Saint-Émilion, France
Coman's new role as a jet-set travel guru has resulted in an unexpected treat to prepare him for his new life; a cheeky weekend in Bordeaux gaining first-hand experience of the luxury market, and a chance for us to eat and drink ourselves three dress-sizes larger in as many days. Hurrah!
So on an overcast Thursday afternoon we find ourselves being chauffeured across the Dordogne, en route to a chateau in the famous wine-making town of Saint-Émilion, belts already being loosened for the calorie-fest to come.
Sadly any notion of wandering amongst sun-drenched vines has been firmly set to one side as the forecast is for rain of a Biblical nature but as we pull into the driveway of the Chateau Grand Barrail Lamarzelle Figeac we don't care about the weather; we're gonna be lounging around like
corpulent princes within minutes.
However, our fanciful notion of Versailles-style splendour is somewhat let-down at the check-in desk by the sight of another guest's French Groupon voucher being hastily tidied away, but as we sit in the grand entrance hall sipping on a glass of 2011 Dourthe no.1 de Bordeaux (sorry, but there's going to be a lot of this to come) we cast all thoughts of discounts aside and attempt to fit into our elegant surroundings.
Commissioned in 1902 by Rene Bouchart, proudly bearing his title of Chevalier de la Legion d'Honneur, and built on the ruins of an 18th century chateau, the Grand Barrail has delusions of sumptuous grandeur which, if you scratch at the edges, don't quite live up to the billing. Nowhere is this more noticeable than when we turn the taps on in our beautiful room and what comes gushing out is a stream of brown liquid mud, with the same subsequently pouring into the bath and flushing into the toilet as well.
"Oh la la!!" exclaims the house-keeping manager in true French-style, when she runs over to our room to see for herself. With a hastily concocted story of engineering works in the village having disrupted the water supply we're told to run all our taps for 20 minutes to clear the dirt from the system, but unsurprisingly we'll be cleaning our teeth with the last drops of water from the Buxton water we'd bought at Gatwick when we get back to our room later.
Meantime there's a spa to be enjoyed which features the usual sauna and steam rooms alongside a jacuzzi overlooking a rose garden and vineyard. It's all deeply relaxing, with only the black, portentous clouds massing outside the windows giving any cause for concern.
As the darkness gathers we dress for dinner and make our way down to the dining room. Split into three salons, the stained glass windows and early 20th Century rococco stylings on display were influenced M. Bouchart's Arabic trips in the late 19th Century, and its camp flourishes make the place seem far more Oscar Wilde than Downton Abbey.
We're the first seated and are presented with a glass of champagne as an aperatif and a selection of duck, prawn and cheese-pastry amuse bouches. It's all deeply delightful but excessively formal, and as our fellow diners take their seats we have to battle fits of the giggles in this very solemn dining room.
To our left are two American couples, where the husbands are firmly in charge and startlingly dismissive of their wives, brandishing their big-****** egos at each other as they score points on their over-confident views of the menu and wine, unhappy when their translations are subtly corrected by the staff.
Another table features a desperately quiet English couple of late middle-age who occasionally converse in hushed whispers while the final table in our salon hosts a French couple who look like a gallic Bill Nighy and Mollie Sugden, and who pop out at regular intervals to suck on cigarettes, probably with a louche air as they do so.
Through an archway lies the second salon, where a busload of Japanese tourists are devouring their food in speedy style and in the final conservatoire are a smattering of French couples sporting formal dining wear and in one lady's case, the most ferociously dyed hair piled high in a beehive and accentuated by thick black eye make-up.
We play 'Spot the Groupon' users and settle on Bill and Mollie. His fake leather waistcoat is the clincher!
The bread basket makes repeated visits to our table until with great ceremony our waiter produces our starters. Coman had ordered duck in puff pastry with a Rouen-style sauce while I'd gone for fruits der mer with seaweed and a vinegar foam, but the plate of escargots placed in front of Coman produces such an arched eyebrow that the waiter, without any translation needed, picks it straight back up, turns on his heel and scurries back to the kitchen.
When we finally receive our correct starters they are magnificent, as is my further dish of scallops a la Saint Jacques with a mushroom risotto and chestnut cappucino, but sadly the main courses are underwhelming, despite looking wonderful. My chateaubriand with beef carpaccio, velvet mousse, steak tartare and quails egg is rather tough and Coman's pike-perch with bacon, green lentils, mushrooms and tarragon lacks the wow factor.
What does stop us in our tracks though is the conversation from the Americans in the centre of the room. With the election looming it's perhaps inevitable that talk turns to Obama vs Romney but some of the opinions spouted are rather eye-watering, especially when it comes to their views on taxation.
One of the poor wives has the temerity to suggest that Obama may not be the Antichrist that Republicans fear, only to have her husband round on her and stridently insist that Obama is planning to tax the middle-classes 80% of their income to fund his socialist welfare programmes, finishing with a pointed suggestion she doesn't contribute further to the discussion by telling her, "it's not your holiday!"
The second wife considers this taxation bombshell (or, quite frankly, piece of outrageous propaganda) and pipes up, "Well, gee, it's no wonder I don't wanna work!" Priceless.
A cheese-trolley is produced, thankfully preventing further discussion, which is then wheeled in our direction, along with a brand new bottle of wine, Chateau des Moines, 2005, which is like a potent cherry punch to the back of the mouth.
We tuck into both the cheese and wine with gusto, rounding off the meal with some spectacular desserts; an apple soufflé with calvados and a matcha tea mousse with tangerine sauce and vanilla ice cream. It's all over by 11pm and with the bar closing too we head to our room where French Masterchef is playing on the TV screen. We may be full but a little more gourmet greed rounds the night off, sending us into vivid, cheese-induced dreams.
