by Peter Mayle
On paper, the story seems extremely unlikely. And yet, surrounded as we were by an exhibition of near nudity, it was easy enough to imagine that it had happened. Nobody, or at least none of the women, had dressed to avoid being noticed. Inevitably, there were one or two cases where optimism had triumphed over age, and the desire to create a striking effect had been somewhat misjudged. The leopard-print swimsuit worn with a black mesh miniskirt was one example; a pair of see-through floral-print tights was another. Both outfits were worn by women long past the bloom of youth, and looking up at them from a seated position—seeing the involuntary judder of flesh as they passed—one was aware of that old enemy, gravity. But, as so often with French women, these two had refused to acknowledge the passage of time. In their hearts, they were stars of the beach, confident of their eternal allure, and had dressed accordingly.
It was noticeable that while all the ladies had made an effort that day, many of their escorts hadn’t bothered. The men, for the most part, were not a pretty sight. Some of them—I imagine they were off-duty captains of industry—wouldn’t have qualified sartorially to get a job as a plongeur, or dishwasher, in the kitchen, let alone as a waiter. They appeared to have slept in their rumpled shorts and scruffy shirts. Their hair was lank and uncombed. They radiated neglect—but a self-satisfied neglect, as if to tell the world that they were important enough not to have to bother with their appearance. They were not a credit to their companions.
The standard improved around three o’clock, with an influx of older gentlemen and their consorts. There was a faded, salty elegance to their yachting clothes, a notable and welcome absence of the logos and nautical trimmings that make many of today’s sailors look as though they’ve been gift-wrapped. Even more impressive, the new arrivals had come from their boats all by themselves, without the benefit of bodyguards, and didn’t seem to possess cell phones. They were a breath of nostalgia, and might almost have stepped out of one of Sara and Gerald Murphy’s 1920s house parties, leaving Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway behind to drink and hurl sentences at each other.
Our waiter, a young man with the foresight to anticipate a wine crisis, slipped a full bottle into the ice bucket and asked if we might like some fraises des bois after the cheese. We took a break from the people and allowed ourselves to be distracted by the food.
To be consistently successful, beach cuisine should be informal, fresh, and uncomplicated. A sandy kitchen is no place for a chef who likes to drown his fish in sauces, or to punctuate the course of a meal with a flourish of herbal sorbets and pastry-wrapped tidbits. These might all be fine in grand restaurants, but not here. Sitting with your shoes kicked off under the table, you should be able to taste the sea as well as look at it. Back to nature, even if the parking lot is stuffed with Maseratis.
Simplicity and freshness have been part of the formula at Club 55, and they are clearly two of the reasons for its enduring success. The fish, the vegetables, and the salads are the way they should be, fresh enough to stand up for themselves without any assistance from overenthusiastic seasoning. And the pommes frites have the satisfying texture that comes from two immersions in hot oil—the first to cook the interior, the second for a crisp outer coating. Anyone looking for a good lunch won’t be disappointed.
A good lunch, however—mere food—is a bonus, only part of the experience. The meal over, but with a ferocious jolt of espresso as an excuse to linger, there is nothing to divert your attention from the après-lunch stirrings that are starting to take place around you.
A middle-aged man wearing denim and bright red spectacles, with a crash helmet dangling from one hand, makes his way through the crowd with a slightly anxious expression, as though his bike has wandered off without him. Two tables from us, a future nana, very young, very beautiful, very bored, sits with her parents, practicing her sultry expression on passing waiters. Dogs no bigger than handbags are lifted onto laps and given almond biscuits. It’s four o’clock, and the rest of the world is working, a thought that contributes to the agreeable air of decadence that has now descended on the restaurant.
Table-hoppers resume their hopping, but not with the same nimble eagerness they showed earlier. Made languid by lunch, they saunter over for guest appearances at other tables, there to perch and have lengthy discussions about what to do with the remainder of the afternoon. But it seems that even lotus-eaters have their problems. Eavesdropping reveals that waterskiing plays havoc with the digestion, that sunbathing is not recommended for the skin. (This comment sounds odd, coming as it does from a cocoa-colored mimi.) Fortunately for those in need of something to fill those long hours between lunch and dinner, shopping has not so far revealed any serious health hazards. And Club 55 has thoughtfully provided its own boutique, only a short stagger away along the beach. We decide to have a look.
In its own highly relaxed way, the trip of a hundred meters or so from the restaurant to the boutique is a model of ingenious design and sophisticated retail psychology. I think it has been based on the assumption that most men detest shopping for women’s clothes. They don’t have the aptitude for it, and they are pathetically lacking in stamina. They flag easily, and then they mope, and finally they drag their unwilling companions away, leaving the premises only partly ransacked. This unprofitable condition—purchase interruptus—has been anticipated by the people at Club 55, who have installed on the way to the boutique two rest areas, where the reluctant but occasionally useful masculine accessory can take his ease and enjoy the scenery.
The first stop is a bar, ideally placed to appeal to those who have forgotten to have an after-lunch digestif. Dress seems to be even more optional than in the restaurant, and swimsuits more vestigial, although this may be because the bodies are fully visible and no longer partly obscured by restaurant tables. In any case, shoppers can park their companions here, secure in the knowledge that for at least half an hour they will be pleasantly diverted.
A few meters farther on is an outdoor seating area, with long couches facing the sea. On the day we were there, it had been almost completely taken over by men with not a second to waste away from the pursuit of money and the conduct of their businesses. Oblivious to the glories of nature spread out before them (some of whom were wearing very little more than a coating of oil), the men were bellowing instructions to some distant office, to their yacht captains, to their brokers, to their real estate agents. There is something about cell phones—I have yet to find out what it is—that compels callers to raise their voices, so that anyone nearby is obliged to hear details of their private conversations. This has become an almost inescapable nuisance, and I look forward to the day when cell phone addicts, like smokers, are herded together and sent into exile. Preferably in a soundproof room.
In contrast to the babble on the beach, the loudest sounds in the boutique were the swish of plastic and the whisper of banknotes changing hands. Figures in varying stages of undress flitted in and out of the changing cabin. Sales were brisk. Men were scarce. They would be picked up later, festooned with shopping bags, and led away to whatever joys awaited them that evening.
But first, there would be the car to fetch, and it was not always the uncomplicated business one might expect. As we walked back along the beach, with the sun starting to descend for its evening dip into the sea, Bruno told me about the man—one of those slightly seedy captains of industry—who had been waiting while the valet parker was fetching his Bentley. A young couple then arrived in the parking area. Seeing nobody else, the young man went up to the captain of industry and pressed a fifty-franc note into his hand. “Mine’s the banana yellow Ferrari over there,” he said. “Mind you don’t scratch it.”
One can only imagine the poor man’s feelings. Revered by his secretary, respected by financial analysts, treated with deference by all around him, he had clambered to the giddy heights of corporate success, only to be mistaken for a parking lot cowboy. The horror of it! In fact, as Bruno pointed out, the valet parkers are much better dressed
than he was, but that kind of detail is easy to miss after a long lunch.
As my wife and I were getting close to home the next morning, we noticed that everyone in the village was fully dressed. When we got to the house, I had to park the car without professional assistance. We were greeted by dogs who have never sat on laps in restaurants and a guest who told us that the plumbing had started to make mysterious noises. Our short break from real life was over.
A Connoisseur’s Marathon
The course conforms precisely to the official distance: 26 miles, 385 yards—or 42.195 kilometers. And there, any resemblance to a conventional marathon ends.
Runners are encouraged to wear fancy dress, the fancier the better. To refresh them during their exertions, wine of very superior quality is available at twenty different points de dégustation along the course. It’s unlikely that those who stop for a quick one will shatter any world records, but in this convivial race, speed is far less important than enjoyment. A good time—a memorable time—will be had by all, because the competitors are taking part in France’s most civilized contribution to the sport of long-distance running, one that takes place in some of the most civilized countryside on earth. This is the Marathon du Médoc, run through the great vineyards of Bordeaux.
I have never associated running with fun, and certainly never with alcohol. The earnest joggers that one sees shuffling through their paces on city streets or along country lanes show all the signs of joy you would expect to find in torture victims—eyes glassy, mouths gaping, faces clenched, sweat and suffering oozing from every pore. Their minds are undoubtedly more concerned with chipped metatarsals and the horrors of chafed nipples than with the pleasures of a glass of wine. To me, running has always looked like a joyless and painful business, a hobby for masochists.
When I heard about the Marathon du Médoc, the thought of meeting a different kind of runner—one with a fondness for dressing up and a taste for the grape—was much too interesting to miss. Here was an opportunity to fill one of the many gaps in my sporting education. There were also, I admit, a couple of ulterior motives: I’d never seen the châteaux of Bordeaux, some of the most elegant country houses ever built. And then there were the liquid inducements: Lynch-Bages, Lafite Rothschild, Phelan Segur, Latour, Pontet-Canet, Beychevelle, Cos d’Estournel—if there were to be a wine list in heaven, selected by the Great Sommelier in the sky, these names would belong in it.
While practicing with my corkscrew one evening, I thought about other trips I’d taken to attend events in unfamiliar parts of France, and how often they had been exercises in blind optimism. There is a date and there are a few sketchy program details provided by a volunteer organizer—the mayor’s wife, the captain of the fire brigade, the local butcher—but that’s all. You have no idea, until you get there, whether you’re going to find a festive crowd filling the streets or three men and a morose dog sitting by themselves in the village square.
This was in a different league altogether. Faxes flew; information arrived. Nothing was too much trouble for the marvelous Madame Holley, who works for the regional tourist board. And then one morning, a fax arrived that made my wife suddenly realize there might be more to running than she had thought. If I had no other plans, said the invitation from Madame Holley, perhaps I’d like to stay at the Château Pichon-Longueville.
I could see a gleam in the wifely eye at the idea of a château weekend. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you,” she said, “but I’ve always wanted to watch a marathon.”
We arrived in the late afternoon, with the September sun tilting across the vines and bathing the château in a flattering wash of pale gold; not that Pichon-Longueville needs any flattery. It was built in 1851, a period in architecture when turrets were all the rage, and Pichon (it’s nice to be on first-name terms with a château) could be the model for a fairy-tale castle, suitable for princesses or damsels in distress. The turrets, sheathed in slate, as black and pointed as witches’ hats, rise at each corner of a steeply pitched roof. The windows are large and perfectly proportioned, and there is a short, graceful flight of stairs leading up to the main entrance. From there, you can pretend for a few minutes to be part of the wine-growing nobility, and, from the eminence of your château, look out at your view.
The garden shows you at a glance how the château people of Bordeaux deal with nature: They discipline it. They straighten it, they form it, they clip it, and they smooth it. Trees are lined up in avenues as if on parade, or planted in strictly symmetrical groups. Lawns are shaved, gravel is raked, and water—in this case, a small lake within a rectangular border of stone—is contained. Beyond the lake, on the other side of the road, the horizon is green. Vines, as far as you can see, are trimmed to exactly the same height.
The only traces of disorder to be seen that afternoon were human. Trestle tables were being unloaded from caterers’ trucks and set up in front of the lake, with crates of glasses and bottles being unpacked, polished, and laid out. Six hundred runners were coming to dinner at the château, and aperitifs would be served in the garden. There was no doubt about it; this was already turning into my kind of marathon.
Leaving the impeccable gardens, we found ourselves waist-deep in equally impeccable vines. Pichon has about seventy acres of them, with a rosebush at the end of each row acting as a decorative health warning system. Bugs and ailments attack roses before they attack vines, so the vigneron has a chance to see the problem and treat it before any serious damage is done to the grapes. And there they were, little jewels, dense purple clusters of Cabernet Sauvignon, hanging from vines that had been struggling in the dry, sandy soil for thirty or more years. “Vines must suffer” is a phrase you hear frequently in Bordeaux. And I think there must be a local law against weeds. We looked for one as we walked through the rows of vines. We might as well have been looking for the proverbial needle.
The amount of work, much of it manual, involved in maintaining a great vineyard defies description. The initial investment is colossal. The risks of weather are beyond man’s control: too much rain, no rain at all, hailstorms, freak winds, late frosts, early frosts. Everything can be done perfectly for eleven months of the year and destroyed overnight. I can never open a bottle of wine without thinking of the effort and skill and patience that have gone into it, and what a bargain it is.
Thirsty thoughts.
They were interrupted by the sound of a jazz band coming from the direction of the château. We walked back to the strains of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and as we got closer to the gardens, we could hear the buzz of a crowd. The runners had arrived, and the aperitifs were flowing.
It made an incongruous sight: the château and its gardens, splendid in their dignified formality, and the decidedly informal crowd, many of whom were dressed as if the race were just about to start. Double-decker running shoes, short shorts revealing some very serviceable-looking thigh and calf muscles, sleeveless vests, T-shirts, backpacks, baseball caps—this was evening dress for some of our dinner companions, who all appeared to be in the best of spirits. And why not? It was a glorious evening, more fine weather was forecast for tomorrow’s race—it never rains for the marathon, or so we were told—and rumor had it that the dinner would be a runners’ special, with hydrates de carbone galore.
But first, we had a drink in the château with Sylvie Cazes-Régimbeau, who takes care of public relations for Pichon. Charming, and apparently unflustered despite her six hundred dinner guests, she gave us champagne and some impressive statistics.
From nineteen thousand applicants for this year’s race, eight thousand had secured places. Of these, there were six thousand déguisés in fancy dress, while the rest were serious runners, including the current champion of France. The youngest runner this year was twenty; the oldest, seventy-five. More than fifty thousand spectators were expected.
The marathon had been founded sixteen years earlier, and three of the five founders were doctors. Thanks to their influence, the medical suppo
rt would have done credit to a hospital emergency ward: three hundred volunteers—heart specialists, interns, nurses, and foot doctors; fifteen massage tents; cardiovascular tests; everything from an ingrown toenail to an erratic pulse or a heart murmur had been anticipated and prepared for.
And the stomach would also be well served. Apart from the twenty-two stands along the course offering high-energy snacks (and 35,000 liters of Vittel mineral water), the famished runner could choose from 15,000 oysters, 400 kilos (almost 900 pounds) of entrecôte, and 160 kilos (350 pounds) of cheese. With appropriate wines, naturally. It almost made me want to take up running.
From the gardens below, we could hear the sound of mass movement, the rumble of a migrating herd. The runners were going to dinner. I looked through the window and saw them making for the starting line, which was the entrance to a vast tent that had been put up behind the château.
“Bon,” said Sylvie. “Let’s go and eat.”
We walked into a wall of sound, as though the party had been going on for hours, although the runners hadn’t even sat down. The animateur on the stage was having a hard time getting his audience to keep quiet while he introduced some of the competitors from all over France and from all around the world: Argentinians, Brazilians, Poles, Mexicans, Japanese, Americans, British, Canadians, Danes, a couple from New Caledonia, a single intrepid Israeli. Each introduction nearly brought the tent down with roars of applause.
“Please! Please! Un peu du calme!” said the animateur, holding up his hand in an attempt to reduce the racket. “I must ask you all to refrain from standing on the tables, at least until dinner is over.” And I’d always thought of runners as quiet and well behaved.
