Ann Morrison
Friday, November 02, 2007
Thebiggest difference between skiing in Europe and skiing in North America is neither the quality of the snow nor the steepness of the slopes. It's not about the speed of the lifts or the body piercings on the snow-boarders either.
It's lunch. In Europe, skiers not only stop for a midday meal, they take time to enjoy it. That means three courses (not a lonely hamburger), wine (yes, wine), and freshly made espresso (not coffee that has been stewing in a pot for hours). And, hey, why not a brandy to fortify you for the afternoon's exertions?
In New England, where I grew up, you put in as many morning runs as you could before you started to feel faint with hunger – or stopped feeling your toes because of the cold.
Lunch was a quick trip to the lodge at the bottom of the hill, where you'd wait in a long line for your cocoa or cola, and squeeze into a bit of space at a messy wooden table, which you would have to clean off with your napkin. After downing a packed sandwich, cookies and an orange, you'd be back in the lift line in 30 minutes or less. The point was to amortise that pricey ticket by squeezing in as much skiing as possible, whether you enjoyed it or not.
Friends who regularly ski at more exclusive resorts in the American west say that even now things aren't much better. The food options are limited, they claim, because resorts are owned by corporations that tend to sprinkle the same fast-food outlets all over the mountain. For a proper lunch, my sophisticated ski buddies tend to descend into the village – to places such as Sweet Basil's in Vail, for example.
Of course, European mountains have fast-food, self-service restaurants too. And plenty of folks pack their lunches. You'll often see them eating their baguettes at picnic tables strategically placed before vistas of unimaginable beauty.
But what makes a European ski holiday special – and for Americans, surprising – is the mountain restaurants, usually located high up on the slopes, complete with uniformed waiters, gourmet cuisine, extensive wine lists and great people-watching opportunities. Many even require reservations. To make my point, here is a clearly arbitrary analysis of three of the eight separately run restaurants d'altitude in Courchevel, one of France's most sophisticated ski resorts. (Courchevel has at least six other ski-accessible restaurants offering elegant lunches at lower levels on the mountain.)
At 2,000 metres, Cap Horn specialises in sea-level seafood: from sushi to caviar to giant plates of chilled oysters, clams, crab and assorted fruits de mer. Other cold food on offer: an excellent steak tartare (though it took three requests to get the accompanying frites.)
But if you are sitting on the expansive terrace – the only place to be on a sunny day – you might be more interested in something hot such as lasagne or a perfectly cooked sole meunière, or tartiflette, a €28 Savoyard speciality of potatoes, cheese and bacon. (You can pay €8 less for tartiflette at the Le Baratin snack bar, which is appended to the Cap Horn terrace but generally serves simpler food.)
The wine list at Cap Horn is extensive, with 380 different entries, and expensive (a 1999 Romanée-Conti sells for €11,555). The restaurant also features a DJ playing rock music from atop a snow-grooming machine, and encourages dancing in ski-boots. I didn't see anyone actually shaking their booty though. As for the clientele, Cap Horn is supposed to be popular with Russians, who make up about 3 per cent of Courchevel's holidaymakers. I didn't notice any of them either. The large group at one of the prime tables (the ones with the red and gold armchairs), where a sommelier was decanting a jeroboam of red Bordeaux, turned out to be British.
If anything, the scene on the terrace of Chalet de Pierres is even more glam. There are more photographers here than at the other two restaurants combined, shooting whoever looks interested in having a picture taken – like the older French woman sunning herself in just a halter top despite the cold. (The photos are available for sale in the village by nightfall.) While a clown amuses children, and a white-suited quartet slithers among the tables singing to recorded American pop music, the largely non-French diners sample olives, drink kir royales and study their menus.
There's sushi and shellfish here too but the better bets are the regional specialities, especially the cheese fondue. Improbably enough, it's great with the local white, Apremont, a relative bargain at €36. At the coffee end of the meal, the super-efficient waiting staff (often serving 350 on the terrace and hundreds more inside) bring a complementary plate of chocolate discs and a glass of the local Génépi liqueur. (Can you imagine that at Killington?)
The action is inside at the eclectically rustic La Soucoupe. At the huge open fireplace, the chef grills steaks, lamb chops, chicken brochettes, foie gras and duck breasts to absolute perfection. Somehow he also manages to scramble delicious eggs (with truffles, perhaps, or potatoes, ham and cheese) to order. The mains usually come with a bowl of garlic-scented roast potatoes and mange-tout to be shared, family-style. The wines are reasonable, with a crisp Savoyard white for €20 and a silky local pinot noir for €24.
The place is packed, with a higher percentage of French speakers than at the other two restaurants. Skiers happily wait for their tables at the funky bar or around the old upright piano, often over a bottle of champagne. At around 2:15pm, the regulars come in and the music (rock, of course) gets louder (but not so loud as to hinder conversation). And diners keep on coming. At 3pm, we were asked to surrender our prime table by the window, where our party of four – small by Courchevel standards – had enjoyed the food, wine and view for more than an hour and a half. In exchange, we were offered the brown leather couch in front of the fireplace, coffee and an entire bottle of Génépi. (We had only a glass each.) We were so cosy, we almost forgot that we had more skiing to do.
Finally, if all this doesn't make the case that European, especially French, skiing is different, consider this. At one point, we shared a télécabine with three hip, young Frenchmen. We couldn't help but overhear their animated conversation. They talked about the quality of the fresh strawberries at the market, chocolate in many guises, and the best way to make a cake. I wish I had asked them where they were having lunch.
Ann Morrison is a former editor of Time's European edition
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