DAY ONE - The deluge that greeted my arrival at
Marseilles airport was not quite what I’d hoped for on my first visit to the
South of France.
Only one solution, alcohol. And lots of it!
Perhaps not the most discriminating attitude one would hope
for from a WSET recommended tutor.
Having arrived the night before the trip was due to begin, I
stayed locally in a motel just a stone’s throw from the airport terminal. Cheap
enough, and clearly popular as a stopover judging by the number of people
there, almost all men; of the sleazy sales rep. type.
The trip very soon began to take on a slightly surreal
element. I was due to meet the organiser, PR, at the airport, in time to
collect the only other two participants. Marika and Don, from New York.
I had downloaded details of where we were to stay, including
a picture of our host so that |I might recognise him at the airport – middle
aged, short grey hair, not much of it, and wire rimmed spectacles. I eventually
got lucky with the 3rd rather surprised and unsuspecting looking man
I approached. Were I not a short, slightly overweight, middle-aged, bitter,
menopausal wine tutor I might well have been mistaken for a hooker. Women have
been burnt at the stake for less. In my defence there were a lot of middle-aged
grey haired slightly balding men wearing wire rimmed spectacles cruising the
arrivals hall at the time.
Marika was something else. It has been a long time since I
left the dubious joys of living the high life in the big apple – and here she
was, ready for action on a rather muddy trip to a few vineyards – Louis Vuitton
luggage, black lace tights, a tight little black Chanel suit, dark red nails,
chipped I noticed (bitch), an armful of gold jewellery. And black stilettos. Oh
yes, I almost forgot to mention the huge bottle of pills that spewed forth as her
companion, Don, ever the hand maiden, opened her luggage to a retrieve a
slightly less vertiginous, but only just, pair of shoes, together with an
umbrella, price tag still attached. As we left the airport it was however Don
who seemed most concerned about the effect of the downpour on his neatly
coiffed hair.
The journey in PR’s Mercedes ‘bus’ got off to an interesting
start with us not being able to make a sleek exit from the airport car park.
Following the maxim that the best way to get to know someone is to ask loads of
questions (a bit like the Spanish inquisition when I’m in full flow), on the
basis that everyone likes to talk about themselves. I soon discovered that Marika
was a journalist who lived on Columbus Circle and knew many of my old NY
cohorts in the food and wine business.
I tried to be charitable, really I did, but I just couldn’t
tear my eyes away from Marika’s severely stretched face where barely a muscle
moved when she spoke. My eyed were glued to the wrinkles on her neck, and the
lipstick line drawn well over the circumference of her thin upper lip.
The next 4 days could be something of an endurance test.
Don, who is from Iran, did not endear himself to me either
when PR asked if one of us would like to sit up front. I completely forgot I
was in France and went round the wrong side of the bus to get in, only to find Don
had already hopped in the other side… and promptly fell asleep, suffering from
jet lag. What a waste!. It’s the one thing I hate about organised trips with
strangers. I always like to try and snaffle the front seat.
Our first port of call, on our way back to our host’s
property, was Muscat de Beaumes de Venise. Marika just happened to let slip
that she didn’t eat meat.
‘Are you a vegetarian then?’
‘No, I do eat some fish.’
PR was by now showing distinct signs of panic and I don’t
suppose my bemused grin helped one bit. Bloody vegetarians. I hate them. Well
nearly all of them, except my friend Laure, who is a bit odd anyway as she
meditates too.
Our first tasting at Les Bernardins at M-d-B-V was a hit,
although I couldn’t see much point in standing on the edge of a barren vineyard
in the cold and damp. Just let me get to the wines. Please. I did not enjoy the
first two wines, but thereafter I was on a roll to liquid heaven in the form of
‘Hommage’. By the time we got to our lodgings I was gasping for a much needed
cup of tea, I am English after all, and a rest. This was sadly not to be as
there was too much noise. My personal requirements for a snooze are total
darkness, silence and being able to lie in a horizontal position. Not much to
ask.
Even so, the property was posh, smart, and expensive.
For dinner that night Don, prima donna that he is, arrived
thirty minutes after everyone else. Aperitifs were accompanied by PR’s homemade
tapenade – lovely but on the salty side.
The soup we were served with first was a spicy mixture of
something – tomato/carrot/ginger (?), and pasta elbows.
After the first course Marika disappeared for a full five
minutes. It did cross my mind, that not having tried any of the pre-dinner
nibbles, unlike me, who wolfed down the lot like the pig I am, could she
possibly be bulimic? I think so.
Our next course was sliced tomatoes accompanied by lentils
and duck, of good quality although perhaps not quite warm enough. The wines
however, the reds at least, were delightful, especially at the price – no
matter that the trip cost the equivalent of £200 a night.
Cheese – Roquefort (underripe); goat’s cheese; comté (fruity and firm); saint felicien
(fabulously runny) ; thank God for clothes with expanding waistlines.
Marika has now been to the toilet twice during the meal and
at dinner is still in the same little black sleeveless dress she’s been
travelling in all day. I can’t help but notice the wrinkles on her upper arms –
it just goes to show that getting a facelift won’t completely hide the ravages
of time on other bits of your body.
Dinner ended, much to my surprise, at 11.35pm – and 7 wines
sampled. Not bad going.
The food was all homemade – apple crumble (cold) and sorbet
for pud, after the very decent cheese.
DAY TWO - I had the usual restless night but still
ended up being late for breakfast the following morning, as I was lying awake
listening for the noises in this vast barn of a building that might indicate
others were up and about.
B’fast – good croissants, meusli, juice and yoghurt. Where
was the fry up?!
Down to PR’s atelier for a very well put together
presentation on the area, although sadly it seems that on this trip we’ll only
be visiting vineyards in the south so I feel a bit cheated. I also feel that my
fellow guests were quite rude, bloody rude actually, with Don constantly on his
mobile phone.
The weather at least has perked up considerably.
Lighting in the tasting room was, I felt, quite subdued,
although this is something that I have noticed a great deal in the tasting rooms/cellars
of many vineyards – funny when we set such store by being able to really look
at the hue of a wine.
Lunch – horror of horrors, was vegetarian. Am I really going
to be subjected to the culinary whims of a neurotic pill-popping New Yorker?
Putting on my best AA inspection hat I tried to remain objective. The chickpea
and courgette filo pie was really delicious, but I probably wouldn’t have
served it with petit epaulet (?) grain and polenta cake – as it was quite heavy
overall and high on the carbs. My partner, had he been here, would probably not
have enjoyed it, being a meat and two veg. kind of person, or rather an egg,
chips and beans man. Our poor time keeping did not aid JR (who despite my
comments does cook rather well) in her reckonings. I did however have the
satisfaction of being able to gobble up Marika’s left over pastry – she was clearly
not into it, unlike me.
PR, as I may have mentioned earlier, is not renowned for his
timekeeping either, so it was 6..30pm by the time we returned from our
afternoon’s outing to both Gigondas and Vacqueyras.
We then had a quick turn around, and a half hour drive back
to Gigondas, for dinner at a very elegant restaurant called L’Oustalet, set in
the middle of the village square. Seating 24 inside, there were an equal number
of tables for outside dining – on this occasion firmly tied together with
string. In finer summer weather the temp. here can reach around 40’, which
would be far too hot for me.
Apparently, the restaurant is owned by one Gabriel Meffre, a
big wig negociant from Gigondas, and whose brother has also been the mayor for
many a year – sounds local the local Mafia to me!
First impressions - a meal worth having, and a menu worth
perusing – with copies provided in English for our non-French speaking
contingent. I have to admit that as my French is not too bad, I get by. I have
started to take every opportunity to converse with anyone I can in French, just
to piss them off – bad girl Linda.
Coarse grey linen tablecloths, white chairs and a sloping
beamed ceiling set the scene.
Marika’s eating habits are becoming increasingly tiresome –
e.g. can I have the turbot without its accompaniments and just a side salad,
and no dessert for me – I had quite forgotten what it had been like living in
New York. Where is Gordon Ramsay when you want him to tell someone to f*** off
out of the restaurant and go eat rabbit food. I really am a cow……moo!
On the positive side it has however been fun discussing the
NY food and wine scene.
Marika, I have also discovered, wires herself up to all
kinds of machines (where did she find the room in her luggage?) each morning to
‘jump rope’ – I think she means skipping, for all of 5 minutes and takes
a plate of cheese to bed with her every night. Why can’t she just eat at the
table with the rest of us like a normal person? – bulimic I tell you.
I digress. The meal.
We began with an amuse bouche, as one would expect in a posh
restaurant, of smoked salmon rolled around a mix of crème fraiche and onions –
nice presentation (big on presentation here but lacking in substance), but not
memorable, smoked salmon was not the best quality.
Home made bread on offer was a selection of grapefruit and
apricot; wheat; cereal – of which, being a little piggy, I tried the lot only
to find them all dull and leaden – a fine example of where it is all very well
making the effort but if you can’t bake bread buy it in! Where’s that AA
restaurant inspector when you need her? – old habits die hard.
My first course was a croque monsieur of foie gras de canard
with quince – an imaginative attempt but again poorly executed.
The Gigondas we had to drink with this – Domaine La Bouissière 2005 was fresh and fruity,
lighter than expected.
My main course – animal based again, less I feel deprived in
present company, was pigeon. Again, very well presented, (are we thinking
Emperor’s new clothes here?) and beautifully cooked but slightly marred by a
hint of bitterness where it had not been adequately cleaned of its yucky bits.
Served with purple cauliflower (why?), polenta AND risotto, which was stodgy.
We were all served the same veg. to go with – which given that Marika had
ordered the turbot, was not a good move. A common error with a lot of
restaurants – some veg. just do not go well with some dishes.
The cheese course perked me up a bit, not least because of
the handsome and lithe looking waiter that offered a huge selection from the ubiquitous
cart – lovely.
This being a ‘posh’ restaurant we were then given granita as
a palate cleanser. This was icy (of course!), dull, lacking in flavour or
complexity – disappointing.
For pud I had to have the 4 seasons olive confit dessert, if
for no other reason than the novelty value. Again, the presentation was v.g.
but the whole dish was lacking in textural variation – almost all the items –
ice cream, parfait, mousse and a mini Yorkshire pud, being very similar – nice
concept, but again a failure to fully think the dish through.
The choc. finger that someone else had lacked oomph, and the
pumpkin dessert Marika barely tasted was a good effort at seasonality but again
lacking any textural contrast.
Tiny madeleines and brandy snaps to finish – which I took
home for my hosts. All in all, not a bad meal, despite my criticism, but I
would love to get my hands on this place and steer their efforts in the right
direction – the chef can clearly cook and is a whiz at presentation but when
all is said and done it is the taste that counts.
DAY THREE - Another poor night’s sleep on account of
several factors, including what seemed to be the hounds of the Baskervilles
outside my window ripping some poor captive to shreds judging by the sound (I
later found out this was just the local pack of hunting dogs being fed). Then I
heard the breakfast table being laid, despite PR’s best effort to be quiet. The
minimalist style of the building does mean the sound reverberates somewhat.
Madam upstairs started ‘jumping rope’ at the crack of dawn, no doubt attached
to her usual retinue of monitors, just to check she still has a pulse after all
that surgery. I suppose I should be grateful that she and her Iranian lap dog, Donnie
(said in a squeaky drawn-out way), do not appear to be getting on like a house
on fire, hence I can confirm no nocturnal activity from my fellow guests, I
would had heard every squeak of delight and listening to that would have been
beyond the pale.
Last night at dinner Marika declared she did not eat bread.
So, you can imagine my fury when having rooted through this morning’s breadbasket
to pluck out the last remaining piece of French bread from its hiding place,
beneath the fat laden almond croissants, which I don’t eat anyway, before I
could stake my claim – only for her to leave most of it on the side of her
plate. I could have rammed it down her tight-lipped mouth into her wrinkled
gullet – I may have found God, but clearly I’ve got a long was to go when the
lack of sleep still has the ability to generate such uncharitable and violent
murderous thoughts.
I’m going to have to be very careful today in case my mouth
gets me into trouble. I’ve been v.g. so far but lack of sleep and my renowned
lack of patience may get the better of me yet! Suffice it to say I am not
thinking Godly thoughts towards my fellow travellers.
I have on my lap, as I write, a very skinny ginger tabby cat
called Pumpkin, recently adopted by the family’s adorable daughter. It purrs
for England, or should that be France? Fully stretched out, top to the end of
very long tail, I reckon about 3ft. long.
After a bright day yesterday, it is very overcast today,
rain threatening.
Our first stop was C-d-P and a trip in a camion with the
vineyard’s owner, up to the famed vineyards of La Crau – where Marika was put
very firmly in her place. The wine maker said quite sharply on observing her ‘Your
shoes are not suitable’. Marika’s face was a picture as she had to clamber into
the truly filthy farmyard truck we went in up the very bumpy track to La
Crau. She also insisted on getting into the front.
Now at our next vineyard, La Solitude, I think I will kill
her (Marika) if she asks one more silly question or yawns one more time. This,
combined with Don’s constant use of his mobile, is just SO rude. Everywhere we
go Marika goes to great lengths to say she is a journalist but never seems to
be able to say what publications she writes for. I think all she does is get
freebie trips whilst trying to tout her stories around.
Someone is wearing very strong deodorant or perfume, which
is pissing me off - big time! I have a bad enough time with the nose at the
best of times but how the hell can the smell of the wine compete with this? Our
winemaker and host, in the meantime, is young and handsome, despite the grubby
effort at a beard – he could be the man of my dreams. As passionate about food
as wine, you should hear him speak. And now I am embarrassed to admit I wrote –
it makes my heart sing – how pathetic is that?! Get a grip woman.
Le Verger des Papes is our chosen stop for lunch. A
restaurant set on top of the hill overlooking C-d-P.
Note to self whilst picture-taking outside –
Marika – ‘Donnie, can you stand under that arch so I can
take a picture of you?’ and then in an aside to PR she continued….
‘You don’t think the arch will fall on him do you?’
My thoughts – after several hundred fxxking years I don’t
think so…. I do deserve a medal for this.
I am however under great stress, holding my tongue for all
it’s worth, if not my private thoughts. Well done Linda.
The restaurant is a typical tourist joint but pleasant
enough. The gougère (cold) were
nice as a nibble before our meal.
During lunch, despite eating only half her starter (so far) Marika
gets out a zip loc bag full of pills and proceeds to take out a selection – and
I confess I did sneak a photo of this.
She is, as I am writing this, recounting a very long
scenario of a film she can’t remember the name of about Meg Ryan meeting
someone who wins a vineyard in a card game. The woman is mad. I only hope it’s
not catching.
My lunch at Le Verger clearly lacked the finesse of last
night’s dinner but by contrast was far more enjoyable. What I would describe as
‘honest food’. The quail (get your meat quota in while you can) on my salad
starter was beautifully cooked. The balance of the ingredients, and the rustic
preparation, of the rump of lamb I had for my main course was on the button –
good use of fresh herbs and seasoning too. Very satisfying.
PR, bless his heart, seems to have developed a nervous tick –
this may be because Marika has just stated that having consumed most of the
bottle of red wine we ordered between us (I drinking white, and Philip
abstaining from more than a glass due to being the duty driver) has now
announced, after the main course, that she and Donnie NEED to have another
bottle (yes, she did use the word need) of wine between them to go with the
cheese. PR is clearly starting to panic and I can barely contain my amusement!
For Pete’s sake do these two uncouth, unsophisticated, but filthy rich
Americans not possess any social etiquette?
May be a business opportunity for me there?!
I may not have been paying much attention (quite likely at
this stage) but Marika appears to have emptied the contents of her ‘horse pill
size’ capsules onto the table mat – what she is planning to do with it I’m not
sure but it looks like cocaine – not that I’d know. In my haste I may have
forgotten to mention that the vegetarian food I was practically forced to eat
yesterday lunchtime has caused me to fart in the most horrible smelly way –
good!
DAY FOUR - Time to leave. Where has the time gone?
Both of our hosts were delightful and
they had certainly gone to great lengths to make the property stylish, albeit
on a budget. I did in the end, after 3 days of not washing (I only do baths),
finally succumb to the splendid walk-in shower, à la Savoy, but I would have preferred a long soak in a deep
bath. I had also tired of Marika in her scuffed Chanel shoes and lacy tights,
and the fact she kept spraying herself with perfume which did not aid my less
than perfect tasting skills. Everything for her and Don was a saga and they had
both been so rude and self-obsessed I was quite cross. I was relieved to join PR
in bidding them and their LV luggage farewell at Marseille, before trying to
change my ticket, which was not to be, so I found myself stuck in Marseille for
a couple of days.
I took the bus from the airport and checked myself into the
first hotel I came across on leaving the station – Beaulieu Maris. Not the most
salubrious place but then at only 35 euros a night I could not complain too
much. Mind you, trekking up three flights of stairs was not much fun (I do not
do exercise). Neither was finding my room only recently de-occupied, with the
unmade bed still in place and stinking of fag ends. I think it will also have
to a ‘piss in the sink’ job as I’ll be buggered if I’m going down two flights
of stairs in the middle of the night to have a wee!
I walked down to the old port for lunch. Big mistake, and I
should have known better. After deciding that, as part of my economy drive, I
couldn’t justify a 50 euro lunch I settled for one of the many tourist places
on the harbour front and at 20 euros the meal was pretty dreadful. The fish
soup in particular was like dishwater and the waiters friendly in that
supercilious ‘let’s rip off the tourists’ kind of way, with poor service to
boot.
I returned to my lodgings via the metro. Although we were
due to leave Europe I do wish we had taken note of some of their better practices.
Like the metro police prowling around, Doberman or German Shepherd being the
escort of choice. This and the mob-handed bomber jacket wearing ticket
inspectors – five at a time boarding just one carriage and blocking all the
exits – I liked it. A lot. There was also a fair smattering of old ladies
wearing pink socks, and, darling this, a tropical fish tank installed on the
platform. Presumably it has a calming effect on potential muggers, although
what it does for the fish I can’t bear to think. In the UK we would have the animal
protection police up in arms.
Marseille really is graffiti city. Quite an art form, and it
really serves to cheer up the very dilapidated buildings, elegant in their day
but now looking more like Victorian tenements. I discovered accidentally during
my wandering the Cours Julien area. Very interesting restaurants, bars and
funky shops. I happily ensconced myself in a charming Haitian/Quebecoise
restaurant called Chez Janet. And there I ran out of paper ……………
