Amuse Bouche (7 page)

Anthony Bidulka

glasses of
Premier Cru.
The End. Yuck!

I screwed up my face with the thought that I'd been tossed into the middle of a pissy little lover's quarrel. Maybe Chavell enjoyed the feeling of spending money, buying me to chase his boyfriend, to increase the drama quotient of the experience. How was 1 to know? Without the chance to do any background work I had no idea what type of people my new client and his partner were. The sooner this was over with, the better, 1 decided. And, I realized with little gusto, if this scenario were true, Tom Osborn would not be thrilled to see me instead of his almost groom. Oh well, sometimes life sucks.

I refocused on the itinerary searching for a way to get ahead of my quarry. I'd feel much better if I were in front of Tom Osborn rather than behind. Based on the original plan, Chavell and Tom were to stay in Paris one night, after which they were to travel down the Loire Valley for a couple of days. On Friday, which was tomorrow, they had a reservation in a hotel called Domaine des Hauts de Loire, near the town of Onzine. I looked at my watch. Not yet four o'clock. Still early. I unfolded my map on the bed. It never failed to amaze me how close together everything is in Europe. Travelling by car, it is possible to have a baguette for breakfast in France, fondue for lunch in Switzerland and 71

Amuse Bouche

spaghetti for dinner in Italy. I found Onzine situated between the larger centres of Blois and Tours. Judging the distance and seeing I could take the autoroute almost the entire way, I decided to try for Onzine that afternoon. When Tom arrived tomorrow, I'd be waiting for him.

Madame-Behind-the-Window was nonplussed as I checked out only a few hours after checking in, but I just smiled and happily paid not to spend a night in that
tres
petite room.

There are over four hundred Relais & Chateaux properties situated in about forty countries. My next destination was one of this elite chain of mostly privately owned and operated hotels.

Each property is unique but promises the out-standing quality necessary to be included on the peerless list of Relais & Chateaux establish-ments. Guests are guaranteed a certain standard of accommodation and cuisine, oftentimes the finest the host country has to offer. They also pay dearly for this perfection.

I reached the north end of Onzine without incident and followed short, squat, wooden signposts planted at irregular intervals that directed me through town and into its southern
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outskirts wherein, somewhere, lay Domaine des Hauts. The white and gold Relais & Chateaux guidebook I'd obtained before leaving Paris described the property as a former hunting lodge. The main house was supposedly hidden amongst the rolling hills of a heavily wooded piece of farmland. I was beginning to think it was too hidden when I finally came upon a tall iron gate with a sign welcoming me to the estate. I made a sharp turn off the main road onto a narrow, winding drive. The foliage of amazingly tall and thick-trunked trees met somewhere above me to form a solid canopy that effectively shielded the roadway from light and precipitation. I imagined men on horseback who wore tights, and maidens in distress, and thought Robin Hood would have felt right at home in this dim and mysterious place. Even though it was getting dark and the weather was cool, I rolled down my window to breathe in the scent of damp plant life and moss. I could hear my tires squishing through a deep cushion of fallen leaves.

Lost in the aura of the forest, 1 was caught by surprise when I rounded a bend and suddenly found myself confronted by the grandeur of Domaine des Hauts. At first it looked to me like an impressively large house rather than a hotel, and of German architecture rather than French.

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Amuse Bouche

There were several smaller buildings gathered beside the main house, which sat before a large cement patio, with, not far off, a heavily populated duck pond. There were a dozen cars in a parking lot meant for three times that many. I found a spot and unloaded my bag from the trunk. The sky was darkening with night, or an impending storm, and I was exhausted from this day that had begun on one continent and did not seem to want to end on another. As stinging spits of rain dotted my hot head I knew I'd soon need an attitude adjustment.

I staggered into the tiny hotel foyer feeling chilled and more than a little damp. I had my good friend from Residence la Concorde, Madame-Behind-the-Window, call ahead to reserve a room, so at least I was assured a roof over my head. The reception desk was no larger than a podium. This did not bode well for the size of my accommodations. The young woman behind the desk was friendly, professional and quick. I was moving into a better mood until she informed me there were no elevators in the building and my room was on the third floor.

Still no bellboys. And I couldn't very well ask her to carry my bag, although she offered with amazing sincerity. I accepted the room key attached to a ridiculously oversized fob and manipulated my big Canadian suitcase up the
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Anthony Bidulka,

tiny French staircase.

My room made up for everything. Not only was it larger than a standard North American hotel room, but it also displayed a style that I believe is meant by the phrase "very well-appointed."' Two sets of floor to ceiling windows draped with billowy sheers looked out onto the front courtyard now bathed in the romantic glow of dusk. A large four-poster bed, swathed in similar material and piled high with thick coverlets, sat in the centre of the room amidst a heavy wardrobe, two armchairs and several small, ornate tables. Thankfully, I saw that the bathroom was utilitarian with both a bathtub and shower.

Longingly eyeing the tub, 1 realized I was starving and needed food sooner than a relaxing soak. I'd had little to eat all day. I glanced at my watch. Almost seven-thirty. I searched near the phone for a room service menu. Finding none, I dialled the front desk.

"Bonsoir," answered the voice in lilting French. I was certain it was the same woman who'd checked me in.

"This is Mr. Quant in Room 33." I realized I was imitating the singsong quality of the receptionist's voice and urged myself to stop it.

"Yes, Monsieur Quant? Is everything satis-factory?"

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"Oh yes. I was just wondering if the hotel had room service?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Room service. Sending food up to the room." I wasn't sure whether it was my French or the concept she didn't understand.

"If you can make it down to the salon before eight o'clock you can absolutely make the last seating in the dining room." I guess that meant no room service.

"I see."

"Will that give you enough time to prepare for dinner? Jacket and tie is appropriate. We'll be very happy to have you."

Hmmm. Was she telling me to get cleaned up, you bum, or else no grub for you? "Eight o'clock in the salon. Where is the salon?"

"Main floor, east door off the foyer. We'll see you at eight o'clock, Mr. Quant." She clicked off I was anxious for a leisurely bath but made do with a hurried shower. Wrapped in a complimentary bathrobe that was too thin to keep me warm but looked rather dashing, I opened my suitcase and surveyed the treasures therein. I generally maintain a modest wardrobe consisting of wrinkle-free cotton pants, T-shirts and wrinkle-free cotton shirts. My two extrava-gances are coats and footwear. Living in Saskatoon where it is cold, or cold and snowing 76

Anthony Bidulka

two-thirds of the year, it makes sense to have several coats of many styles, colours and weights. Coats are the piece of clothing you wear most often. They're what everyone sees.

The same goes for shoes. Everything else is simply there to keep you from walking around naked. I do however maintain a few articles of what my menswear-boutique-owning friend, Anthony Gatt, calls finer)'. I admit, finery sometimes comes in handy on the job, or when trying to impress someone or, like at that moment, if I was hoping to enjoy an expensive meal in an upscale restaurant without looking like a schmo. Out of the suitcase I pulled my "wonderpants." They are black, never wrinkle, and I've owned them forever yet they're always in style and, most importantly, I've been told that they make my ass look great. Simple white shirt, black silk tie, checkered, black-and-grey sports coat, shiny loafers, hair slicked back and I was ready to go.

I stood in front of the mirror. Not too shabby.

I'm six feet tall plus a bit, with green eyes, finger-combed sandy hair and a toothy smile.

Based on how often I have to go to the gym, my body is certainly not a gift of nature, but rather something I have to sweat over to keep it looking okay. It's nicely shaped, I guess, but one weekend eating Doritos and ice cream in front of 77

Amuse Bouche

the TV and my mid-section starts pooching out.

It never did that when I was in my twenties.

It was a few minutes after eight when I finally made my way down the stairs and back into the foyer. It was unrecognizable. In less than an hour it had become
the
place to be. The space now seemed twice the size with two sets of French doors thrown open, one to the east end salon and the other to the west end restaurant.

The lighting was dim and mystical music floated on air heavy with the smell of bougainvillea, fresh rain and simmering sauces. Another woman and three young men, all in matching black-and-white uniforms, now joined the young woman who'd checked me in. They greeted and directed and made nice with exquisitely outfitted guests drifting in from the courtyard and parking lot. I guessed that many of the patrons were not hotel guests at all but locals making a special trip to visit the restaurant.

Always a good sign.

The salon was a long and narrow room with a dozen, knee-high tables of varying shapes and from various historical periods. I found a two-seater near the unlit fireplace and tried to get comfortable in the unforgiving, wooden chair.

Immediately a gigantic man approached my
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Anthony Bidulka

table. Bouncer?

"Mr. Quant, welcome. My name is Jacques,"

he said in a delicate voice that belied his size.

"Perhaps a cocktail to begin the evening?"

I smiled at him, impressed he knew my name. "Do you have a wine list?"

He handed me a leather-bound folder and said, "Perhaps monsieur would care to begin with champagne?" I studied his tone for any sign of haughtiness but heard none. Even though I'd only had champagne as a celebratory drink, usually late at night, I accepted his professional recommendation and off he went. I opened what I assumed was the wine list.

Wrong. Food menu. I flipped through the thick pages but saw no mention of liquid refreshments. Well, at least I could decide on my dinner. A quick perusal of my choices told me I was in for a culinary treat. I glanced at the price of the first entree listed and did the conversion math. Did it again. Decided to ignore the prices.

Jacques returned promptly with a flute of champagne and asked if I needed help with the menu.

Oh yeah. We began on page one under a heading that read
Amuse Bouche.
I was sure my translation couldn't be accurate because I thought it meant "Party in Your Mouth." (I'd have to remember to serve that back home!) Eventually I figured out
that Amuse Bouche
is a much less 79

Amuse Bouche

salacious term referring to appetizers.

Once Jacques left to order what I was sure would be the most extraordinary meal I'd had in years, I happily sipped away at my champagne until the sommelier paid me a visit. He was a tall, rangy man with an oversized, hooked nose and way too much energy for the room. He gesticulated wildly and described each wine in a hushed tone that was louder than my normal speaking voice, and in terms a man usually reserves for a lover. I quickly accepted his suggestions and was rather relieved when he gallumphed away in his size twelve shoes. I looked around the room but no one seemed to notice or mind his performance.

About then, a waiter, not Jacques, came into the salon and escorted a couple that were seated nearby across the foyer into the restaurant. I began to understand how the system worked.

Apparently the tradition is to begin one's evening in the salon with champagne and witty repartee. It is there that you order your meal and wine. But not until the precise moment that they are ready for you in the restaurant, are you invited in to be seated just as your first course, the
Amuse Bouche,
is being delivered.

Forty minutes later, sated with champagne but a little short on repartee, it was my turn.

The meal was out of this world fantastic.

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Little mounds of tomato
mousse,
a fish
veloute,
cold mackerel topped with raspberry puree,
coq
au vin,
unbelievably huge pimentos stuffed with lobster, and a lime souffle that looked as if it might float off the plate. The wines, a half-litre red and a half-litre white, were incomparable.

(From the sommelier, I'd learned it was not only acceptable but recommended to switch wine selection and colour during a meal.) I could only manage a small hunk of goat cheese when the cheese trolley came by. My wonderpants were beginning to wonder whether they'd be able to contain me much longer.

After a quick walk on the patio I returned to my room and gave in to sleep. It had been a full first day.

I woke at 2:00 a.m. and read.

Sun streaming through those damn large windows jolted me awake at the crack of dawn. The room was so bright I considered reaching for my sunglasses. I sat up and swore at the no longer beloved gauzy curtains. Would I have to start wearing sunblock to bed? It wasn't until I shifted my feet to the floor that I noticed the wooden shutters on either side of the window. Oh well.

Early bird gets the worm. And my worm was arriving today. I cleaned up and headed down-Amuse Bouche stairs. Since I had to pass by her desk anyway I decided to check with the receptionist before heading into the salon for breakfast.