Thomas Cottrell is Bellevue Club’s wine consultant and the owner of La Cantina Wine Merchants.
If you travel regularly to France to visit the cellars and chateaux in search of wine, you expect for things occasionally to go wrong. Sometimes a lot of things go wrong, one after another. Trust me. I have some experience in this area. There was, for instance, the time our plane developed mechanical trouble over Idaho and returned to Seattle. That’s how I ended up traveling on Egypt Air from New York to Paris
in order to make an appointment on time. Egypt Air uses Israel’s El Al ticketing office at Kennedy. Did I mention that security was a bit tight on this flight? Perhaps that’s why my luggage didn’t make it to Bordeaux with me. But that’s another story; well, several stories. How about another example? We didn’t know things were falling apart for two days. It started at the Jules Verne, arguably the world’s best restaurant-on-top-of-a-building. It’s not on top of the Eiffel Tower, but it’s pretty high up; and that usually means a disaster for fine dining. The Jules Verne is an exception, a really good restaurant with a top-notch wine list that just happens to have a glorious view of Paris everywhere you look. We should have known something was wrong when the steward for the private elevator that takes you up to the great food and the spectacular view looked at us oddly. We said we had reservations, but he wasn’t sure. Yet, after the perfunctory Gallic shrug, up the ornate elevator we went.
The hostess was equally surprised at our appearance, but found our reservations and elegantly delivered us to our table—white linens, black leather seats and the Seine at our feet. By this time we’d noticed that in this part of Paris the folks lunched early. At 1 p.m. only a few tables had any diners, and those who remained seemed to be studying desserts and cigars, not steaks or joints. But experience told us that French politesse would make us feel welcome, even if we closed the place. Yet, our waiter seemed a bit exasperated when I ordered a half-bottle of Champagne and a pair of appetizers. But I noticed a warmer attitude later when I ordered a red
Burgundy to go with the main course. He was our new best friend by the time the cheese course came around. We couldn’t linger to fraternize, though. We had an appointment to see a friend receive the Legion of Honor, one of France’s greatest honors. No time to waste, so we jumped into a cab...to arrive just as the guests were drifting away. Now, we were 10 minutes or so late. Doesn’t it take longer than that to pin a medal on a notable of France? Apparently not, and we should have known better anyway. The looks from the other guests told us that. And we were late to the little shop with the old posters and maps of Paris, souvenirs we were going to take back for friends, relatives and ourselves. The nice, little old lady who ran the shop let us in anyway, even though it was closed; the French can be like that. By this time we were feeling dazed and confused by the day’s lateness. As we walked back to our apartment we passed the Montparnasse train station and noted that the clock tower was an hour fast. Slowly shaking my head I remarked that it was a charming country, but not a particularly efficient one.
Back at our rooms we opened our last bottle of wine—one less to carry on the flight back home in the morning. Out came the last of the cheese in the fridge. That’s when it hit me. It was a Monday night in spring. Six days before daylight saving time was to begin in the United States. Two days after daylight saving time had begun in Europe. For the last 48 hours we had been 60 minutes late for everything we did. Yet apart from the quizzical looks, the Parisians took our tardiness in stride and made sure we were cared for, elegantly, every step of the way. They were so polite that we came very close to being late for our plane back home. In fact, the airline failed to account for the difference between North American
and European time systems, so we missed our connection in Chicago
altogether. Should anyone ever ask you, the food and wine at O’Hare Field is somewhat less impressive than what you’ll find at the Jules Verne. Just in case you were wondering.
