THE HEAD ANGEL WORE HEELS
A charming French guesthouse becomes a parade of delightful characters for Mary-Anne O’Carroll
Ihave a little jug that was given to me by the owner of a B&B called Domaine des Anges in PulignyMontrachet, France. Its name was why I’d booked it in the first place.
The Home of Angels, as it transpired, was an upscale winetasting area in what the locals say is the heart of wine-making.
Our hostess, Lady Céline, greeted us each morning in high heels and stockings (with a dress to match, of course) and don’tneed-anything-more-to-eatthis-week breakfasts.
She invited us to dinner on the Sunday with Rod and Beryl, John and Vivienne and toothless Harry and his partner David, who owned a parcelle of land producing 600 bottles a year. Toothless Harry was of Irish descent and explained that, when the English had done their census, they’d left off the Mc from McKuen and changed the spelling, so he’d became Harry Coen.
The following day, Lady Celine, in a tangerine linen outfit with matching heels, invited us, once again, for dinner, tempting us with the announcement that there were four South Africans for us to meet.
I dressed in my leopard-skin Jim Thompson T-shirt in honour of the occasion — embarrassingly naïve.
We arrived on the terrace for pre-dinner drinks and were delighted to find Roelf Meyer (well-known for his role in shaping our constitution) sipping an icecold beer in the evening light.
Roelf’s wife, Michelle, and friends, Thinus and Marilise, were our other dinner companions. “Memorable” is such an over-used word, as is “unforgettable”, but the evening was both. I loved Roelf’s joke about the Irishman who was stopped by the cops who told him to identify himself, so he looked in the mirror and said “yes, that’s me”. Thinus farmed with disease-free buffaloes. Such discussion only occurs once in a lifetime.
Puligny-Montrachet has about 400 inhabitants. The church bells toll twice every hour, once on the hour and then a minute later in case the folk working in the vineyard missed the first.
We walked along canals, went winetasting in vineyards and ate fine foods. There was a pottery market in Nuits-SaintGeorges and dinner at Pierre et Jean, and each night we came home to Domaine des Anges and more interesting guests and gourmet food. My notes tell me there was an Edith Piaf tarte which was a lemonmeringue pie-roulade arrangement with icing made from crème fraîche. My knees buckle at the thought.
I looked forward each morning to having my coffee with cream from this little jug and guess I must have admired it so often that eventually, Lady Celine said, “I would love you to have it.” I grabbed it without delay and, years later, love it still.
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