CLASSIC SERIES: A French Toast
I looked out from the chaise lounge of my hotel room balcony onto the Mediterranean. I deserved this view. Or at
least I could rationalize it.
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My husband and I had spent the week before biking
through Provence and cursing a travel brochure's ideas of gentle, rolling hills.In Provence, there are only two directions, up and down, and we'd mostly headed
up. Now we were recovering at a hilltop resort in the French Riviera town of
Theoule Sur Mer, even if it meant spending in 24 hours what we'd spent the
entire week before. OK, so we went overboard. First there was the poolside
parade of fruity drinks ($12 a pop), baguette sandwiches and cold Alsacian beer.
A brisk sea swim and a spell in a hot tub build quite a thirst. Then there was
the broad selection of curative treatments in the hotel's "energy center." A
brochure laid out the options: chromatherapy, blaneotherapy, aquatic massage. In
the end, my husband, Jay, opted for the plain old "California" massage and I
went for the $50 pedicure. Later, there'd be dinner at the hotel's restaurant,
L' e'toile Des Mers, where locals told us about chef Serge's magic.
First, though, there were cocktails. We regrouped in the lounge at twilight.
We hardly recognized ourselves. After a week coated in the waxy protection of
#30 sunblock, entombed in spandex bike shorts and victimized by helmet hair, we
miraculously made the transition back to the human race. We each wore that
single outfit we'd been toting the entire trip in anticipation of this night.
A his-and-hers assortment of fresh,
creased and starched clothing.
The first toast was over a round of kir. Somehow the combination of white wine and cassis just never tastes as good in America.
| We tipped glasses to a journey that spanned missed trains, mosquito-fests and those mountainside cycle climbs that put the "kill" in kilometer. |
We tipped glasses to a journey that spanned missed trains, mosquito-fests and those
mountainside cycle climbs that put the "kill" in kilometer. Behind us was the
restaurant, set out on a whitewashed veranda dotted with linen-lined tables
overlooking the sea. The sky was signature Provencal blue, the kind you only see
in sports logos.
Sunset was about an hour away-just when we'd be ready to settle
down to eat. A full moon was in the making. What a way to spend our last night
in France.
I walked over to the dining room to make a
reservation. "I'd like a table at 9, please." The expression on the maitre d's
face fell flat as a crepe. It must be my English. I repeated it again, slowly
and speckled it awkwardly with French accents. He looked at his reservation
book, scrutinizing the list. He apologized. There were no tables available. "How
about 9:30, 10?" There was pleading in my voice. In an effort at Franco-American
conciliation, he called over a colleague and they studied the book together. No,
he said. Tomorrow, perhaps? Tonight, maybe I'd like to try the cafe downstairs.
Any other the time, the patio restaurant on the beach level would have been a
fine substitute. But tonight, our last night, we wanted it all: the moon, the
sea, the pretentious waiters. He shook his head and I skulked back to the lounge
to break the news.
Rather than bemoan our fate, we ordered another
round. We filled up on the plates of salmon toasts and green olives that
accompanied our drinks. Maybe after another round, our second-choice restaurant
might not seem so disappointing. This time we'd give it our best viva la France
toast to the Bastille Day fireworks that caught us by surprise, the waterfall we
discovered at the end of a long, dusty hike and that magnificent feeling of
reaching the top of a hill, long after we thought we never could.
The waitress approached with our drinks and suddenly
a wonderful thing happened. She stumbled slightly and the tray of drinks
cascaded all over Jay. A kir shower. His shirt, pants, shoes-drenched. The couch
he sat on-soaked. A rouge tint of cassis-everywhere. No one less than the hotel
manager himself rushed over. Did Jay want a loaner pair of trousers to change
into while his slacks were cleaned? A plate of appetizers on the house, of
course1x Oh and yes, did we want a table on the veranda overlooking the sea for
dinner? Voile. And so in our last night in France, we did have it all. Just one
more thing was needed to complete the night: a final toast to the clumsy
cocktail waitress who delivered our glorious week's end on the Cote
D'Azure. By Iyna Caruso
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