French Lessons (16 page)

The first stop is a bar, ideally placed to appeal to those who
have forgotten to have an after-lunch
digestif.
Dress seems to be even
more optional than in the restaurant, and swimsuits more vestigial, although
this may be because the bodies are fully visible and no longer partly obscured
by restaurant tables. In any case, shoppers can park their companions here,
secure in the knowledge that for at least half an hour they will be pleasantly
diverted.

A few meters farther on is an outdoor seating area, with long
couches facing the sea. On the day we were there, it had been almost completely
taken over by men with not a second to waste away from the pursuit of money and
the conduct of their businesses. Oblivious to the glories of nature spread out
before them (some of whom were wearing very little more than a coating of oil),
the men were bellowing instructions to some distant office, to their yacht
captains, to their brokers, to their real estate agents. There is something
about cell phones—I have yet to find out what it is—that compels
callers to raise their voices, so that anyone nearby is obliged to hear details
of their private conversations. This has become an almost inescapable nuisance,
and I look forward to the day when cell phone addicts, like smokers, are herded
together and sent into exile. Preferably in a soundproof room.

In
contrast to the babble on the beach, the loudest sounds in the boutique were
the swish of plastic and the whisper of banknotes changing hands. Figures in
varying stages of undress flitted in and out of the changing cabin. Sales were
brisk. Men were scarce. They would be picked up later, festooned with shopping
bags, and led away to whatever joys awaited them that evening.

But
first, there would be the car to fetch, and it was not always the uncomplicated
business one might expect. As we walked back along the beach, with the sun
starting to descend for its evening dip into the sea, Bruno told me about the
man—one of those slightly seedy captains of industry—who had been
waiting while the valet parker was fetching his Bentley. A young couple then
arrived in the parking area. Seeing nobody else, the young man went up to the
captain of industry and pressed a fifty-franc note into his hand.
“Mine’s the banana yellow Ferrari over there,” he said.
“Mind you don’t scratch it.”

One can only imagine the
poor man’s feelings. Revered by his secretary, respected by financial
analysts, treated with deference by all around him, he had clambered to the
giddy heights of corporate success, only to be mistaken for a parking lot
cowboy. The horror of it! In fact, as Bruno pointed out, the valet parkers are
much better dressed than he was, but that kind of detail is easy to miss after
a long lunch.

As my wife and I were getting close to home the next
morning, we noticed that everyone in the village was fully dressed. When we got
to the house, I had to park the car without professional assistance. We were
greeted by dogs who have never sat on laps in restaurants and a guest who told
us that the plumbing had started to make mysterious noises. Our short break
from real life was over.

A
Connoisseur’s Marathon

The course conforms precisely
to the official distance: 26 miles, 385 yards—or 42.195 kilometers. And
there, any resemblance to a conventional marathon ends.

Runners are
encouraged to wear fancy dress, the fancier the better. To refresh them during
their exertions, wine of very superior quality is available at twenty different
points de dégustation
along the course. It’s unlikely
that those who stop for a quick one will shatter any world records, but in this
convivial race, speed is far less important than enjoyment. A good time—a
memorable time—will be had by all, because the competitors are taking
part in France’s most civilized contribution to the sport of
long-distance running, one that takes place in some of the most civilized
countryside on earth. This is the Marathon du Médoc, run through the
great vineyards of Bordeaux.

I have never associated running with fun,
and certainly never with alcohol. The earnest joggers that one sees shuffling
through their paces on city streets or along country lanes show all the signs
of joy you would expect to find in torture victims—eyes glassy, mouths
gaping, faces clenched, sweat and suffering oozing from every pore. Their minds
are undoubtedly more concerned with chipped metatarsals and the horrors of
chafed nipples than with the pleasures of a glass of wine. To me, running has
always looked like a joyless and painful business, a hobby for masochists.

When I heard about the Marathon du Médoc, the thought of meeting a
different kind of runner—one with a fondness for dressing up and a taste
for the grape—was much too interesting to miss. Here was an opportunity
to fill one of the many gaps in my sporting education. There were also, I
admit, a couple of ulterior motives: I’d never seen the châteaux of
Bordeaux, some of the most elegant country houses ever built. And then there
were the liquid inducements: Lynch-Bages, Lafite Rothschild, Phelan Segur,
Latour, Pontet-Canet, Beychevelle, Cos d’Estournel—if there were to
be a wine list in heaven, selected by the Great Sommelier in the sky, these
names would belong in it.

While practicing with my corkscrew one
evening, I thought about other trips I’d taken to attend events in
unfamiliar parts of France, and how often they had been exercises in blind
optimism. There is a date and there are a few sketchy program details provided
by a volunteer organizer—the mayor’s wife, the captain of the fire
brigade, the local butcher—but that’s all. You have no idea, until
you get there, whether you’re going to find a festive crowd filling the
streets or three men and a morose dog sitting by themselves in the village
square.

This was in a different league altogether. Faxes flew;
information arrived. Nothing was too much trouble for the marvelous Madame
Holley, who works for the regional tourist board. And then one morning, a fax
arrived that made my wife suddenly realize there might be more to running than
she had thought. If I had no other plans, said the invitation from Madame
Holley, perhaps I’d like to stay at the Château
Pichon-Longueville.

I could see a gleam in the wifely eye at the idea
of a château weekend. “I don’t think I’ve ever told
you,” she said, “but I’ve always wanted to watch a
marathon.”

We arrived in the late afternoon,
with the September sun tilting across the vines and bathing the château
in a flattering wash of pale gold; not that Pichon-Longueville needs any
flattery. It was built in 1851, a period in architecture when turrets were all
the rage, and Pichon (it’s nice to be on first-name terms with a
château) could be the model for a fairy-tale castle, suitable for
princesses or damsels in distress. The turrets, sheathed in slate, as black and
pointed as witches’ hats, rise at each corner of a steeply pitched roof.
The windows are large and perfectly proportioned, and there is a short,
graceful flight of stairs leading up to the main entrance. From there, you can
pretend for a few minutes to be part of the wine-growing nobility, and, from
the eminence of your château, look out at your view.

The garden
shows you at a glance how the château people of Bordeaux deal with
nature: They discipline it. They straighten it, they form it, they clip it, and
they smooth it. Trees are lined up in avenues as if on parade, or planted in
strictly symmetrical groups. Lawns are shaved, gravel is raked, and
water—in this case, a small lake within a rectangular border of
stone—is contained. Beyond the lake, on the other side of the road, the
horizon is green. Vines, as far as you can see, are trimmed to exactly the same
height.

The only traces of disorder to be seen that afternoon were
human. Trestle tables were being unloaded from caterers’ trucks and set
up in front of the lake, with crates of glasses and bottles being unpacked,
polished, and laid out. Six hundred runners were coming to dinner at the
château, and aperitifs would be served in the garden. There was no doubt
about it; this was already turning into my kind of marathon.

Leaving
the impeccable gardens, we found ourselves waist-deep in equally impeccable
vines. Pichon has about seventy acres of them, with a rosebush at the end of
each row acting as a decorative health warning system. Bugs and ailments attack
roses before they attack vines, so the
vigneron
has a chance to see
the problem and treat it before any serious damage is done to the grapes. And
there they were, little jewels, dense purple clusters of Cabernet Sauvignon,
hanging from vines that had been struggling in the dry, sandy soil for thirty
or more years. “Vines must suffer” is a phrase you hear frequently
in Bordeaux. And I think there must be a local law against weeds. We looked for
one as we walked through the rows of vines. We might as well have been looking
for the proverbial needle.

The amount of work, much of it manual,
involved in maintaining a great vineyard defies description. The initial
investment is colossal. The risks of weather are beyond man’s control:
too much rain, no rain at all, hailstorms, freak winds, late frosts, early
frosts. Everything can be done perfectly for eleven months of the year and
destroyed overnight. I can never open a bottle of wine without thinking of the
effort and skill and patience that have gone into it, and what a bargain it
is.

Thirsty thoughts.

They were interrupted by the sound of a
jazz band coming from the direction of the château. We walked back to the
strains of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and as we got closer
to the gardens, we could hear the buzz of a crowd. The runners had arrived, and
the aperitifs were flowing.

It made an incongruous sight: the
château and its gardens, splendid in their dignified formality, and the
decidedly informal crowd, many of whom were dressed as if the race were just
about to start. Double-decker running shoes, short shorts revealing some very
serviceable-looking thigh and calf muscles, sleeveless vests, T-shirts,
backpacks, baseball caps—this was evening dress for some of our dinner
companions, who all appeared to be in the best of spirits. And why not? It was
a glorious evening, more fine weather was forecast for tomorrow’s
race—it never rains for the marathon, or so we were told—and rumor
had it that the dinner would be a runners’ special, with
hydrates de
carbone
galore.

But first, we had a drink in the château
with Sylvie Cazes-Régimbeau, who takes care of public relations for
Pichon. Charming, and apparently unflustered despite her six hundred dinner
guests, she gave us champagne and some impressive statistics.

From
nineteen thousand applicants for this year’s race, eight thousand had
secured places. Of these, there were six thousand
déguisés
in fancy dress, while the rest were serious
runners, including the current champion of France. The youngest runner this
year was twenty; the oldest, seventy-five. More than fifty thousand spectators
were expected.

The marathon had been founded sixteen years earlier, and
three of the five founders were doctors. Thanks to their influence, the medical
support would have done credit to a hospital emergency ward: three hundred
volunteers—heart specialists, interns, nurses, and foot doctors; fifteen
massage tents; cardiovascular tests; everything from an ingrown toenail to an
erratic pulse or a heart murmur had been anticipated and prepared for.

And the stomach would also be well served. Apart from the twenty-two stands
along the course offering high-energy snacks (and 35,000 liters of Vittel
mineral water), the famished runner could choose from 15,000 oysters, 400 kilos
(almost 900 pounds) of entrecôte, and 160 kilos (350 pounds) of cheese.
With appropriate wines, naturally. It almost made me want to take up
running.

From the gardens below, we could hear the sound of mass
movement, the rumble of a migrating herd. The runners were going to dinner. I
looked through the window and saw them making for the starting line, which was
the entrance to a vast tent that had been put up behind the château.

“
Bon,”
said Sylvie. “Let’s go and
eat.”

We walked into a wall of sound, as though the party had
been going on for hours, although the runners hadn’t even sat down. The
animateur
on the stage was having a hard time getting his audience to
keep quiet while he introduced some of the competitors from all over France and
from all around the world: Argentinians, Brazilians, Poles, Mexicans, Japanese,
Americans, British, Canadians, Danes, a couple from New Caledonia, a single
intrepid Israeli. Each introduction nearly brought the tent down with roars of
applause.

“Please! Please!
Un peu du calme!
” said
the
animateur,
holding up his hand in an attempt to reduce the racket.
“I must ask you all to refrain from standing on the tables, at least
until dinner is over.” And I’d always thought of runners as quiet
and well behaved.