dangerously pleasant. My first experience of it had been some
years before as a guest of the mayor of Bouzy, a village in the Champagne
region. There had been two different wines to accompany the food, and
politeness obliged me to sample them both. They were cool and invigorating,
slipping down easily despite the earliness of the hour, and I was in a happy
haze by 9:00 a.m. Lunch—and more wine, naturally—had been served
just in time to prevent a return to sobriety, and I ended the day in disgrace
after falling asleep at dinner. Since then, I’ve done my best to stick to
coffee in the morning.
The area in front of the bar was crowded with
men and women I took to be
confrères.
At this stage, they were
still wearing civilian clothes, except for a blond Labrador, very chic and
apparently quite comfortable in a well-cut waistcoat of royal blue satin, that
was standing guard below a dish of croissants in case one should fall from the
table. According to his owner, the Labrador was an old hand at these events.
The waistcoat was part of the regalia of another distinguished order, and this
was to be his third time as a
confrère.
I asked if he liked
frogs’ legs.
“Monsieur,” said his owner, “he is
a Labrador. He likes everything.”
By now, there were signs of
preparation among my future colleagues, who were starting to line up before
taking their turn in the cloakrooms. Men and women of conservative appearance
went in. Peacocks came out.
The frog contingent wore caps and cloaks of
a bright and froggy green, edged with yellow, but this was one of the more
sober outfits. I saw cloaks trimmed with silver and something that looked very
much like ermine, cloaks of silk, and cloaks of velvet. Official decorations
were worn, massive medals that clanked against one another as they bounced up
and down on the wearer’s sternum. And hats. My God, what
hats—troubadours’ floppy berets, tricornes, fedoras of medieval
design, which were pierced with great swooping feathers, straw bonnets, and one
creation of truly outstanding frivolity, more of a giggle than a hat. It
consisted of what looked like two small pillows made from pink plush that hung
from a purple headband so that they covered the ears and rested on the
shoulders of the wearer (a gentleman who was probably a highly respectable
judge or tax inspector in real life). The hat was worn with a purple cloak,
baggy Elizabethan-style bloomers, and tights. It will give you some idea of the
mood of the morning, as well as the variety of sartorial treasures on display,
when I tell you that this extraordinary apparition attracted no particular
attention.
With a final swig of Riesling and one last adjustment to the
tilt of a hat or the drape of a cloak, the assembled
confrères
moved outside to form up in lines of three abreast for the opening event of the
proceedings. This was a parade that would take us through Vittel for a
rendezvous with the mayor. He had invited us all to join him for a drink at the
mairie,
an alcoholic bridge between the wine at breakfast and the wine
at lunch.
But first, there was the length of the town to negotiate in
correct ceremonial order. The procession was led by a small but impressively
loud marching band, their brass instruments gleaming against the red and black
of their uniforms. They were followed by Les Majorettes de Vittel, encouraged
in their twirlings and baton tossing by a watchful coach—from the look of
her, an ex-twirler herself—who hovered alongside hissing technical
advice.
“Haut les genoux!”
Lift those knees!
And
then came the
confrères.
Foreigners had been given precedence,
and I found myself at the front of the procession, among a group of Portuguese,
Belgians, and Dutch. We congratulated each other on the sunshine, a contrast to
some parades of the past, when rain had caused headgear to wilt and
dispositions to droop. Today was perfect, bright and breezy, with the sound of
the band and the sight of the majorettes to
years before as a guest of the mayor of Bouzy, a village in the Champagne
region. There had been two different wines to accompany the food, and
politeness obliged me to sample them both. They were cool and invigorating,
slipping down easily despite the earliness of the hour, and I was in a happy
haze by 9:00 a.m. Lunch—and more wine, naturally—had been served
just in time to prevent a return to sobriety, and I ended the day in disgrace
after falling asleep at dinner. Since then, I’ve done my best to stick to
coffee in the morning.
The area in front of the bar was crowded with
men and women I took to be
confrères.
At this stage, they were
still wearing civilian clothes, except for a blond Labrador, very chic and
apparently quite comfortable in a well-cut waistcoat of royal blue satin, that
was standing guard below a dish of croissants in case one should fall from the
table. According to his owner, the Labrador was an old hand at these events.
The waistcoat was part of the regalia of another distinguished order, and this
was to be his third time as a
confrère.
I asked if he liked
frogs’ legs.
“Monsieur,” said his owner, “he is
a Labrador. He likes everything.”
By now, there were signs of
preparation among my future colleagues, who were starting to line up before
taking their turn in the cloakrooms. Men and women of conservative appearance
went in. Peacocks came out.
The frog contingent wore caps and cloaks of
a bright and froggy green, edged with yellow, but this was one of the more
sober outfits. I saw cloaks trimmed with silver and something that looked very
much like ermine, cloaks of silk, and cloaks of velvet. Official decorations
were worn, massive medals that clanked against one another as they bounced up
and down on the wearer’s sternum. And hats. My God, what
hats—troubadours’ floppy berets, tricornes, fedoras of medieval
design, which were pierced with great swooping feathers, straw bonnets, and one
creation of truly outstanding frivolity, more of a giggle than a hat. It
consisted of what looked like two small pillows made from pink plush that hung
from a purple headband so that they covered the ears and rested on the
shoulders of the wearer (a gentleman who was probably a highly respectable
judge or tax inspector in real life). The hat was worn with a purple cloak,
baggy Elizabethan-style bloomers, and tights. It will give you some idea of the
mood of the morning, as well as the variety of sartorial treasures on display,
when I tell you that this extraordinary apparition attracted no particular
attention.
With a final swig of Riesling and one last adjustment to the
tilt of a hat or the drape of a cloak, the assembled
confrères
moved outside to form up in lines of three abreast for the opening event of the
proceedings. This was a parade that would take us through Vittel for a
rendezvous with the mayor. He had invited us all to join him for a drink at the
mairie,
an alcoholic bridge between the wine at breakfast and the wine
at lunch.
But first, there was the length of the town to negotiate in
correct ceremonial order. The procession was led by a small but impressively
loud marching band, their brass instruments gleaming against the red and black
of their uniforms. They were followed by Les Majorettes de Vittel, encouraged
in their twirlings and baton tossing by a watchful coach—from the look of
her, an ex-twirler herself—who hovered alongside hissing technical
advice.
“Haut les genoux!”
Lift those knees!
And
then came the
confrères.
Foreigners had been given precedence,
and I found myself at the front of the procession, among a group of Portuguese,
Belgians, and Dutch. We congratulated each other on the sunshine, a contrast to
some parades of the past, when rain had caused headgear to wilt and
dispositions to droop. Today was perfect, bright and breezy, with the sound of
the band and the sight of the majorettes to
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