Writer Anne Paton-Cragg has adopted Portsmouth as her home town but has also lived in Sheffield, London, Paris, Helsinki and Singapore. Here she relates an awkward yet humorous experience she had while visiting Monaco.
‘That’s La Condamine,’ I said in a smug, knowing voice as we arrived in front of the Monaco food market building. ‘Let’s go inside and see if they’re still operating.’
My husband had forgone conference food and scientific conversation that evening in favour of a trip into the old city to get some authentic Monaco grub. The one restaurant in La Condamine, an adjunct to a fresh pasta shop, was clearly a place to be seen, despite its rickety tables and hosed-down concrete floor. In cashmere coats and designer trainers, Monégasques of all ages were slumming it for the pasta.
Ah, the pasta! Celestial synergy of linguine, sea-fresh clams and parsley; heavenly ravioli, anointed with butter and sprinkled with fried sage and yeasty-smelling parmesan. We shared both dishes and a bottle of wine so I am not sure which element of this delicious meal was responsible for my sudden sneezing fit. I’ve always had a loud and violent sneeze. Disapproving faces swung in our direction. It was only a year since the Covid lockdowns.
‘Can I borrow your… a a a choo.’ Nearby diners edged their chairs away as I pinched my nose with Patrick’s handkerchief. A telltale hot trickle was now descending from my left nostril, adding red stains to the greying hanky. Patrick hailed the waiter, ‘L’addition, s’il vous plait,’ and we left hurriedly, watched by a wide-eyed little girl going in and out of the automatic doors on her scooter.
My nose continued to bleed intermittently as we plodded up the hill to the hotel, where a group of Patrick’s colleagues hailed us. Did we want to go for a drink?
‘We’ll save ourselves for the gala dinner tomorrow,’ Patrick said. ‘I hope you’re all following the dress code.’ Close to our planned departure date from the UK, our hosts had suddenly proposed “black tie with a touch of blue”.
Ours clearly wasn’t the only household this directive had hurled into a flurry of online shopping, whose results were evident the following evening as we waited for the taxis to transport us to the National Museum of Oceanography, where the dinner was to be held. I noticed a lot of very high-heeled shoes, many of them blue.
Founded by Prince Albert 1 in 1903, and perched on a low cliff, the museum was resplendent with sparkling chandeliers and Greek-style columns, and we guests were invited to explore all its four floors. We were not people who habitually tottered up and down staircases in stilettos, blue or any other colour, and most of us stayed in the basement, where the aquarium was. The fish presented a useful stimulus for small talk as we sipped pre-dinner champagne , poured by what could accurately be termed liveried flunkeys. The tanks were small, and some of the larger fish had injured themselves banging into the glass sides. Perhaps in sympathy, or perhaps because of the champagne, my nose started bleeding again. When I emerged from the loo it was time for dinner, on the top floor. More than one guest took off her stilettos as she ascended the stairs, to the scorn of the flunkeys.
The hall where we were to eat was bedecked with flowers. Each elaborate place setting framed a small dish containing a trio of miniature eggs in a ring of spiky pastry, topped by a piece of gold leaf.
‘What’s this?’ I said. ‘A jackdaw’s nest?’ Patrick jabbed me in the ribs. I took a tentative mouthful. Either the gold or the nest started my nose itching, prompting the realisation that I had used up the tissues in my blue evening bag. Ashamed to be heading for the loo during a meal, I slunk the length of the hall, heels clattering on the marble floor, past the top table with our hosts and the other glitterati, across the vast landing and down 3 flights of stairs to the floor with the loo and the disdainful flunkeys, who watched me emerge, tucking toilet paper into my bag.
I returned to my table and ate the quail eggs. Our main course came and went. A waitress then placed before each of us a bowl covered by a disc of chocolate. She poured hot caramel on top of it, creating a large circular hole. As the contents were revealed, pieces of brown stuff with a yellowish sauce, the effect was to turn the chocolate disc into a replica of a toilet seat and the dish into a lavatory bowl. Laughter welled up in my throat, pressing behind my nose and eyeballs. Blood welled in my left nostril. I located the toilet paper and clamped it to my nose. Too late! A scarlet drop now decorated the cream silk top I had bought for the occasion.
Patrick eyed the offending blodge. ‘I thought it was supposed to be a touch of blue,’ he said.
Image ‘Panorama von Monaco-La Turbie.jpg’ reproduced here under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 licence.
