Two Men In a Car (A Businessman, a Chauffeur, and Their Holidays in France). Mike BuchananЧитать онлайн книгу.
but ten minutes later made a renewed effort, and found those had been the only bones in the fillet.
A single bottle of 2001 Lynch-Bages accompanied the second course, and it was excellent. I looked forward to the 1981 with even greater anticipation. Paul then asked for a glass of white wine, but the maitre d’ explained there would be a supplement for white wine, whereupon Paul’s face became an ominous-looking purple. I told the maitre d’ that was fine, ordered the white wine, and with some effort calmed Paul down. He was still moaning bitterly about the matter a week later.
The final course was a choice between cheese, and a pineapple slice cooked with brown sugar, and ice cream. I opted for the cheese, and was duly presented with two small pieces, which combined were maybe the size of a Dairylea triangle, and two grapes – one green, one red. Paul had opted for the pineapple option, and needless to say he wasn’t impressed.
The third château and estate was Château Pichon-Longueville-Comtesse-de-Lalande, on the extreme southern border of the Pauillac commune, adjacent to the more famous Château Latour estate. The coach tour guide spoke at length about the estate, explaining that she was writing a book on the estate and its history.
Before we tasted the wine we were shown two museums of objects belonging to the owners. The first had examples of glass objects up to the nineteenth century, and objects related to wine and winemaking. The quality level was outstanding. But the upstairs museum was a real eye-opener, displaying a collection of large ornamental glass objects of exquisite quality, all produced in the 20th or 21st centuries. They merited a visit to the estate on their own. I took a number of photographs, but they didn’t do them justice.
We were permitted to walk on the manicured lawn behind the château, and to admire the gardens, swimming pool and more besides. There were worse families to be born into than this one, Paul and I reflected.
We were given a small glass of the 2004 vintage to taste, and while it was pleasant, it didn’t compare with the 2001 Lynch-Bages. But I gratefully downed both my own glass and Paul’s, and remarked to Paul how beautiful the house and grounds were. He agreed, adding, ‘Yes, we could almost be in England!’
We returned to Mirambeau just as the Super U was about to shut. A short woman of maybe 60 years of age crossed in front of the car, and we both agreed she was possibly the ugliest woman we’d ever seen. Une trogette of the highest order. A minute later a short man in a rusty old Peugeot parked and emerged from his car, and we both agreed he was possibly the ugliest man we’d ever seen. Un trog of the highest order. Paul speculated that pork chops would have to be hung around the necks of these people to persuade the village dogs to play with them.
Both shared an endearing feature, the lower jaw jutting out prominently beyond the upper jaw. We speculated they might be related, the result of a bizarre genetic experiment in the area or – more likely – the outcome of extensive inbreeding in the Mirambeau area over several centuries. John Prescott would be a real ‘looker’ in these parts.
On the way back to the gite we stopped at a zebra crossing for an old lady of extreme frailty. Unfortunately we stopped when she was only a yard or two into the crossing, and at two or three points in her lengthy journey across the road she actually stopped, presumably to recover her strength. We were worried that she might actually have expired at one point, because with two sticks she was no more likely to fall over than a three-legged table.
So agonisingly slow was her progress that I reflected I had plenty of time to go to the car boot, get my camera out, and take a picture of the heroic woman. She managed a feeble wave of appreciation once she’d crossed, as if nobody had ever stopped for her before. Paul moaned with some feeling that if he hadn’t stopped we’d have still passed five yards in front of her, and returned to the gite half an hour earlier.
That evening Mark – from the adjoining gite – told us they were departing the next day. I asked him to write down his full name and address, so I could post a complimentary copy of this book to him in due course. At which point he had to reveal that his surname was Phillips, and he groaned. I guessed he’d had enough ribbing on the subject of ‘Anne and Mark Phillips’ to last a lifetime.
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