by JR King
Rituals, rules, and hierarchy prevailed here; I had to sit, eat, and drink on the dogmatic chef’s terms, or get lost. Whatever the time of the day, the menu was the same, and there were no prix-fixe options or tasting deals or negotiable portions. Even if I didn’t like what and how much of it was on my plate, I shut the hell up and elegantly shoved the over-expensive bits into my mouth, swallowing with a ghost of a smile. Yep, the ambiance was solemn and doctrinal, a bit like attending Bible College. No wait, a church was accessible, that place was much less accessible than it was theological.
The lesson to be learned was that if I behaved badly while living on my own, my beautiful existence would turn into…this.
No one can live like this, I’d snapped at grandpa. To quote Roald Dahl: I’d rather be fried alive and eaten by Mexicans.
From one day to the next, I didn’t like Michelin-starred restaurants anymore, they creeped me out. The dishes coming out of such kitchens were too manipulated, too guarded, too reserved. Years later, Napa Valley’s Meadowood changed all that. The food there was plated with the same circular Michelin symmetry and no detail was overlooked, but the Gestapo was nowhere to be found. The tableside saucing, shaving, and seasoning insisted on casual dining instead, spreading lovely warmth and intimacy. With the from-farm-to-table locavore setting, Meadowood brilliantly demonstrated that you could have Michelin stars and remain unassuming, which was a tough thing to pull off.
So, here I sat, my second three-starred shack this week, laughing it up with Sophia. From start to finish, this scene had disaster written allover it, but I failed to recognize it.
*
I set my hands to the two gold doorknobs to unstick the division in the middle, pushing the doors open. Outside, it was drizzling, and inside, Alexander was staring longingly at the ceiling from behind the desk, throwing a crumpled slip of paper in the trashcan. I watched him, thinking the moment was filled with remnants of romanticism.
I was on pins and needles. Earlier, Christopher had messaged me that the attire was jacket and tie for men, gowns and cocktail dresses for the ladies.
“Alex, you look great in that dinner jacket.” I smiled at him from the doorsill.
“Love.” He ceased running his hand through his hair and turned his head, agitated. Swinging the chair out from under the confines of the desk, he handed me a note with stretched-loop handwriting. “Can you believe some woman tried billing a cheap designer dress to our room?”
“I told them to send me the bill.” With a little embarrassment, I buried my face in folded hands.
“Babe, that ain’t a problem,” he took my hands away from my face, “but your closet has been fully stocked. Dior, Chanel, Gucci, Versace, Valentino, I made sure.”
“I’d like to wear something I chose. Not some personal shopper of yours.”
“Go wear it.” His amused expression eased into seriousness.
Dressing up was easy. The cold water I splashed on my hands forced me to catch my breath. Blotting away the droplets with a wad of paper towels, I flinched at the sound of the door’s low squeal. When I looked back up into the mirror, cold grey eyes stared at me, two darkly winged eyebrows arched in silent query.
I spun around, planted my right foot forward. The pose invalidated every other measure. “What do you think, Mr. Bond? Do I scrub up well?” It seemed I’d rendered him speechless. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and his mouth slightly agape, giving me a vehement once-over. “Nothing?”
“Adorns your statuesque curves perfectly, but no.” He walked toward me with slow, deliberate steps, like a lion cornering his prey. I scrutinized his face for any flicker of emotion, any expression, conscious or otherwise. His eyes cool and liquid steel, I couldn’t detect anything.
Feeling sufficiently self-assured as a Jane Bond, I cupped his chin in my hand. “Either I’m going like this, or I’m not going.” I brushed my freshly painted red nails against his cheek as I lifted his eyes back to mine. “Approval. It’s a simple equation. I beg of you, make it.”
“I’ll convey your apologies for your absence to Sophia and Chris, then.”
“Okay. Okay,” I sighed, hoping I didn’t look as crazy in love as I felt. He was maddening, a misogynist prick who never gave an inch unless I was submissive, but damn, he was the whole package and I loved every flawed bit of him. “I can’t boss you around. May I please wear this dress, sir?” My ingratiating smile combined with a pitiful, downturned look, touching my obsidian hair, all of this usually worked on bird-brained men.
“Cock-tease,” he growled lustily, grabbing at my bare leg. His mouth, as it met mine, was a curse in itself. There was no voice like his, no lips so trained, no tongue so spellbinding, no tone so disturbingly raw. “Men will suffer debilitating heart attacks,” he muttered, ending the kiss.
“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur,” I blurted with a hint of victory, silky and totally self-indulgent.
He pulled me tight against his body, flexing his biceps as I squeezed them through his jacket. “Is there a point in me asking where you get these daring ideas?”
“None at all.”
“Be ready, Elena. I want your cunt swollen and wet when we get back.”
I shivered at the vulgar command, knowing he’d be rough and ruthless.
Hand in hand, we walked out the suite. I felt very relaxed, even though I was aware of the crowd staring at us.
“My concern, little pet, is that men will only be capable of admiring the lower part of your dress, smiling like adolescents. A shame, don’t you think?”
“Monegasque men know how to look at a woman. Derogative looks are few and far between.”
I was wearing a jersey gown from the Badgley Mischka Collection, its long sleeves had beaded cuffs, but perhaps its best attribute was the daring slit up the front of my right leg that didn’t stop until it reached my upper thigh. I was throwing some serious leg at people. In fact, the slit was a few centimeters shy from Angelina Jolie’s Versace dress at the Tokyo premiere of Salt, bringing me a good deal of attention. My version of Bitch Stole My Look.
“Son of a…,”
Christopher stood across from me and didn’t take his eyes off me. It was like I was the only person in the room. His eyes met mine, then slowly lowered, then went back up, covering every inch of my body before joining my stare again.
“That’s a killer dress,” Sophia complimented instead of denigrating. No ominous smile, no constrained composure. “Shall we?”
Reputedly, the ride I’d been promised turned out to be a dazzling intimate dinner at Le Louis XV, Alain Ducasse’s gourmet restaurant. I pondered the name. Louis XV wasn’t exactly the most popular monarch. By the end of his reign, when he left the throne, he’d drowned it in excess at the expense of his subjects. What followed wasn’t pretty: his successor’s head got claimed during the revolution. But, let’s cheer up. Few places on earth had a fine setting for dream-like dining, and this was one of them. A prestigious hotel overlooking Monaco’s main square, right across the street from Le Grand Casino. The room was air-con’d, the tables were very spread out so privacy was guaranteed. The décor had that gold-colored overrun and was one hundred percent French, from the elegant cutlery and glassware to the Baccarat chandeliers, windows festooned with Victorian style curtains set with swags and valances. The central bouquet was twenty feet vertically, and must have had thousands of delphiniums in it.
We were one of only four parties in the restaurant and all of us were greeted by name on sight. A coterie of waitstaff surrounded us, and the dearth of patrons made it look like we had the place to ourselves. We were seated at a corner table, right beneath a pearly chandelier. Mute-colored roses sat in a porcelain chalice in the center of the table, the thread count of the starched linens high, which allowed the occasional breeze—when a waiter passed—to lift the hem and draw attention to my bare thigh. I also had a little stool for my handbag next to my chair, pretty impressive so far.
Rather than being in
timidated by the wanton opulence, the effect the regal setting had on me was quite the opposite. Despite the extravagance, I felt incredibly comfortable sitting in the grandest of all possible rooms, surrounded by seemingly priceless murals, statement pieces, and floral bouquets that were beyond imagination. For commoners like me, this is the closest you come to feeling like royalty.
Sophia ordered the Pour Les Gourmandes menu for the table, a six-course meal. It’s on, you bitch, I thought as I took a deep breath.
The dining room was a beehive of activity and scents of big, bold sauces and freshly baked bread tickled my sense of smell. First, we were given the bread and sensational butter. Alexander didn’t like butter with his bread, however, seeing ten choices of bread improved his mood. I followed his lead, choosing a small loaf of pain rustique and a gilded folio of semolina bread. Peacock’s feathers attract, allurement never had had a finer example. The butter was introduced as a mountainous dome, the waiter scooped it off tableside and put a curl the size of a child’s fist onto my gold-rimmed butter plate. Apparently, it was custom-made in Bretagne, what made it special is the way it’d been churned. A second version, salted butter, was introduced the old-fashioned way: a slab equal to a deck of cards in thickness and just as wide, the melancholy of gambling evident.
To start, I literally broke the semolina bread and buttered the tiny leaf. It was toasted and crispy, the interior a fluffy cotton wonder, the butter a creamy milk wonder.
“Elena likes?” teased Christopher.
“Elena loves,” I answered with a patented wink. “The choice of bread alone is worth the visit.”
Wrapped up in a conversation with the sommelier, Sophia and Alexander huddled together as they went over the extensive wine list. Looking at my man, I drank in his beauty. Relaxed, he was gorgeous. I thought about leaning to my right so I could caress his arm, but I didn’t. It occurred to me that there was something dangerous about that.
“This place,” Christopher continued, “was specially created at the urging of the one and only Prince Rainier, who desired that Monaco had a three-Michelin-starred restaurant.”
“You guys are staying at the Royal Palace,” I observed.
“My beloved Sophia is responsible for that.” I was alarmed at how matter-of-factly he put it.
Classics dominated the menu. And, from the Pan-bagnat amuse-gueules—think a two-bite sandwich with salad, tomato, egg, olive, tuna, and fresh anchovy—to the superfluity of topping off our flutes, the service was truly outstanding. The huge waitstaff appeared to be executing a finely choreographed ballet.
What kicked off the six courses didn’t falter: waver-thin sky-pink ribbons of Jamón Ibérico sat atop halved ripe figs.
“So, how’s the holiday tour going, Elena?” asked Sophia.
“Great. Alexander knows the best places. Being here feels amazing.”
Christopher said, “Sweetheart, you can watch the Formula 1 race from the restaurant’s terrace—just like your suite’s patio. This one time, we were watching the race with a couple of local friends, and your man actually vomited in a champagne bucket.”
I laughed harder than I could remember ever laughing before in a sophisticated restaurant.
“Way to go, uncle Chris. Keep boosting my confidence.” Alexander rolled the stem of his glass between two fingers. “I was sixteen, Elena. A bad combination of beer and wine and cognac, that’s all.”
“We were all here.” Sophia spoke softly. “She always organized the luncheons.”
Alexander reached out to her and held her hand, which seemed to elicit some emotion from her. She leaned back in her chair and proceeded with stilted conversation. I smiled at that. Family is important, and even if I didn’t like Sophia, I was glad they had each other. Upon further reflection, I decided to play nice and concentrate on the food tonight.
People—like my grandfather—say there are three-starred Michelin restaurants, and then there’s French Haute Cuisine. I quickly understood why. The food was fairly dated, no hints of molecular gastronomy at all, the dishes based on exceptional produce and a cooking technique that’s unimpeachable. The fruits de mer course was both hot and cold, a total velvety brag. Squid, cockles, mussels, shrimp, langoustine, and clams, each component perfectly cooked and artistically mounted on a viscous pool of almond meunière. A flawless first course that trumpeted how technically proficient the cooks were, possibly as good as grandpa. Let’s not mention this to him, promise?
Followed a risotto, pearly grains of Arborio rice bathed in a rich tomato velouté—my thigh throbbed as I ate this. I dug in head on when the sea bass came, and the minestrone vegetables that accompanied it were the freshest I’d eaten in a while.
“Mademoiselle Anderson.” The captain, who smiled approvingly as waiters cleared my cleaned plate, came up to me, engaging in persiflage as only the French can do. “Vous êtes absolument magnifique.”
Facing the tango, I blinked twice to cut off the intimate gazing between us. “Elena, s’il vous plaît.” He smiled and mentioned he knew my grandfather, surprisingly sweet of him. Frank Anderson was a celebrated chef here. He was known to the world as the American culinarian who used liters of cooking oil, but contrary to our nefarious deep-frying-obsessed generation, he poached the cheapest cut of scrod in oil and yet not a drop of the fat made it to the plate. Trying to impress the captain, I struck up a conversation about French dishes, specifically Niçoise cuisine, basic home-cooked and unpretentious food.
“You say dat you, la petite fille prodigue de Frank, ave neveer eaten ze grate Niçoise triepe shtew?” he drawled in that sexy French way.
I looked at my tablemates, and Christopher was the only one who had an expression on his face for me, and it was a scowl to say the least. “Mon dieu, quelle honte,” he remarked, his undistinguishable accent making his arrogance sound melodious. “On va changer ça, ma chérie.”
With a slight hitching of the shoulder and a measured nod, “Tout de suite,” declared Alexander curtly, raising his wine glass as he and his uncle continued to talk smack.
“Careful with too many fingers in too many pies, mon ami, it might end up tasting like fluff. She has a nose for flavor,” Sophia said to our captain before he walked off.
“That’s outright misnomer. What you want to say is: too many fingers spoil the broth,” Alexander chuckled indulgently.
My attempt to play footsie with him failed. At least he was having the time of his life.
Sacrebleu, the banter resulted in the arrival of an extra dish: salted cod accompanied by a classic tomato-based tripe stew. The fish was soft and obscenely jiggly, making me wonder how the cook had transformed the meaty knot into a pliable texture so fast. It’d been staged, there’s no other explanation. Even in Monaco, the Turners had sway. The last main course was a poitrine de pigeonneau, heartily cuddled up against a cut of foie gras twice its size. Dangerously good, especially the potato coins and sauce with caramelized bits of offal. Although the cheese tray had a nice offering of perfectly ripe cheeses, I wasn’t big on soft cheeses in general, so I plainly tried the 60-month-aged Gruyère.
“No more,” I stated as the gold-plated china was being cleared.
Asked Alexander, “Was it up to scratch, little one? No tall tales.”
“Big, bold setting, stunning food presentations, sauces were concentrated, flavors were clean yet distilled. What’s not to like?”
“On to the fun part, Elena.” Sophia’s laugh fizzled throughout the room like carbonated water. “Sweets.”
Our table brushed free of crumbs, Pieter Stockmans, a Flemish freelance designer, was responsible for the Mediterranean waves that hit it. Dark blue waves were painted on the ceramics tailored by him for collaboration, a popular local practice. Maybe because it was summer or because Christopher had arranged it, the pre-dessert was gelato.
As my waiter spooned an endless sum of warmed-up fraises des bois on a yellow-white mound, Alexander stroked the back of my hand. “Happy?”
I got a little lost in his eyes. Dark, dangerous grey irises under thick eyelashes, the sharp lines of his jaw; features that took my breath away at an alarming rate. “Very happy.”
For the star of the evening, the waitstaff brought out a trolley with a selection of old rums for you to choose the one for your baba. My body hummed with expectancy. Utterly sensational, a sponge to soak up your poison of choice, introduced directly out of the dish it was previously cooked in, no scrimping on the portion of whipped cream. With each bite, my mind floated toward mindless euphoria born out of pleasure and satiation. Pur arabica coffee was served with an almost interminable series of pretty mignardises, a take straight out of Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette: macarons and teacakes and madeleines and marshmallows and toffees and chocolates. It was unseemly, you’d need a private room and a second stomach to properly enjoy this.
“Excuse me, I have to see a man about a horse.” I caught Alexander’s eyes for one last meaningful glance before I left the table. Felt sweet when a waiter escorted me to the powder room, waited, and brought me back. Before leaving the table, I asked the headwaiter to take a few photos of our party, and he kindly offered to take me to the kitchen for a photo with the chefs.
By the time I’d WhatsApped grandpa the pictures, the restaurant was empty, so we went to the balcony overlooking the Café de Paris and the square to enjoy a cordial and admire the cars. I was good at holding my liquor whenever I drank like a fish. If my buzz got too high, sparkling ice water was the perfect solution. From my seat, I was afforded a front-row view of big money gamblers including the gorgeous parade of their luxury cars that tourists draped themselves over to be photographed. It was a never-ending carousel of Maseratis, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis while the four of us enjoyed a second digestif and watched the world go by.
