J.O.

Yep, that's what it is called in French; imagine! Oh, oh, no, we mean the historic games that happen each two years, winter or summer, Jeux Olympiques in French. We mention this only because the past weekend felt like an Olympic training or, perhaps, a torch run in Paris. Oh, n’inquiétez pas dear Reader, we’ll leave THAT discussion to the political bloggers, here we have serious discussions – wine, food, and more wine.

So, this is the scenario: leave New York on Thursday night, fly business class (bless those miles) to Paris, drink the very good Champagne they serve onboard, oh, and a glass or two of a Chablis Premier Cru but then we did sleep, and well. Arrival was Friday about noon; home to the Onzième with time to unpack before a quick nap. Wake up at 3:30pm for a shower and the dash to Marie de la Neuvième for (drum roll please) THE WEDDING OF PRINCESS P AND L’AVOCAT.

In a lovely room with gilded moldings and a painted ceiling, the Mayor of the Ninth Arrondissement of Paris officiated over a brief but agreeable ceremony joining them in matrimony, not holy, just matrimony. Note: France in a valiant effort to separate democratic government from the royalty and that group’s hardwired connection to the Church eliminated the power of the clergy to perform weddings. As a result, all ‘big-white-church-weddings’ must be preceded by a civil ceremony at a mayor’s office. On this day, there was to be no ‘big-white-church-wedding’ and after the ceremony, the family headed back to the newly weds’ apartment for what the French call a cocktail dînatoire.

Simply a cocktail party with enough food to make a dinner of it (don’t we all remember loving events like that when we were too young to afford restaurants but desperately wanted to ‘eat out’ with friends), a cocktail dînatoire is also an excellent way to bring a large group of friends and family together in a celebratory fashion without working oneself to death or outspending the aforementioned royalty.

Admittedly, the French and the cocktail are almost an oxymoron (a ‘martini’ here is sweet vermouth on the rocks) and until recently cocktail bars were called bar americains. French cocktail parties for much of our time in Paris were to be suffered, rather than anticipated, with their rows and rows of tasteless canapés and mountains of sauce-free crudités. The quick and clever among you dear Readers (even if a bit provincial) will ask why, with all the beautiful cheese in France, are there not lovely trays of it on the cocktail tables, and I must reply that cheese is ONLY served at the end of the meal; it serves a purpose, “to close the stomach,” as the French say. Probably, today we could say that the acids in cheese aid in digestion while creating a feeling of fullness. At your next encounter, ask the Girlfriend about the French Cheese Cure.

Similarly, Intimes among you, loyal Audience, will recall for years we have said one should not expect to eat anything memorable in France except French food – there are corn kernels and over-easy eggs on pizza in Italian restaurants!! – but if there is a positive side to globalization, one can taste it today in Paris, even at a cocktail dînatoire. This evening of celebration we were served typical French canapés – hot and cold – but far from tasteless, crudités with three sauces, sushi, tapas, and brochettes of chicken and of shrimp. Typically French, the end of the food service was signaled with a large cheese platter and the end of the evening, with orange juice (every proper bourgeois French household has a ‘good’ orange juice service – a large pitcher and 6 tall glasses – for use at the end of an evening; the host or hostess brings this service out on a platter, offers everyone a glass of juice and the guests know it is time to collect their coats and leave!).

And this evening, not only were the canapés not tasteless, apropos of our previous comment about ethnic food in Paris, the tapas were probably the most interesting offering. Many were served in individual tiny plastic cups or spoons, all were bite-sized and wonderfully spiced. We could have leaned on a bar, drunk inexpensive red Spanish wine and eaten these all evening, but this was not to be! It was a cocktail party after all, and it is our duty, as an American, to get out there and chat up the room. So, glass in hand, we attempted to perform our patriotic duty.

Ah, you ask, what was in that glass? There was a lot of champagne, and in magnums. You, dear Audience will remember how much we love magnums. And certainly there was red wine – a 2005 Hautes-Côtes de Nuits. Of course, you need to know that we were 80 – 90 guests, and we all remember that 2005 was a phenomenal year for red Burgundies, but many of us think that this year might be better left in a dark cellar for the time being. Nevertheless, we were not awash in ignorance; heavens, we were at a reception in France.

As the night wore on, we noted several ‘distinguished’ gentlemen with empty glasses circling a corner of the buffet table. We inserted ourselves into their flight pattern and inquired of their plan. Apparently, there were several potentially worthwhile bottles sitting on the side ‘waiting’ for the right moment. We, being of deep and significant bonds to Princess P, took it upon ourselves to entertain her guests and tire-bouchon (corkscrew) in hand, we inquired which to open. Obviously some discussion had already taken place as the answer was immediate – the 1991 Pauillac. One of the gentlemen, Mr. Bordelais, pointed out that although it is often a good policy in Bordeaux to buy good wines in off years to have fair prices, this bottle might be past its prime.

We pulled the cork, took a sniff of the bottle and knew his prediction was correct. The bottle was completely oxidized and spoiled, madeirized, even if that adjective is used most correctly with white wines and most probably, as the name implies, to describe ‘cooking’ from improper storage. The wine had not turned to vinegar and could be drunk, just not by us. This prompted a young son-in-law, eager to please, to fetch a magnum from Spain that he had brought along to share. The evening was late and long, our excuse for remembering only that the wine was a 2003 Rioja. When poured, it offered the typically sharp nose and taste of Rioja, but with lingering notes in the mouth that made one take notice of it promise. It took some time to open in the glass, but upon doing so the fullness of the wine was more apparent. Sadly, as we, dear Audience, know, magnums take twice as long to mature as traditional bottles, and this one probably could have benefitted from a few more years in the dark but it was an interesting counterpoint to a night of French wines.

With only a bit more frivolity (and a little single-malt nightcap), the Prince Consort demanded to be taken back to the Onzième so we said our goodbyes, but not before inviting the eager son-in-law, his step-father-in-law and Mr. Bordelais to come and degust with us the next day, Saturday, over lunch.

Close of the first leg of the run!