THE CASINO AT MONTE Carlo has a worldwide fame that stems from its patrons of an earlier era—from most of the crowned heads of Europe to Mata Hari and inveterate gamblers like Harpo Marx and King Farouk. “The Cheese,” as the Casino is called locally, is adjacent to the Hôtel de Paris, and inside the hotel is what many consider to be the finest restaurant in the Western world. It was here that I was bringing to lunch the girl who had saved my life in Colcroze.
The first impression of the interior of the Louis XV restaurant is that it is all gold. Ceiling, walls, curtains, carpets are all various shades of gold and the feeling of opulence is almost overwhelming. Only the four gleaming crystal chandeliers tone down the golden vista.
I would have thought a table reservation at such short notice to be out of the question but Monika had insisted that she undertake the task and to my surprise, she succeeded. When we were greeted effusively by Benoit Peeters, the maître d’hotel of the Louis XV, I assumed it was due to her racing feats in the Grand Prix.
A smiling young man placed a small footstool at Monika’s side for her to put her handbag—a thoughtful touch and made easier by the wide spacing between the tables. We asked what the house aperitif was and we both ordered it, a version of a Bellini but added to the champagne, rather than the usual peach juice, was a Provence liqueur with a dry peach flavor.
A bread cart arrived with more than two dozen unusual kinds of bread, all the product of the Louis XV’s own bakery. Some contained olives, some walnuts, some orange zest. There was Viennese bread, Swedish bread, Milanese bread, German pumpernickel, bread leavened and unleavened …
“I understand that one baker makes all of this bread fresh every day,” said Monika.
“Only one?”
“Yes, although there are over ninety cooks in total in the kitchen.”
She looked ravishing in a clinging beige silk jersey dress with chunky gold earrings. Her blond hair was lustrous, dancing freely every time she moved her head, and I still had a difficult—if enjoyable—time trying to decide just what shade of blue her eyes were.
“I have been wanting to ask you …,” said Monika. “What were you doing in Colcroze?”
We both nibbled on the irresistible breads.
“As I told you, I’m doing a story on vineyards in the south of France that are owned by English. I remembered that when I was here some years ago, I was taken to visit a couple of ghost villages, and I thought that if I could gather material on a few of them, it would make a good story too. Someone in the auberge mentioned Colcroze.”
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
“The Relais du Moulin near Saint Symphorien.”
“Why there? I mean, any particular reason?”
“I’m covering a vineyard nearby. It’s the first in the series.”
“How long are you going to be there?” she asked casually.
“Well, this assignment may take longer than I had planned if the local population is all as unfriendly as the bees.”
The maître d’ returned and after some discussion we elected to accept most of his recommendations, which is usually a good idea in a restaurant as renowned as the Louis XV. Chef Alain Ducasse’s celebrated cuisine straddles two nations, France and Italy, taking the best from each. He uses humble ingredients and his emphasis is on vegetables—a choice that fits admirably with the modern trend toward a healthier diet.
First, we had large green raviolis on a bed of wilted arugula and baby violet artichokes. After the plates had been placed in front of us, the waiter crushed lumps of soft goat’s milk cheese with olive oil in a small bowl, sprinkled it with black pepper, and scattered it over our plates.
“Was your photographic assignment yesterday here in Monaco?” I asked Monika.
She shook her head and the shiny blond hair shimmered.
“It wasn’t a photographic assignment,” she, said. “I was modeling for Benetton.”
“You model, too?”
She nodded. “This is superb, isn’t it? Just the right amount of pepper.”
“You’re a photographer, a race driver, and you model?” I was amazed. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I can’t cook,” she said with a tiny smile. “That’s why I’m enjoying this so much.”
We had been offered the choice of pigeon grilled over hot coals and served with foie gras or cochon de lait, suckling pig, roasted and served with gnocchi as the next course, but we both went for the “loup,” the Mediterranean sea bass baked in the oven and accompanied by wafer-thin potato chips. The wine waiter recommended three possible choices of a white wine with it and after a quick mental review, I tried to sound as if I were making a stab in the dark by ordering a Rhône white, a St.-Joseph from the Domaine Cheze.
Saddle of rabbit wrapped in bacon and roasted over fennel was the main course and another reminder that the chef makes the maximum use of local ingredients, even those that might once have been considered peasant fare. Once again, it was ideally prepared, and the fennel with that hint of aniseed lurking behind its flavor enhanced the succulent rabbit. With this, we drank a Bordeaux, a Pauillac from the Pinchon-Lalande château, also a suggestion by the wine waiter.
We topped the meal with a delicious mascarpone sorbet with wild strawberries, although the small tarts filled with orange cream and the rightly famous Ducasse-made chocolates that were served in complementary fashion afterward made a dessert a questionable indulgence.
“No more meals like that for a month,” said Monika firmly, “or my modeling career will come to a sudden stop. Let’s take a stroll around the port and tell ourselves we’re working off all that food.”
It was warm and pleasant, and gentle breezes off the Mediterranean were ruffling the gaily colored flags on the pleasure boats as we walked. A host of nations were represented and vessels from as far afield as South Africa, Panama, Turkey, Indonesia, and Hong Kong were lined up. Tall-masted sailing schooners were side by side sleek powerboats.
“Boat watching” is one of the most popular forms of free entertainment on the Riviera. Antibes and Saint Tropez are the best ports to indulge in it, but whereas in Saint Tropez it would be unusual during the season to find a yacht without its display of people, in Monaco it is unusual to find one engaged in such indecorum. Today seemed to be the day for the unusual… sounds of merriment came from ahead of us.
“Sounds like a party,” Monika murmured.
The vessel from which the noise was coming was a spectacular sight. I know nothing about boats but this one was well over a hundred feet long and pristine white with sparkling chrome rails that looked as if they were polished three times a day. Deck after deck climbed up to a streamlined funnel mounted in a superstructure that belonged in a James Bond movie.
People seemed to be all over the vessel and figures could be seen in the staterooms, though the aft deck near the dock was the busiest area. Waiters in dazzling uniforms moved swiftly through the knots of people, dispensing food and drink. Monika and I stopped and gazed at the sight of such magnificence and luxury.
A voice called down from the rail. “Monika! Hey there! Come on up—both of you!”