45 and flew to Bordeaux. Craig, our friend from Washington DC, provided non-stop entertainment. He boarded the plane carrying a French guide book, wearing a beret on his head and a silver, Burgundian tasse a vin, or “tastevin”, as it’s more commonly called, around his neck. On each of the comfy 8 leather seats, an itinerary of our week was printed in the style of a fancy wedding invitation. I saw that we would be given a private tour of several Premier Grand Cru chateaux, as well as Chateau d’Yquem, famous for its sweet Sauterne.
Craig, after asking Grover several times, “Daddy, are we almost there?” started singing car songs: “One hundred bottles d’Yquem on the wall, one hundred bottles d’Yquem. Take one down, pass it around ninety-nine bottles d’Yquem on the wall.” We finally shut him up by popping a bottle of Dom and passing it around.
We landed at the Bordeaux airport (not too tipsy because it was such a quick flight) and were met by Ben and Georgina from Justerini & Brooks in London. They were kind enough to arrange the entire trip for us and did an outstanding job. Outside the airport next to the parking I noticed a small vineyard. Not certain if anyone actually made wine from the grapes, but at least it got all the visitors in the mood for a week of tasting. I can’t imagine the cement terroire being ideal for planting, but possibly the diesel fumes create a unique bouquet to the finished product.
I’ll touch on a few of our visits:
First stop: Haut Brion in Graves-- one of the five Grand Cru, premier growth chateaux of Bordeaux. We had lunch with Jean-Philippe Delmas, the managing director. This was my introduction to our daily four course meals served with at least five wines. Haut Brion is known for its distinctive reds (the gravel on which the vines grow provides a taste and finish unique to this region), but they also served two whites which were the best I’ve ever tasted. For the remainder of our trip I kept comparing them to the other whites that we had tasted on the trip, saying they weren’t as good as the wine at lunch at Haut Brion. My husband laughed and said that’s like saying, “Wow, that Porsche drives so much better than the Ford Fiesta.” To be fair, none of the wines we tasted were in the same vehicular league as a Ford Fiesta, but apparently the two white Graves, the Chateau Haut Brion Blanc (very expensive and extremely rare--only about 500 cases made) and the Laville Haut Brion are considered to be some of the best in the world, and rarely available for purchase.
Chateau Smith Haut Lafite:
Florence Cathiard, the owner of this beautiful chateau and massive vineyard, had us over for drinks in her home and then joined us for dinner in her newly created casual dining room, called the Table de Lavoire which was built on the premises of the place where the local ladies would wash all the wine-pickers shirts. Natural hot springs still gurgled outside the restaurant and antique washboards and buckets decorated the room.
Florence is an attractive, fit woman in her late fifties. She told us she bikes everyday throughout her vineyard to stay slim. But I also noticed that when the dessert menus were presented she swiped her hand in front of her and said that she never takes dessert. ‘Jamais!’ She was as adamant about not taking dessert as a New Yorker who never takes s*** from anyone. I’m sure I’m not the first traveler to France who has noticed that the French don’t drink coffee or tea, but ‘take’ it. They also don’t eat bread with every meal, but ‘take’ it. But she did say that she ‘drinks’ a large pot of specially-blended herbal tea after each meal. All of the women raised our hands and in unison told the waiter that we’ll have what she’s having. It wasn’t as dramatic as the Meg Ryan scene in When Harry met Sally, but this woman was obviously doing something right. She will host Le Fete des Fleurs this year, the annual wine-tasting festival, at her Chateau and told us that she will “serve her white 2000, because she wants to show the world that we age well.” Of course she was referring to the wine, but in my opinion she’s aging even better.
Chateau Smith Haut Lafite also has a fantastic spa on the property called Caudalie. It was started by Florence’s daughter and son-in-law. They utilized the waste from the grapes and turned it into products for the skin and bath. This line of skin products and body treatments is known as vinotherapy. After one too many four-course lunches, five- course dinners and nearly a barrel of wine over the past few days, I needed to sleep in and skip one of the morning wine-tasting sessions. Instead I took a run through the vineyards and spent the morning getting a Cabernet body scrub and facial. Time well spent indeed!
After a leisurely bath, a pot of hot lemon-water and some freshly-squeezed honeydew melon juice for breakfast, I met the group for lunch at the Lion d’Or in Margaux. Apparently all the wine makers in town lunch there. I wish I had brought all my single girlfriends with me because every seat in the house was occupied by an extremely handsome man—something I never see in London.
Chateau Mouton Rothschild, another Premier Grand Cru chateau:
This chateau was the most interesting. Their cellar was dark and musty but we could still see that it stored some amazing dust-covered bottles of wine—a few dating as far back as 1848. We watched the winemakers test the wine from the barrel for sediment, holding a candle to the glass. This is considered the classic French way, and has been done like this for hundreds of years. I also saw one of the wine makers whisking up some egg whites in a copper bowl. I’m thinking: who ordered an omelet? I asked, and was told that the egg whites are placed in the barrel to help remove any impurities from the wine. Apparently the 2005 vintage only needed one egg white, while some vintages need as many as six.
Chateaux Mouton Rothschild is also well-known for hiring a famous artist every year to design their label. Artists from Picasso, to Chagall to Warhol have all left their mark on these distinctive bottles.
I forgot to mention: I’m highly allergic to mold and as a consequence I’m not supposed to drink wine or eat cheese or chocolate (apparently the cocoa is made from beans that have mold residue on them) This kills me because I used to eat dark chocolate and drink red wine every day! It never affected my weight, and it put me in a good mood, so I thought why not? In fact, I didn’t even consider it to be indulgent; as far as I was concerned red wine and dark chocolate were an essential part of my diet. But unfortunately a horrible fungus has invaded my body, wreaking havoc in my gut and nearly destroying my lungs. At the time of my first allergy test my lungs were reduced to functioning at half-capacity. For someone who’s an athlete this result was quite shocking. I don’t take this condition lightly, but on a wine-tasting trip to France it’s impossible to avoid wine. And since cheese is served with every meal, as well as chocolate, I certainly fell off the proverbial wine cart. I did draw the line, however, when I smelled the mold as we descended into the dark, musty cave at Chateau Mouton Rothschild and saw that the walls were covered in a thick, black fungus. As politely as possible I excused myself from the group and sprinted back up the stairs.
Upstairs in the tasting room, the director poured us each a glass of their 2000 vintage which is apparently quite collectible because it’s the year of the millennium. I noticed in the wine shop at the chateau that these bottles sold for 525 Euros. He also poured us a glass of the 1998, another great vintage and although one isn’t supposed to drink it for at least another 5 years I had no problem swallowing instead of spitting. We also had the opportunity to taste the very young 2005 which is meant to be one of the best vintages since 1989.
The tasting room was set up as a proper wine bar with long marble tables and tall stools. After sniffing, swirling and spitting several world-class vintages, including the blockbuster 2005, I sat down to enjoy a glass of the 1998 (which is considered too young to drink by the wine aficionados but not for me). Craig swaggered up to the bar, swirled his glass of wine and asked me if I came here often. He then offered to buy me a glass of wine. Good lord.
That evening, after a quick change, we walked through the muddy vineyards from our chateau, Marajollia in Margaux, to Rauzen Segla the chateau owned by the famous French fashion house Chanel. We were met by the Managing Director in his living room. He had a roaring fireplace and a glass of champagne waiting for us. He explained to us that the chateau was built from the ground up just ten years ago, and was particularly proud of the fact that the floor boards, made in Germany, we’re built to creak so they sounded old. The inside of the house felt more like an English country house, with its hunting pictures on the wall and Chippendale dining table, than a chateau owned by one of the most important design houses in the world.
Lunch at Pontet-Canet:
The owner, Alfred Tessseron, an adorable man in his late 70s raised the Union Jack flag for our visit and then apologized after hearing our American accent. While at lunch an email from an associate came through on his Blackberry. He barely knew how to use the thing, so he handed it Ben. The email was a board alert from Robert Parker saying that his 2003 were motherf******* amazing. (I actually saw the email and he did indeed use asterisks to finish spelling the adjective.) 2003 was the summer of the deadly heat wave that hit most of Europe and killed over 10,000 French. It also killed off many of the grapevines. After reading this alert, Ben got on his Blackberry and sent out a mass email to all his sellers requesting any amount at any price of Pontet-Canet 2003.
Alfred’s charmed oozed as much as the warm gooey center of our chocolate soufflé. He explained how he and his brother have managed the vineyard for the past 30 years, but when they were younger his father ruled them and the farm with an iron fist. He also told us that both he and his brother farm quite differently from their father. For one, they age the wine in cement fermenting tanks which is almost unheard of in Bordeaux. He also said that they prefer smaller yields, but their father always liked a big crap. No, this isn’t a typo. We we’re trying so hard not to laugh. Of course he had meant to say a “big crop”. I looked across the table at Craig and saw that his face was turning red. Ben, sitting next to me, kept his face glued to the soufflé on his dessert plate. Somehow our group of jokesters managed to give this dear man a pass--but after lunch we all busted out laughing.
We were running late, so after a few pictures with Alfred and a big “thank you” we sped off for the airport. The same pilots who flew us to Bordeaux from Nice were standing outside the terminal flagging us down. They told us to leave the cars at the curb—we had a tight landing slot at Northolt, a military airfield just outside of London, so we needed to take off right away. We settled into the plane and didn’t even think about popping a bottle of champagne or drinking anything alcoholic for that matter.
The one thing I regret is that I forgot a supply of bleach trays. I really wish I could’ve left one on each seat (like a party favor) because our teeth were blue from all the tasting and spitting. I also felt sick from the fatty and moldy food I had eaten, but it was a great experience and my husband really enjoyed himself. And since he likes to limit his air travel to less than an hour, this was a perfect trip for him.
Back in London we were invited to a dinner and tasting by Justerini & Brooks and Federic Enjérès the Managing Director of Chateau Latour, another Premier Grand Cru chateau. We had also visited him in Bordeaux and tasted several of his stellar reds. Coincidentally he graduated from Stanford University, close to our house in Portola Valley and near my husband’s office in Palo Alto. Jancis Robinson, a well known journalist, who’s been writing a wine column for the Financial Times for nearly 20 years, also joined us.
The descriptions Monsier Enjérès used to describe the wine were straight from Wine Snobs 101: “you could feel the wine smiling as it swirls in your mouth, the accessibility of this wine is delightful…. Then his descriptions started becoming more like how a French man must really think: “This wine eeez like a beautiful 18 year old woman. She eeez beautiful now, but can she possibly age well?” He swirled his glass and kissed the air. "She eeez easy and goes down well—thee flesh is plump and ripe.” I looked at my husband who was snickering as much as I was cringing. He turned to the man next to him and said: “Not sure about you, but I’d like to know where I can get some of that.”
Luckily Jancis Robinson shot back at him. “Okay,” she stood and held her glass high, “if we’re going to speak in this context, I’d say that this next wine we’re tasting is like a pumped- up athlete who looks good but has nothing to say.” Touché.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Tale of Two Cities
Each June I’m invited to visit a friend of mine, Laura, from London who has taken up residence in Monaco but spends her weekends at her husband’s family villa on the French Riviera. Two years ago, just days after leaving the Riviera, I also had the opportunity to spend some time with Kelly, my college friend in Illinois. Théole-sur-Mer, a jewel in the heart of the French Riviera and Danville, Illinois, a small industrial town in the heartland of America are about as different as caviar and deviled eggs, yet when I reflect back on my experiences at each, they were surprisingly similar.
Laura’s home on the Riviera is an impressive white villa, called Le Trident. It sits precipitously on a three-pronged point overlooking the vast Mediterranean Sea. The guest suite where I slept was the best in the house: one window looking eastward toward Cannes, the other straight out to the ocean, and the third onto a secluded cove--which as the sea gull flies, would be on its flight path to St. Tropez.
I awoke each morning to the glowing red sun rising over the city of Cannes and fell asleep each night to the rhythmic sound of the ocean. Along with a few other guests of the villa, we spent the day lounging by the pool, talking about our children, our husbands and mutual friends. When we tired of gossip and sun bathing, we walked down an ancient stone path to jump off the rocks and dive into the sparkling blue sea where we’d swim until the refreshing initial plunge started to chill us through like a bottle of wine pulled from a crystal ice bucket. We lazed our way through the evenings sipping champagne cocktails on the veranda and watching the glittering lights of Cannes come alive in the distance.
After a heavenly week on the Riviera, I hopped a British Airways flight to London, and the following day headed back to Heathrow where I boarded a United Airlines jumbo jet to the United States, enroute to visit Kelly who lives with her family in Central Illinois. Her house didn’t have a name or the spectacular ocean views, yet it was comfortable and inviting. Most importantly, I spent time with my college roommate, talking about our old friends in common and catching up on our two very different lives. After a few days there, we planned to attend our 20th college reunion, where--as my dad joked-- Kelly and I would “knock ‘em dead”. I think he was referring to the fact that we both still had it goin’ on.
At Kelly’s house I swam at the local country club pool; which putting it politely, was just a bit more chlorinated than the soft water of the Med. And instead of seeing schools of brightly coloured fish I swam above colored band-aids and floating mosquitoes. Even though the water wasn’t exactly crisp--more like bath water better suited to children’s swimming lessons, I still felt revitalized by the end of my workout.
As we were in farm country, I suggested to Kelly that I’d like to take her husband and three children to dinner at a local ‘steak joint’. Her husband, Tom, said that he knew of the perfect place, The MoonGlo; but it was a bar, a real bar, he emphasized. “Sure,” I said, wondering why he was smirking. “Let’s go for it.”
The drive through the cornfields brought back many found memories of my childhood in the suburbs of Chicago, a time when there were still fields of corn growing and not acres of 4000 square foot homes sprouting from the earth. After about 20 minutes we approached “the bar.” The parking lot was full of motorcycles and pick-up trucks, but the smoky smell of meat barbequing on the grill was exactly what I‘d been salivating for.
We walked into a dark building with low ceilings and small windows. An electric red and blue Pabst Beer sign flickered from one window, and from another a small air-conditioner hummed, dripping water onto the cement floor. The metal tables were covered with wipe-down plastic covers. The waitress brought out a stack of paper plates, small white bar napkins and a pile of cutlery for us to place around the table. The laminated menus listed three cuts of steak, as well as hamburgers and cheeseburgers. The ‘sides’ consisted of an array of fried vegetables: mushrooms, onions, zucchini and French fries-- but since this was the heart of America we wouldn’t have dared referred to one of our dietary staples as anything French, so we called them Freedom Fries as they do in the cafeterias of the US Senate. Kelly and her family all ordered hamburgers, fries and onion rings, but I came for nothing except a thick, juicy steak.
The waitress told me that she’d put the steak on the grill, but that I’d have to cook it myself. Of course I thought she must be joking. I looked up at her with bewilderment, but my friends explained that this place was not only famous for great steaks, but also for their ‘grill your own’ policy. Okay, I thought, I’ll go with the program. I excused myself from the table and headed up to the grill situated next to the bar, which was rapidly filling up with men in sweaty t-shirts and work boots. From a five-gallon plastic bottle I poured a bit of yellowish, viscose liquid onto the steak, salted and peppered it and returned to my table to join my friends where we chit-chatted about our upcoming college reunion and our children’s summer activities.
Within a few minutes I heard our waitress shouting from the bar area, “Steak on fire! Steak on fire!” I snapped my head around, and sure enough, two-foot flames were shooting from my steak. I jumped up from the table, ran to the grill and grabbed a pair of metal tongs. I managed to grip the steak without burning myself and move it to another part of the grill; but the steak was still on fire. Thinking quickly, I pulled a pitcher of water from the bar and poured it onto the grill. The flames were extinguished within seconds and my steak was saved. But I almost didn’t get a chance to eat it.
From the tv hanging over the bar, a severe weather report was flashing on the screen. The winds outside had picked up and the sky had blackened. An emergency alert was now in effect, warning everyone to move away from the windows and into a stable part of the building, better yet into a basement. The wait staff and bartender were ready to pack it in but I came for a steak, and tornado or no tornado, I was going to eat it! Even though the heavy raindrops were pounding fiercely against the windows, the sky was not yet green, which from my past experience indicated an imminent funnel cloud, so I wasn’t too concerned. I looked over at my friends and they didn’t look too worried either. The children had dug into the basket of fries and Tom and Kelly were devouring their burgers. Within five minutes the winds had died down, and my steak was cooked to perfection.
My dining experiences on the Riviera were more than just an ocean and continent apart from those in Illinois. In France, when we weren’t dining on the villa’s open-aired veranda eating plates of fresh fish and drinking perfectly chilled blush wine, we were indulging our taste buds at a two-star Michelin restaurant called The Oasis. The setting and décor of this elegant restaurant--pale pink linens and subdued lighting--made me feel like I was ensconced in a pastel-colored cloud. Lush green plants and gently trickling waterfalls created a surreal ambiance that was only topped by the exquisitely prepared food.
The five-course meal started with a bowl of spring pea soup in a whipped cream base. Along with this delicious potage, a basket of warm bread and puffed pastries, baked from their wood-burning oven was passed around the table. I chose a cold succulent lobster placed over a bed of freshly picked vegetables and greens from their organic garden as my second course. The lobster was so sweet and creamy that if I weren’t looking at my plate I would have guessed that I was eating lobster ice cream. For my third course I ordered a locally caught fish drizzled in basil oil complimented by miniature vegetables and potatoes dauphinoise. This masterpiece was arranged on my plate like the work of a 19 century impressionist—but painted on Limoges china. Next came the cheese course that I ignored, because I had earlier spotted the dessert trolley laden with creamy cakes and fruit-filled pastries. After two of our guests sampled a variety of French cheeses, which I later learned were as sacred to the French diet as American-made cars are to Michigan, the dessert trolley rolled over to our table. The four of us agreed to split a chocolate cake. The warm liquid center oozed onto the plate when we cut into it; and after my first forkful I felt like I had drowned in Willy Wonka’s chocolate river. At this point none of us could eat another bite, but that didn’t stop another wave of sweets from flooding our table. With the coffee the waiter presented us a large glass bowl of puffy meringue cookies and a plate of hand-dipped chocolates. Even I have limits on how many culinary creations one can consume in a night, so I slipped a few of the pastel-colored cookies into my purse for my six-year old daughter. Very déclassé, I know, but she loved them.
Throughout the meal the wait staff, dressed in black suits and white gloves, was beyond attentive. Both the wine and the water were poured from a silver cradle and the warm bread continued to seamlessly appear on our plates, discreetly served to us from delicate silver tongs. Besides the food and ambiance, everything else about this meal differed drastically from my dining experience in Illinois.
In France, we discussed business deals in Bangalore, India and Lagos, Nigeria. Other topics of conversation included the Monaco Grand Prix and the post-parties at Jimmy’z where the minimum drink tab, including a bottle of water, was 78 Euros. In Illinois we talked about summer camp, swim team and our college days. At the end of each of meals, I walked away thinking that I had a great time laughing with my friends and enjoying fantastic food. The only major difference was that in Illinois I got off by paying less than fifty bucks, where as in France I had to take out a second mortgage.
Laura’s home on the Riviera is an impressive white villa, called Le Trident. It sits precipitously on a three-pronged point overlooking the vast Mediterranean Sea. The guest suite where I slept was the best in the house: one window looking eastward toward Cannes, the other straight out to the ocean, and the third onto a secluded cove--which as the sea gull flies, would be on its flight path to St. Tropez.
I awoke each morning to the glowing red sun rising over the city of Cannes and fell asleep each night to the rhythmic sound of the ocean. Along with a few other guests of the villa, we spent the day lounging by the pool, talking about our children, our husbands and mutual friends. When we tired of gossip and sun bathing, we walked down an ancient stone path to jump off the rocks and dive into the sparkling blue sea where we’d swim until the refreshing initial plunge started to chill us through like a bottle of wine pulled from a crystal ice bucket. We lazed our way through the evenings sipping champagne cocktails on the veranda and watching the glittering lights of Cannes come alive in the distance.
After a heavenly week on the Riviera, I hopped a British Airways flight to London, and the following day headed back to Heathrow where I boarded a United Airlines jumbo jet to the United States, enroute to visit Kelly who lives with her family in Central Illinois. Her house didn’t have a name or the spectacular ocean views, yet it was comfortable and inviting. Most importantly, I spent time with my college roommate, talking about our old friends in common and catching up on our two very different lives. After a few days there, we planned to attend our 20th college reunion, where--as my dad joked-- Kelly and I would “knock ‘em dead”. I think he was referring to the fact that we both still had it goin’ on.
At Kelly’s house I swam at the local country club pool; which putting it politely, was just a bit more chlorinated than the soft water of the Med. And instead of seeing schools of brightly coloured fish I swam above colored band-aids and floating mosquitoes. Even though the water wasn’t exactly crisp--more like bath water better suited to children’s swimming lessons, I still felt revitalized by the end of my workout.
As we were in farm country, I suggested to Kelly that I’d like to take her husband and three children to dinner at a local ‘steak joint’. Her husband, Tom, said that he knew of the perfect place, The MoonGlo; but it was a bar, a real bar, he emphasized. “Sure,” I said, wondering why he was smirking. “Let’s go for it.”
The drive through the cornfields brought back many found memories of my childhood in the suburbs of Chicago, a time when there were still fields of corn growing and not acres of 4000 square foot homes sprouting from the earth. After about 20 minutes we approached “the bar.” The parking lot was full of motorcycles and pick-up trucks, but the smoky smell of meat barbequing on the grill was exactly what I‘d been salivating for.
We walked into a dark building with low ceilings and small windows. An electric red and blue Pabst Beer sign flickered from one window, and from another a small air-conditioner hummed, dripping water onto the cement floor. The metal tables were covered with wipe-down plastic covers. The waitress brought out a stack of paper plates, small white bar napkins and a pile of cutlery for us to place around the table. The laminated menus listed three cuts of steak, as well as hamburgers and cheeseburgers. The ‘sides’ consisted of an array of fried vegetables: mushrooms, onions, zucchini and French fries-- but since this was the heart of America we wouldn’t have dared referred to one of our dietary staples as anything French, so we called them Freedom Fries as they do in the cafeterias of the US Senate. Kelly and her family all ordered hamburgers, fries and onion rings, but I came for nothing except a thick, juicy steak.
The waitress told me that she’d put the steak on the grill, but that I’d have to cook it myself. Of course I thought she must be joking. I looked up at her with bewilderment, but my friends explained that this place was not only famous for great steaks, but also for their ‘grill your own’ policy. Okay, I thought, I’ll go with the program. I excused myself from the table and headed up to the grill situated next to the bar, which was rapidly filling up with men in sweaty t-shirts and work boots. From a five-gallon plastic bottle I poured a bit of yellowish, viscose liquid onto the steak, salted and peppered it and returned to my table to join my friends where we chit-chatted about our upcoming college reunion and our children’s summer activities.
Within a few minutes I heard our waitress shouting from the bar area, “Steak on fire! Steak on fire!” I snapped my head around, and sure enough, two-foot flames were shooting from my steak. I jumped up from the table, ran to the grill and grabbed a pair of metal tongs. I managed to grip the steak without burning myself and move it to another part of the grill; but the steak was still on fire. Thinking quickly, I pulled a pitcher of water from the bar and poured it onto the grill. The flames were extinguished within seconds and my steak was saved. But I almost didn’t get a chance to eat it.
From the tv hanging over the bar, a severe weather report was flashing on the screen. The winds outside had picked up and the sky had blackened. An emergency alert was now in effect, warning everyone to move away from the windows and into a stable part of the building, better yet into a basement. The wait staff and bartender were ready to pack it in but I came for a steak, and tornado or no tornado, I was going to eat it! Even though the heavy raindrops were pounding fiercely against the windows, the sky was not yet green, which from my past experience indicated an imminent funnel cloud, so I wasn’t too concerned. I looked over at my friends and they didn’t look too worried either. The children had dug into the basket of fries and Tom and Kelly were devouring their burgers. Within five minutes the winds had died down, and my steak was cooked to perfection.
My dining experiences on the Riviera were more than just an ocean and continent apart from those in Illinois. In France, when we weren’t dining on the villa’s open-aired veranda eating plates of fresh fish and drinking perfectly chilled blush wine, we were indulging our taste buds at a two-star Michelin restaurant called The Oasis. The setting and décor of this elegant restaurant--pale pink linens and subdued lighting--made me feel like I was ensconced in a pastel-colored cloud. Lush green plants and gently trickling waterfalls created a surreal ambiance that was only topped by the exquisitely prepared food.
The five-course meal started with a bowl of spring pea soup in a whipped cream base. Along with this delicious potage, a basket of warm bread and puffed pastries, baked from their wood-burning oven was passed around the table. I chose a cold succulent lobster placed over a bed of freshly picked vegetables and greens from their organic garden as my second course. The lobster was so sweet and creamy that if I weren’t looking at my plate I would have guessed that I was eating lobster ice cream. For my third course I ordered a locally caught fish drizzled in basil oil complimented by miniature vegetables and potatoes dauphinoise. This masterpiece was arranged on my plate like the work of a 19 century impressionist—but painted on Limoges china. Next came the cheese course that I ignored, because I had earlier spotted the dessert trolley laden with creamy cakes and fruit-filled pastries. After two of our guests sampled a variety of French cheeses, which I later learned were as sacred to the French diet as American-made cars are to Michigan, the dessert trolley rolled over to our table. The four of us agreed to split a chocolate cake. The warm liquid center oozed onto the plate when we cut into it; and after my first forkful I felt like I had drowned in Willy Wonka’s chocolate river. At this point none of us could eat another bite, but that didn’t stop another wave of sweets from flooding our table. With the coffee the waiter presented us a large glass bowl of puffy meringue cookies and a plate of hand-dipped chocolates. Even I have limits on how many culinary creations one can consume in a night, so I slipped a few of the pastel-colored cookies into my purse for my six-year old daughter. Very déclassé, I know, but she loved them.
Throughout the meal the wait staff, dressed in black suits and white gloves, was beyond attentive. Both the wine and the water were poured from a silver cradle and the warm bread continued to seamlessly appear on our plates, discreetly served to us from delicate silver tongs. Besides the food and ambiance, everything else about this meal differed drastically from my dining experience in Illinois.
In France, we discussed business deals in Bangalore, India and Lagos, Nigeria. Other topics of conversation included the Monaco Grand Prix and the post-parties at Jimmy’z where the minimum drink tab, including a bottle of water, was 78 Euros. In Illinois we talked about summer camp, swim team and our college days. At the end of each of meals, I walked away thinking that I had a great time laughing with my friends and enjoying fantastic food. The only major difference was that in Illinois I got off by paying less than fifty bucks, where as in France I had to take out a second mortgage.
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