les Berges…

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Last week was a blockbuster for the art world with the Salon du Dessin, Contemporary Drawing show, Paris+Art Design and Art Paris Fair. After three evenings of appreciating everything from European Masterpieces to a 2 headed calf, yesterday I was ready for a break. After a little poulet roti from the butcher downstairs, Mr French and I sat in the living room like Disney crows.

 

Screen shot 2014-03-31 at 9.05.24 AM“Whaddya wanna do?” “I don’t know, whaddya wanna do?” “I don know…”

The weather was very much like in LA, lots of sunlight trying to shine through a dangerous level of smog, calling us outside for a balade. “Les Berges, I want to go to the Berges and check out what that street artist was doing by the bridge.”

So much for being art-ed out. Les Berges is a rather generic concept. In theory, just a nice place to stroll along the Seine. When I tell visitors to head there, they ask me what there is to do. The easy answer is to check it out on the official website. But even then, its not always clear, so here is what we saw going on yesterday, for a bit of inspiration…

Screen shot 2014-03-31 at 9.05.49 AM Screen shot 2014-03-31 at 9.04.11 AMAll the inspiration from the week had me trying to create a bit of art for myself, as I stood under a bridge completely fascinated by the play of color and light. The street artist Baudelocque was creating some tremendous art, inspired by the rhino in front of the Musée d’Orsay just above. There was more street art, all of it sponsored by Les Berges, and then there are the street performers, two elegant gentlemen in their French sailor tops roller blading with a 1930’s flapper to Georges Brassens and Edith Piaf.

Boot camp was in session all along the way with very buff men shouting at troops of athletes, having them drop and give ’em 10, 20, then more. Kids climbing the walls (literally), and group having a blast as they threw swings at one another for a boxing class they had signed up for online. All the activities are free for the lucky few who think of signing up before the classes fill up. Screen shot 2014-03-31 at 9.05.36 AM Screen shot 2014-03-31 at 9.03.47 AM

There are cyclists, runners and skate boarders weaving their way through people out walking their kids, their pets and even, their toy trains! In the shadow of the Pont Alexandre III there are a couple of cafés that disappear every winter and have just returned this weekend. One of them looks like they have invested in a steam boat they will be turning into a restaurant that could welcome diners rain, or shine… Whenever there are two cafés, Parisians tend to pick a favorite. Are you a Deux Magots gal or a Flore fan? We develop this illogical loyalty to one or the other and stick with it, even if its a little nuts. On the Berges there is Le Faust or en attendant Rosa. En attendant Rosa is by far the more popular option, so I love Le Faust, despite the horrid service, and the unreliable stock. Yesterday they were out of beer. And lemon syrup and anything edible. But as I sat there on my classic bistro chair, savoring he seafront table, I could not have cared less. I was in Paris, with Mr French and it was simply gorgeous. Which is when the man with his train walked by. I mean, really, does it get any better than that?

 

Its easier to leave, when home is Paris

Screen shot 2014-03-27 at 6.54.30 PMThe next morning was all about the Mucem. Louis XIV built Fort St Jean at the entrance of the port, with a second fort guarding the other side. Visitors imagine that the forts were built to protect the city from sea-based invaders, but the cannons were aimed on the town, the king as distrustful of southerns as a modern Parisian. Today the fort has been renovated into a glorious cultural space with a marionette museum, a miniature circus display and lots of herbal scented outdoor space for play, picnics and lounging around.

Screen shot 2014-03-27 at 6.54.07 PM Screen shot 2014-03-27 at 6.57.02 PMA vertiginous pedestrian bridge connects the fort to J4, Mucem’s modern wing with a permanent exhibition on the Mediterranean region. The collection is, quite frankly, pathetic. There is no nice way of putting it. Cheap replicas are displayed in glass cases like valuable artifacts. The story, well, there is no story, logic or coherency. Which was great because it meant we could rush back upstairs and slurp down a few oysters on the rooftop terrasse before heading home to Paris. Oddly enough, neither Mr French nor I are major friends of the bivalve, but that was beside the point of the glorious, sun soaked rooftop area.

We were starving because before coming to the museum, which only opens at 11am, we had gone for a run, then tried to have lunch Chez Roger on the Old Port. Chez Roger specializes in seafood and all I can say is, “Do NOT eat Chez Roger. No matter how enticing the terasse may be, in full sun, with the port waters just a few metres away, do NOT eat there. It was, bar none, the worse seafood platter I have ever had in my life. The crab tasted like rotten eggs. Even the Pasits couldn’t was the horrid taste out of my mouth. Combined with horrid service and even worse clientele, this is a place to AVOID at all costs.

Screen shot 2014-03-27 at 6.54.53 PMThe settling in for the flight home was a lesson in cultural studies. The plane was packed and except for me with my olive oil, everyone had opted for carry-on. Mr French sat in his seat, the paper bag with the porcelain doll on the seat next to him. “Monsieur,” the flight attendant gestured, “the flight is full, you’ll have to store your bag in the overhead bin.” Mr French ignored her. She persisted. He finally acknowledged her existence, “Non. This package is very, very fragile, its not moving.” She explained, he refused. I sat between them, my head going back and forth like I was watching a  ping pong match.. In the end, she agree to put it in the front of the plane, in a closet reserved for crew.

I had put my tote bag in the overhead bin and after that, every time a passenger tried to shove it my bag aside to squeeze in their suitcase, the same flight attendant would jump over, to reprimand them for crushing my things, and would force them to the back of the plane with their bag. In the US, the flight attendant would have written us off as jerks, but here, Mr French had earned some major respect. We were flying home with considerable street cred’ and I was more confident than ever that life is full of surprises living with a Frenchman.

A quickie

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The best view in town from La Residence du Vieux Port hotel

Screen shot 2014-03-27 at 6.40.04 PMMarseille has a horrible reputation. There is a popular joke in Paris, “Hey, did you hear what happened in Marseille this weekend??? A man went to a café for the morning, enjoyed his coffee and walked home safely.” It kinda makes you think twice before heading there. Especially as you follow a Jefferson County Sheriff car with California plates in to town…

But if you don’t read the news, you’d never know there was a crime problem in town. Our first night in town we pulled ourselves away from the stupendous view in our room at La Residence du Vieux Port and strolled that very same port out to the Fort St Jean. The pathway narrowed, Screen shot 2014-03-27 at 6.42.00 PMgrew darker, rounded a bend, and yet we felt totally safe in the warm balmy air, walking pass lovers and fishermen and joggers as we rounded walked around the corner and were dazzled by the astonishing set of the Mucem museum. A lace work of concrete, built to look like the ripples of water was lit a sapphire blue, reflecting in the sea below. We couldn’t wait for our visit the next day.

This guy made me run even faster...

This guy made me run even faster…

For an urban destination, a visit to Marseille can be physical. There is a great run along the Old Port; a flower market and a fish market line the way and you pass under the surprising Norman Foster designed Pavillion before getting to the Palais du Pharo gardens and up the corniche which follows the sea, the Count of Monte Christo’s Chateau d’If in view. It was lovely, and I was thrilled that on the return trip we ran through the odor of sardines before hitting the mimosa scented air. Then there is the hike up the Observatoire hill to the Notre Dame de Garde Basilica. I loved the mobiles with giant model boats that hung from the ornate, gothic ceiling. And I had a blast watching out of shape visitors as they trudged up the stairs as we headed down.

Screen shot 2014-03-27 at 6.41.11 PMMy body was telling me it was time for lunch. We headed to the beach where Chez Michel is known as the best place for boulliabaisse in the Marseille, which is known as the best place for bouilliabaisse in France. It was delicious and a well deserved break after all that running around!

As we walked through Le Panier and La Plaine, two dynamically creative neighborhoods full of young people trying to make a mark on the retail world with original merchandise in charming boutiques, we kept an marveling at what a great lifestyle was to be had at this very affordable city by the sea. But we also marveled at the number of abandonned shops and disenchanted store owners. And although we strolled the boutiques, Mr French had banned me from shopping still recovering from the shock of my purchases earlier in the week. Screen shot 2014-03-27 at 6.41.34 PM“Honey? You bought honey? As if you can’t find honey in Paris. And olive oil? Really? Now that’s the perfect thing to be packing in a suitcase for under a plane.” He was not impressed when I explained the apiculture had been a sweet old lady and the olive oil was rumoured to be some of the best in the region. So I satisfied myself with shooting everything in sight. Walls of colorful graffiti my target of choice and I was thrilled with the day.

As the sun was setting, we stopped in an antique store, and there, I spotted her. An 18th century doll that aristocrats used as models for the dresses they wanted to order, a delicate porcelain bouquet in her hands, nothing but wire frame and fragile (200 yr old) cloth below the bodice. I caught my breath at the beauty of it. Mr French asked the price. 60€. Even a fake would be worth 60€ but I didn’t dare ask. She was fragile and I had that pot of honey to schlep. “We’ll take it.” Mr French declared and I looked on in dismay as the antique dealer shoved her bubble wrapped form into a generic brown paper bag.

That night we were still full from our decadent lunch. We agreed on cocktails at the Intercontinental up the hill from the port. In an imposingly elegant 18th century public hospital, the hotel looks a palace. The bar is plush and modern, with great cocktails and even better live gypsy jazz music. We could have stayed all night. But we eventually rambled back to our room in the wee hours, the lapping waters of the sea below playing a lullaby as we fell asleep.

Back to reality

Screen shot 2014-03-26 at 10.34.45 AMI left St Tropez for what the Brits would call a dirty weekend in Marseille with Mr French. It was a revelation, and I promise to share with you, but that was weeks ago and so much has happened since then, I need to take a break because right now, Paris is getting ready for its very own dirty weekend with the art world, with the Paris Art Fair, Paris Art+Design, the Salon of Contemporary Dessins and the Salon du Dessin. SO MUCH art, it boggles the mind!!!

Last night was the launch with a VIP evening at the Salon du Dessin, held behind the  imposing façade of the Paris stock exchange, La Bourse. Mr French was out of town, so Miss Yoga was my date for the evening.

The place was packed, penguin clad waiters with trays of dirty, empty glasses nudging their way gently through the older, rather distinguished crowd of collectors, journalists and gallery owners. It was inpressively sedate, while a mad house all at once.

IScreen shot 2014-03-26 at 10.34.30 AM had enticed Miss Yoga to join me with the promise of some Klimt drawings. I don’t know why, but I was really excited to see some Klimts, and there was a great one of a distinguished woman in an iconic Klimt jacket waiting for us in the second gallery to our right. Further along a colorful study of a bedouin by Delacroix caught my eye. Posted below the framed work of art was a list of the drawings provenance, from the artist’s studio to an auction at Drouot in the 1860’s (with the lot number!) to the most recent owner.

Screen shot 2014-03-26 at 10.35.06 AMA smiling imp by Matisse caught our eye, a curiously serene Dali, an exuberant Braques…. There were three pieces from Sonia Delaunay’s Jazz series at different galleries, a coincidence that made sense when we read that there will be two retrospectives in her honor next year, one at the Musée d’Art Modern de Paris, followed by a visit at the Tate in London.Screen shot 2014-03-26 at 10.33.47 AM

 

 

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artwork by Hanna Sidorowicz

And then, coincidence of coincidence, we bumped into a friend and fellow Yogi who was there with a friend of her own. It must have been destiny, because given the crush of people, its fairly remarkable we saw anybody, much less recognized them! I was so excited to learn that the friend’s friend is the accomplished artist Hanna Sidorowicz, a gracious woman who smiled generously at the camera I virtually shoved in her face.Hanna draws her inspiration from the work that surrounded us, so we kept our visit brief and continued along, viewing the winners of the Contemporary Drawings prize and a small collection from the Musée des Beaux Arts in Nancy before stumbling upon our favorite work of the evening, a series of eloquent lines that flowed from the pen of Henri Matisse, forming the seductive trace of a woman, the arch in her back full of longing.

The Salon du Dessin is at the Bourse until March 31.

Just another day at the office

Screen shot 2014-03-24 at 12.19.50 PMSt Tropez is a charming little town, that is still home to a local fishing fleet, with fishermen selling the catch of the day from a tiny, very picturesque fish market, then crossing the street to have their morning shot (of booze, not espresso) at Screen shot 2014-03-24 at 12.19.31 PMLe Gorille, the once favorite haunt of Picasso. Sitting there, eavesdropping on their chatter about which fish were biting, you can see why Brigitte Bardot and her gang fell under its charms while filming And God Created Women….

I headed off, yet again, to explore the Ramatuelle, where the classic French film was made and then into the hills, to the famous perfume town of Grasse. A perched village of ochre and amber buildings, wasting away under an alluring patina, I was seduced by the town before setting foot into a perfumerie. Fragonard is perhaps the best known, with shops all over Paris, but Galimard is where is all began in the 18th century. Until then, Grasse had been home to the very smelly leather tanning industry and the got to place for aristocrats requiring fine kid gloves. Screen shot 2014-03-24 at 12.17.43 PMWhile soft, and gorgeous, the gloves stank. Galimard tested the idea of adding a bit of lower essence to get rid of the stench and sent them off to Catherine de Medici, starting a royal trend that gave birth to an industry.

I spent my day exploring and only returned to the port late in the day, discovering the very chic, trendy café Senequier. The Senequier is outrageously expensive, attracting the designer clad, yachting crowd. Exactly the kind of place I usually avoid, but I decided to go for it, because the tables had full sunlight, there was a great view and it was one of the few places open in the off-season. It was also 16h and I hadn’t eaten a thing all day, too excited exploring the region to stop, so this would be my one meal of the day and I felt like I could afford to Screen shot 2014-03-24 at 12.19.41 PMsplurge. Given my decadent feast at La Table du Royal, I still wasn’t hungry. I settled on a “simple” crab salad (45€) that came with fleur de sel flakes and artisanal olive oil. One of the best salads I have ever had. I don’t know if it was from having fasted all day, or the winter sun warming my face, but this salad was worth every exorbitant centime. And the crisp white wine was the perfect counterpoint of citrus flavour meeting savoury sea. Not hungry, but needing sweets, I asked for a preserved fruit from their pastry shop. The very friendly waiter explained that the fruits were not on the café menu, but he’d be happy to reserve my front row, sunset seat while I went in to get a few fruits to enjoy with my coffee. Not only does Senequier have a great location, with excellent food, but the staff is genuinely nice!

Screen shot 2014-03-24 at 12.18.40 PMAfter linner, I stopped at the boulangerie des Deux Frères to stock up on their incredibly deliciously, uniquely southern pine nut cookies before heading back to my room at the very cosy Hotel Pastis. The perfectly designed rooms are remarkably spacious, the perfect place for a post-beach nap before a night on the town, the peaceful, warm decor blending perfectly with the lovely provençal garden and aqua pool. I would have had a very hard time leaving, if it hadn’t been to meet Mr French in Marseille.

 

Zipping right along

Screen shot 2014-03-20 at 3.12.23 PMSO I am in this teeny, tiny, little car, zipping through forest of mimosa and having the time of my life. But I am also working, so the days are long and I am often tired. Checking into the Royal Riviera Hotel was like a balm for soul on my second day out. I walked through the large, open doors and I never wanted to leave. A warm wood staircase, a cool stone floor, this place was not as chic as many of the places I have been, yet considerably more elegant, making it just right for the mood I was in. I was sad when I had to head out for dinner…

Screen shot 2014-03-20 at 2.35.09 PMBut I was rewarded with one of those weird, incredibly wonderful dinners you can only ever have when you are on your own, because I was alone. There was not another soul in the rather large Ousin Bleu dining room. Just me, the staff and the coral. The manager, it turns out is a big fan of coral, the kind of fan that invests a lot of time and money into 500 litre tanks like the one I faced through out the evening. The stunning tropical fish were only in there to keep the algae at bay and protect the coral. This is museum quality coral, the kind of collection that has the team from the Musée de l’Oceanographie in nearby Monaco, coming over for dinner and advice. The food was fantastic, the company even better and loved having my inside scoop on a popular local joint (turns out there was a major soccer match that night and locals do not dine out on soccer night).

The next morning I used the 12km costal path around the Cape as my training ground for the Semi-marathon de Paris, running past a church, graveyard, lighthouse, the port and some of the most expensive real estate on the planet. It was spectacular, with the Mediterranean lapping just below. Hotel staff greeted me after my run and I sat down to a memorable lunch at La Table du Royal. The food was so good, that I quickly learned to trust the chef and his recipes to the point that I tasted tête de veau for the first time in my life! The gelatine texture is not my thing, and although he had breaded it into crispy goodness, I preferred the local wild fish with a jerusalem artichoke purée. Every dish was more delicious than the next, but what really sent me over the edge were his orange blossom marshmallows. Clouds on the palate.

I missed the opportunity to re-visit 7 stupendous gardens at the Ville Ephrussi and the stunning Greek Revival pieces of the Villa Kerylos on the Cap and at nearby Beaulieu sur mer, because, unfortunately, I had to rush off to St Tropez immediately after lunch. Doesn’t that sound divine? Unfortunately, I had to rush off to St Tropez?

Screen shot 2014-03-20 at 2.57.14 PMBefore heading west, I made a brief detour to Menton, for their Lemon Festival. I have such a thing for citrus fruit, I simple could not pass up the opportunity of seeing enitre floats made of lemon, oranges and tangerines to the theme of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. To be honest, I was a bit let down by the floats. They were too perfect, lacking exuberance, but I was thrilled to see that the town had ordered custom-made citrus colored rubber bands to secure the fruits to their floats.

Screen shot 2014-03-20 at 3.03.33 PMAnd because I was on my own and could focus my work what I like and how much I like it, I buzzed up to St Paul de Vence to visit the sculpture gardens at the Maeght Foundation, snubbing my nose at the indoor collection in a way that would have left Mr French a daze. The gardens are one of my happy places. I have been nearly a dozen times and I can not imagine being in the south without stopping by. You can feel the joy that Miro, Chagall, Calder and their contemporaries must have felt while decorating this space, their enegry still boucing in the air, where their work gets to hang out in sumptuous nature all day, every day, the scent of pine as bright as the reds in their art.

And while I could have stayed all day, I really did need to get to St Tropez, so I was off in my own good time, FIP radio keeping me company with their eclectic blend of jazz, classics and world beat music, the Alps to my right tumbling into the Mediterranean sea to my left and my future up ahead.

 

 

 

On my own…

Screen shot 2014-03-18 at 9.02.12 AMMy first international flight was to Paris. I was 16 years old and knew no one on the plane, but would be staying with a family who had a daughter about my age. In Silicon Valley, where I grew up, we lived in our cars. My life consisted of going from home to school to youth group without every running into a stranger. My entire being was alive with a sense of adventure. Nathalie, my Parisienne teen had had a very different life. Growing up on the Ile St Louis, she had spent most of her childhood roaming the streets of Paris on her own, which is what she did with me, for the entire summer. I loved the independence; the freedom it gave me to decide what I wanted to eat and when, what I wanted to explore, and for how long. When I wanted to see what was up a head, just around the corner, no one needed any convincing. I’d just go.

Nathalie had fallen in love with a policeman who spent most of his days standing outside of the Prefecture near her home. This was no summer crush, eventually they married and had three girls. I had also fallen in love; solo travel became a passion.

Screen shot 2014-03-18 at 9.03.54 AMWhen my husband decided it was time for us to start a family, he offered me a week to visit a close friend in Beijing so I could conquer that bug. Don’t ask me how, but I negotiated the week in Beijing into 10 weeks alone in East Africa. After becoming a Mom, I “needed” 6 weeks on my own in Vietnam. As I got into the rhythm of being a wife and a mom, the solo trips became shorter and less frequent. When I net Mr French, I lost the desire for solo travel and suspected that I had fallen out of love.

Leaving Monaco last month, I hopped into my adorable, mini-me rental car and sped out of town, my heart soaring as I rediscovered my love for the adventure of solo travel. (screaching noise here as we back up…) Actually, I didn’t speed out a Monaco, I drove around in an endless maze trying to speed out of Monaco, pathetically lost in a country smaller than my hometown. I couldn’t seem to get on the right road, or even decide exactly where in France I wanted to go, but I was having the time of my life, loving every minute of it.

Screen shot 2014-03-18 at 9.05.09 AMNo one was in the car with me, stressed out about being lost, no one needed a bathroom break, no one was bored, no one was worried that it was late, or that we may arrive at our destination after night fall, even worse, what if we never found our destination and had to spend the night in the car? I could stop by a museum and only visit the outdoor sculpture display. I spent an hour trying to photograph a humming bird. No one worried about what we’d be eating next, or when. I could have cake for dinner, if that is what I wanted. Nothing was a problem, anything was possible.

Traveling alone force a girl to entertain herself, test her skills, explore her boundaries. Where every you go, there you are, forced to deal with yourself, get to know who you are and define who you want to be. You are also more approachable, opening up the door to meeting strangers, being invited into their world and getting to know the place you came to visit.

I finally got myself on the right road for France. A winding, mountainous road called the Corniche. It was exhilarating to be zipping along, the villas of Bono, Tina Turner and Elton John looming above, the sea below. I turned a corner and caught my breath, as I faced a wall of vivid yellow mimosa in full bloom, the delicate fragrance I adore invading my car with a promise of spring time and great adventure ahead.

Shaken, or stirred?

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Louis XIV stands guard outside Louis XV. Superstitious gamblers touch his right leg for good luck, giving him an uneven shine!

My friend, Joseph the butler, tells me you should never order your martini shaken, the broken ice bruises the gin. Winston Churchill was so protective of his gin, he suggested his bartender merely look at the vermouth when making his martini. But as I walked into the Bar Américain at the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, I was worried that a tuxedo clad Roger Moore would disapprove, so I ordered a Cosmopolitan. I must not be the only one who gets confused, because the menu at the bar, offers to make your martini shaké!

I had been intimidated about a lot more than how to order my drink that evening. How does one dress for The Casino? Could everyone tell I was just a poser? How much did I risk loosing? How odd was it to be a woman alone at the bar? I hadn’t felt this insecure since I had been thrown back on the dating circuit after 20 years of marriage. I reminded myself that nobody cared what I wore, nobody was really even aware I existed, so it was time to start having fun.

When I am traveling solo, one of my greatest pleasures is people watching, so I settled in and got busy watching the remarkable normal looking crowd that surrounded me. A lot of casually chic Italians, a French couple with their 7 year old and some business men in the back. Daniel Craig, Sean Connery and Pierce Brosnan were all absent and unaccounted for. I did so two dashing gentlemen in tuxs, clearly waiting to escort their ladies to an elegant but uneventful dinner at the Louis XV, Alain Ducasse’s 3 star restaurant in the hotel’s lobby.

My diner was upstairs at Le Grill, where my sommelier spoiled me rotten and I had a butter-laced lemon soufflé that was the ideal of sweet and sour. After dinner I headed across the street to the casino. I entered and was surprised to see Vegas style one armed bandits lining the halls. The room was virtually empty; a bartender, two dealers at 21 tables and a handful of clients. Most of them in jeans. The roulette tables were dormant. I headed towards the next room, where its sound like there may be more gamblers. This was the area for the more elegant crowd, but there were no tuxedos, or even a nod towards evening wear. Friday casual wear is all that’s required on a Monday night in the off season. The roulette wheel was spinning at two tables with minimum bets in the 5-10€ range.  A plump Asian lady, well into her 60’s was betting intently, a tall European man wearing a fanny pack was trying to decide between the two tables. This was not the sophisticated European crowd I’d been dreading. These were gamblers. My inhibitions melted away, as did any desire to place a bet.

The casino shares a lobby with the Opéra de Monte Carlo. As I left, a lively aria wafted into the large, open hall, echoing off the stone pillars and reverberating in the cold, virtually empty space. I got closer to the doors of the opera house and a handsome gentleman on his cellphone nodded for me to enter. Was he mistaking me for someone else? Was this a public performance? I did not wait to find out, I tiptoed in, sat down in the small theater and marveled at the scene before my eyes; the operatic version of Arthur and the Minimoys being sung in a room so ornate, it looked like an inverted jewel box.

The Prince Albert’s royal lodge loomed directly above, devoid of anyone, but full of promise. Monte Carlo was turning out to be as surprising as its myth.

A sommelier…

Screen shot 2014-03-03 at 10.16.33 AMMimosa blossoms hummed a vivid yellow against the crystalline blue skies. It had been the rainiest winter on record, but the sun was shining so bright over Monte Carlo, I had peeled off several layers and was down to a light t-shirt as two costumed doormen escorted us through the revolving doors and into cool, refreshing marble clad beauty of the Hôtel de Paris.

I was right on time for my 15h appointment, which meant I was typically late, having miscalculated that I’d need to check-in. Details are not my forté! In no time, the formalities had been taken care of and I was being escorted into the mythic caves (wine cellars, but caves sounds so much more mysterious, non?) of the Socitété des Bains de Mers, the company founded by Prince Charles II of Monaco in 1863.

because every girl should have her very own sommelier...

because every girl should have her very own sommelier…

A handsome, young sommelier, Fabien, one of an impressive team of 7 was there to greet me, proud to be sharing the largest privately held collection of wines in Europe, with over 6000 references for 400,000 bottles, 90% of them French held in 100 year old chambers of 80% humidity. We walked pass rows of Côtes du Rhone, Burgundy and Bordeaux, to the Ranier family cellar where Princess Grace and her Prince celebrated their 20th wedding anniversary over a Chateau Margaux ’29. In the excitement of imagining her dining by candle light in a white fur (totally my imagination, her wardrobe for the evening) I sent my pen crashing on to the cement floor. Which brought an end to my note taking and explains the fact that there are no more facts…

Screen shot 2014-03-03 at 4.31.50 PMFabien guided me to the gated room that holds the most precious wines, which include the last few bottles of Petrus’45; a landmark year that is known not only for the excellent vintage, but because it was the last harvest done almost exclusively by women, as all the men were still at the front. While telling me this tale, he snakes his arms through the metal bars, grabs an ancient Chateau d’Yquiem, and brings it into the light, showing me the tobacco toned liquor as I squeal in fear that he drop the bottle. I see the cave dedicated to Pétrus, Y’Aquiem and des Pins. I see the new stock that has just arrived and is being put down for the next decade, or so, the romm where the sommeliers taste potential new acquisitions and I see the room where a private party can be held by candle light, the seductive scent of wine cellar in the air. We leave through a staff elevator, that lets us out into the lobby of the Hermitage Hotel. The cellar connects the two hotels, for the ultimate in discretion.

At dinner that evening I put myself in Fabien’s very competent hands, letting him choose a glass to accompany my grilled catch of the day, at Le Grill restaurant. He had me compare two glasses of white, explaining that he usually hates comparisons, but thought I’d enjoy this one. My dinner date and I had the same impression of the two wines. One was more complex and interesting than the other. He stunned us by explaining that the two glasses held the exact same natural Bordeaux wine from the exact same bottle, but he had shaken the bottle and let it sit before serving the second glass, “degaz-ing” it and removing some of the sulfites. It was an impressive lesson that has already come in handy…

ps If you ever find yourself in Monte Carlo, be sure to dine at Le Grill and order their lemon souffle. I’m already scheming a return trip, if just for that!

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