The French Laundry (A Short Story)

The French Laundry

It was late May when we arrived at the Zurich airport, following a twenty-something-hour trip from Honolulu, through New York and into Zurich.
The first glimpse of the gleaming modern Zurich airport immediately aroused us from that bound-up-tight feeling created by the tiny berth in which one must endure unbelievable discomfort while traveling across two oceans and half way around the world.
Zurich airport’s acoustics, lighting and amenities such as shops, markets, restaurants and easy-to-read signage—and let’s not forget the free and ample luggage carts—made our arrival delightful. We stopped at one of the well-stocked airport terminal markets and filled a couple of sacks with fresh fruits, cheese, a bit of Swiss chocolate (of course) and some pastries before taking the nearby elevator to the car rental agency on the next floor up.
Speaking perfect English, the friendly suit-and-tie-clad-clerk greeted us without a second of waiting, giving us keys and location of the car, and pointing us to the elevator to the fourth floor. A simple walk through a glass door and we were in a gleaming parking structure. The competent clerk had also provided us with a map directing us to our destination, a quaint ski village called Megéve very near Chamonix—Frances premier winter sports escape.
We loaded our luggage—which by the way was ridiculously over-packed (a lesson learned)—and started our trek. We drove through the most beautiful valley floor of chartreuse pastures dotted with brown and white milking cows and sparkling white barns and houses, all set against the craggy speckled white backdrop of the Alps. The air was light, sweet and cool, unlike the heavier tropical air of Honolulu where we live.
The drive was about four hours. We stopped midway at one of the restaurant/petrol stops that are characteristic of the toll highways in Europe. The sun warmed our skin as we exited our air-conditioned car. We entered the small café and the aroma of dark oily coffee beans combined with the yeasty fragrance of freshly baked dough, swept over us. We ordered our first French espresso and a buttery billowy croissant to share, taking our tray out onto the sunny open deck where we enjoyed a view of the highway we’d just traveled—from a much higher perspective since we were at the start of a gradual climb into the Alps.
Refreshed (mind you, we hadn’t slept in many hours at this point), we climbed back into our car and drove another couple of hours until we encountered something that shook our confidence a bit. We quickly learned that summer meant road construction in and around the Alps. It wouldn’t have been too bad, but the one exit that we needed to take to get over the Alps and to our destination was closed, period, end of sentence and, as luck would have it, with no alternate route designated.
Now, I have to say, when we started this particular vacation, I was fresh out of French 102. Meaning, as most people know, I knew how to conjugate a few verbs but that was about it. Putting words together in a sentence—or should I say having the confidence to do so—was not something I could or wanted to do.
We knew the word for Gendarmerie, though, and luckily we saw a sign pointing to an off-ramp with a police station. We’d already driven several miles past the off-ramp we needed, never seeing any sort of detour signs (we later figured we were heading toward Italy). So, we pulled off the highway and into the driveway where two uniformed officers were walking toward a patrol vehicle.
“Bonjour.” I barely could hear my voice and was sure they couldn’t hear me either.
“Oui, Madame?” The taller thinner officer replied.
At this point I froze. I knew nothing more to say.
“Parlez-vous Anglaise? I stammered, my mind racing through the small litany of words I could recall.
“Non, Madame.” He was starting to turn from us. My heart pounded.
“Do you speak German?” My husband shouted across me, but in what sounded like perfect German. I shot him a look that said: you must be joking.
To our surprise the officer began to roll German off his tongue as if he were a native, my husband nodded in approval while jotting down information. You’ve heard the cliché “could have knocked me over with a feather,” well, you could have. My husband had served in Berlin years before the wall came down and had studied German at the Language Institute in Monterey, CA. He’d learned well and I was sufficiently impressed. We were soon on our way. It is sort of ironic to think about it: two Americans in France, speaking to Frenchmen in German in order to get directions.
As it turned out, the closed off-ramp was a plus for us. We drove on a narrow winding road with Mont Blanc, still dressed in a heavy white winter snow coat, rising up before us and the tree line—a spectacular vision that sparkled and gleamed against the blue lagoon canvas of sky. It’s still framed in my mind as the most majestic sight I’ve ever encountered—even after having the fortune to visit Iguaçu Falls on the Argentina boarder in South America.
For this trip to France, we had arranged an exchange of our timeshare on the Big Island of Hawaii for an apartment in Megéve. Since May was an off-season period, it was easy to snag an exchange—though I doubt it would be so during ski season. We didn’t care, because this was our first time in France (now we go once or twice a year) and we had no idea where to go.
Megéve is small and picturesque with a center village area that is pied-a-Terre only (no cars allowed). We found our apartment, very near the centre ville and were a bit disappointed. Our timeshare on Big Island is a beautiful Gold Crown apartment, spacious and with comfortable high-end furnishings. The “lodge” was small and cramped with a room approximately 9x12 that contained a tiny dining table for two on one wall, a futon with small table and lamp on a wall and across from there a kitchenette. Once the futon was folded out, the room was too crowded to walk. The bathroom was barely large enough for one person and it contained a corner shower, toilet and very small sink. It was dimly lit as well. The plus was a nice deck with lounge chairs and a spectacular view of the Alps; however, it was way too cool to sit outside. We wondered how on earth we’d manage for an entire week in such a tiny space.
We maneuvered our suitcases into the tiny apartment, stowing them under the futon after we took out something to change into and for the next day. Although very tired, we were too excited to sleep, so we showered and strolled into the village. Tiny shops dotted the few short streets of the village. It was already late in the evening and being off-season everything was closed. However, we found a lovely small boutique hotel and spotted the first local people and guests staying in the area—I’d estimate about a dozen or so people, including the hotel staff and waiters. The hotel had a deck area for dining and the aromas were drawing us in. Although we had no reservation, they were very kind and gave us a lovely table where we enjoyed an aperitif and a small bowl of olives they provided.
Soft music played in the background, but it was evident that off-season Megéve was an exceptionally quiet place. The sound of wind moving through pine trees could be heard, despite the music.
Our server, a friendly Frenchman who spoke a little English, helped us through the menu and suggested that if we had never enjoyed a tartefletta, we must do so. He suggested a Sancerre Sauvignon Blanc wine and we awaited our main course. All the pre-holiday dieting was down the tube that first night. The plat prinçipal (main course) came to us piping hot from the oven in a large sort of individual ramekin. The dish consisted of layer after layer of thinly sliced potato seasoned and topped with a variety of good melting cheese such as gruyere and emmentaler, as well as layers of thinly sliced pieces of ham, then topped with heavy cream and baked until slightly brown and bubbly. Needless to say, we devoured this delectable food not daring to consider the calorie intake but swearing that we’d not indulge ourselves again during the entire trip.
We strolled back to our apartment with quaint generously spaced street lamps gently lighting our path. Pots heavy with spring blooms lined the walkway, scenting the night air with sweetness. Our first day in France left us sated and exhausted as we fell onto the futon for a long cramped rest.
We spent three days traveling in and around all the small ski villages in the French Alps and also traveled to Annecy on the Lake where we had our first experience in a country market. We bought up small packages of pungent artisan cheeses wrapped in bits of oily cloth tied with string or twine, loaves of freshly baked crusty artisan bread, home preserved jams, small rolls of fragrant hard sausages and bowls of Provençal olives. We also found a small wine shop and bought some wines to enjoy along with the local bounty.
On our fourth day of our stay in this lovely but all-too-quiet village, we knew that the NBA play-offs were over and that the final game was going to be played the next night. Our computer sat idle in its case, we had no connectivity in the remote lodge and couldn’t even upload pictures to our travel blog. Also, we had no cell phone capability. At least these all seemed like valid excuses to explore beyond Megéve and the Alps. My husband drove us to Chamonix, at the base of Mont Blanc, where we’d seen an Internet café. The young woman who ran the shop helped us set up our computer and gave us the password so that we could use WIFI (pronounced “wee fee” in France).
We surfed the net, found a four star hotel in Lyon in a beautiful old monastery atop Old Lyon, made a reservation and left the next morning thinking we would not only get to see a bit of Lyon but also could sleep in a real bed with enough room for the two of us! To our delight, the room was stunning. We had a view of Old Lyon, 227 steps below us (we know because we walked down those steps, but more importantly back up again), a huge king size bed with down laden bedding that cradled our futon-weary bodies, and a huge marble bathroom with toilet, bidet, huge Roman soaking tub and huge shower room. I immediately filled the tub with steamy hot water and sank down to my chin, lying back and closing my eyes. My husband jumped into the shower. After this refreshment, we took in Old Lyon and the quaint cafés and shops filled with silk, cheese, bakery, old and new books, flowers and wines.
We brought food from a small restaurant, had it packed to go, and walked back to our hotel where we climbed into the comfy bed, spread our tasty Lyonnaise food before us, and enjoyed a delicious bottle of Burgundy wine from a shop owned by Georges del Santos, the Flying Sommelier. We felt quite regal as we ate while watching the NBA on the huge TV screen. Talk about a nice respite from our mountain retreat! We were in heaven as far as we could tell.
Now more confident of driving around in France, we took country roads back toward the Alps driving through small villages and hamlets and enjoying the local culture. We snapped pictures of fields with clusters of tiny goats, fluffy pampered lambs or milking cows with tails in constant motion swiping away flies while slowly chewing their cuds—no doubt herds that provided the basis for the creamy pungent artisan cheeses of France. We also marveled at huge fields filled sun flowers—their bold yellow faces cast upward toward the sun. The short trip provided us with memories to carry and enjoy for a long time to come.
Arriving back in Megéve in the late afternoon, we still had one more night before we were going to drive to Geneva where we planned to turn in the rental car and take the TGV to Paris.
“We still have delicious goodies left from our trip to Annecy.” I looked inside the small refrigerator pondering a fabulous French meal our last night in the apartment. It was Friday and about four o’clock.
“Let’s do this . . . you figure out what to make us for dinner.” My husband suggested. “And, I’ll take this small pile of laundry to the laundry room and do the wash.” He began to stuff the clothing into a laundry bag. “Then I’ll bring the ironing board and iron back.” Smiling at me. “And we can press out some things before packing.” He always has good ideas, I thought, reflecting on the next stage of our trip. We were on our way to Paris in the morning for a two-week stay in a home exchange in the fifteenth arrondissement and were eager to get a move on.
“Great idea.” I pulled out the suitcases, placing them on the futon.
“It should only take about an hour.” Leaving the door ajar while he picked up the bag of dirty clothes. “I’ll stop at the office to get euro coins.” He closed the door and I locked it.
I went to work, packing up a few things for both of us and then preparing some food for our last meal in Megéve. It had been about an hour and a half, so I poured the wine, expecting him any minute. Then it was two hours. He must have had to wait for use of the machines, I thought, as I sipped a bit of the burgundy and reflected on the tones of chocolate and figs it offered.
We were only about one of two couples at this lodge, so it was very quiet all the time but I could hear the sound of voices off somewhere in the hallway of our structure. At first I heard faint rapping on doors, thinking someone must be locked out. Then there was a sharp rap on my door, jolting me for a moment. Something wasn’t right because I could hear the voices of a woman and a child. They must have been knocking on every door trying to find someone. I waited with pounding pulse until the next round of rapping commenced but this time with a woman shouting, “Madame! Madame, s’il vous plait!”
Oh my God, I thought, my husband has had a heart attack in the laundry room. I yanked open the door to a find a frantic woman and child standing in front of me motioning for me and speaking simultaneously and excitedly in rapid French.
“Les clés, Madame.” She motioned to the door to make sure I didn’t leave my door unlocked. I’d had enough French to know that she said “the key” and I grabbed the keys from the table and followed her as she periodically (as did her about nine year old son) looked over her shoulder motioning for me to continue to follow.
We wound our way through the lodge to the other side, the swimming pool side, and up a flight of stairs to the woman’s apartment—much larger than ours and with the door standing wide open. The woman motioned me further toward her bedroom. At first I was frightened, wondering if this was some sort of trap for me and that my husband might have already been trapped, but adrenaline pumping through my system drove me straight through her living and bedroom onto the deck. I saw a man on the other side of the still-covered swimming pool (I think it must always be too cold to swim in the Alps), waving his arms at me and pointing about eight feet above him.
I looked and saw the entire head of my husband peering through an opened window.
“What?” A word that came out wildly in a rant while my mind tried to piece it all together.
“What?” He says. “It’s a long story, but I’ve been locked in the laundry!”
Just then and white knuckled he pulled himself up into the window and with only a two-foot walkway between himself and the cold water of the swimming pool, jumped onto the deck.
At the same time he made this quick move, I shouted to him, “Wait! The clothes!”
I was simply too late. He was now below the window and on the deck.
“Shit!” He yelled and the woman’s husband, the woman and her son all began to laugh and so did I. My laughter, however, soon turned to worry, as I couldn’t see how my husband was going to re-enter the building to get our clothing.
See, the real problem was that the day clerk had locked the door below—the one that led to the laundry room—without first checking to see if anybody was in there. This, despite the fact that only an hour earlier she’d given change to my husband and directed him to the laundry room located within the gym. My husband hadn’t heard the door being locked because of the noise of the laundry process, so when he finished the laundry and packed it back into the bag and walked down the stairs to the exit of the laundry it wasn’t until then that he found the door locked. He pounded and pounded and yelled, but nobody responded. It was, after all Friday, and the clerk was long gone and wasn’t going to return until Monday. He later said that he even thought of picking up one of the barbells from the gym and hurling it through the window—this during his initial stage of anger at the insolence of this woman.
Of course, our train was leaving early and we needed to leave for Geneva by six in the morning. The window above the washer had a bolt on it and he couldn’t open it and there were no tools in the room, so he began to pound and yell hoping someone below might hear him. As luck would have it, a Frenchman received a cell call—apparently his French cell phone was capable of transmitting and receiving calls while our American cell phone would not—and he walked out onto the pool deck apparently to improve his call reception. After about 15 minutes of pacing and talking, he noticed my husband gesturing wildly from the window near the pool. My husband used his best sign language to convey his dilemma and finally got across the point that he needed a screwdriver to unbolt the window. The kindly man went to his apartment to tell his wife to find me (my husband relayed our room number using his fingers) and the man went to his car to retrieve a toolbox. That was how my husband was able to eventually escape.
My husband looked up at the window, then at me with a look of embarrassment (the French family still wondering how we would get our clothing), and jumped up grabbing hold of the window seal and pulling himself up and reluctantly back into the room. Soon clothing, an iron and ironing board came flying out of the window and the young boy caught them quickly before they hit the pool. My husband, now fully experienced, jumped back out the window and gratefully bowed and said, “Merci, Monsieur, merci beaucoup.”
“De rien, monsieur.” The man telling him it was nothing. I could see a slight quiver at the side of his mouth as he restrained himself from falling into fits of laughter.
We said our good byes and with clean clothes in hand, walked back to our apartment.
We settled around the table, enjoyed the last of our food and quality wine and I listened to the story once again taking mental notes so that some day I might be able to retell the story.
My husband wrote a long note to the proprietor and slipped it under the door of her office just before we left. I don’t know what the note said (in English, of course) or if she even understood it but we never heard from them again.
We don’t visit French laundries any more unless, of course, they are public and clearly marked as 24-hour establishments.
We continued to laugh about the incident on our trip to Geneva the next morning and have shared it with friends and family around the dinner table on occasion, too. It certainly did leave us with memories of Megéve that neither of us had anticipated.