I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [81]
I doubt anyone in the hotel was fooled. I can’t speak for Roland and Janice, but Carrie and I were innocents. We just wanted a chance to sleep in each other’s arms. When we married a year later we were both virgins.
Balanchine wreathed with NYCB dancers in Monaco. I’m standing far left, Carrie up the stairs third from left, and Roland Vasquez standing top center, 1955. The quintet of ballerinas sitting left to right are Jillana, Tanaquil LeClercq, Patricia Wilde, Diana Adams, saucy Melissa Hayden. (image credit 8.10)
Bordeaux was NYCB’s last engagement in France, and I needed to do something special for Carrie. Since dancers are consumed with a passion for eating, I inquired of our company pianist, the sophisticated Nicholas Kopeikine, “Kolya, what’s the best restaurant in Bordeaux?” “The restaurant in the Hotel Au Chapon Fin.” It hadn’t taken him a second to reply. “Ooooh, oooh, it’s divine,” he cooed, rolling his eyes, “it has Michelin stars.” Kolya had been there with Diaghilev, and insisted, “You must take her to Chapon Fin.” Aware of Kolya’s advice, Balanchine applauded the choice. “Order Mouton Rothschild! It is the best of the wines,” he advised.
On our day off, I took Carrie to the restaurant. An elegant maître d’ greeted us. “We’re dancers, we’re here with NYCB, we’re hungry and heard about your restaurant. What’s your specialty? What would you recommend?” Delighted, he announced, “For Americans with an appetite, I recommend notre Chateaubriand avec sauce béarnaise.” Now, he may have recommended the most expensive thing on the menu. But so what! Into the pond, now for the swim. “What should we have with it?” I asked. “Monsieur, let me surprise you with the legumes.”
Ensconced in plush red velvet armchairs, Carrie and I noticed every table in the restaurant was equipped with several miniature stools. “What are they?” she wondered. Padded and puffy, a down comforter crowning four stubby legs, they were gout stools, meant to rest the swollen feet of patrons whose indulgence in culinary excess had been thought to generate this painful affliction. Their presence proclaimed the clientele’s willingness to suffer for the privilege of savoring the restaurant’s rich cuisine.
When the sommelier came, I stuck my nose in the air, extended a finger as if preaching, and intoned, “A bottle of Mouton, s’il vous plaît. Your very best year!” That would impress Carrie.
As lovers have their song, Mouton Rothschild became our wine.13
Now, to the meal. The Chateaubriand—it is beef steak, enormous, the size of a loaf of bread, rubbed with a little oil and placed in an extremely hot oven, charred quickly, then removed from the excessive heat and finished off at a lower temperature, but just a little bit. This preparation creates an outside that is crusty, thick, and almost chewy—rare in the spine of its center, the surrounding flesh oozing the juicy essence of meat. The flavor—fantastic. Nearby proudly standing was the king of sauces, about to enter the stage. A silver tureen of sauce béarnaise—thick, cadmium yellow, and fragrant of tarragon and lemon—expectantly staring at us and the steak. Ah! The coupling, when it came, exquisite. Up until then, I had always enjoyed ketchup or mustard with my steak. What a revelation! The perfume generated by the marriage of these flavors explored the nasal passages, palate, and tongue, leaving ghosts dancing behind to titillate. Sauce béarnaise joined Mouton Rothschild as our sauce. With the Chateaubriand came the maître d’s surprises.
Tomates à la Provençale, basically a half-moon of a tomato freckled with garlic, parsley, olive oil, Dijon mustard, and a dusting of grated Parmesan cheese. Broiled and presented, they were quickly consumed. Heaven! However, it was something as ordinary as creamed spinach that dazzled. Take a mouthful, and you would