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HOTEL BEAU-RIVAGE
Those patrons have included some notable figures, like Richard Wagner and King Alphonsus XIII of Spain. And the hotel has played its part in world events as a result. Here Charles, Duke of Brunswick, drew his last breath in 1873. He was one of Geneva’s great benefactors, which is why – in the park next-door – he is commemorated with a monument, which for grandeur and extravagance rivals London’s Albert Memorial. Twenty-five years later, another death drew international attention to the Beau-Rivage. Just after leaving the hotel, Empress Elizabeth of Austria was stabbed by an anarchist. Brought back to her apartment, she could not be revived. Xavier Collange, the Executive Assistant Manager, showed me the room in which the Empress died – which is now a place of pilgrimage for Austrian royalists.
This weight of history is, however, borne lightly by the suave and sophisticated Beau-Rivage. Shaved and bathed, and dressed in a tie and starched collar, I set off for dinner. The hotel has a restaurant which serves Thai food, but that was not my destination. (I tend to avoid those cuisines which have developed in non-wine cultures.) Instead, I headed for the Beau-Rivage’s other dining room, Le Chat Botté. I suppose we would translate this as The Scalded Cat, although I fear botté actually means booted or kicked. But those of you who love your feline friends need not fear: the only cruelty I found at this highly regarded restaurant was being done to the demons of low standards. They were certainly suffering, for this long, low, comfortable room is one of the best gastronomic destinations in Geneva. It took me but a moment to realize that standards here were high. The glasses were by Schott, the cutlery was by Christofle, the napkin ring was silver, a single tapered candle burnt in its silver holder on the beige tablecloth and a clean napkin was brought immediately for any diner who left the table for a moment. The setting was right for some fine French food from Chef Dominique Gauthier (pictured). And that is precisely what was brought to my table. My own drinking was done on the basis of the recommendations of his excellent assistant, Gary Bovagne, a tall young fellow from Burgundy. Both my bottles were from the Ticino region of Switzerland. For my white, I asked him to find me something which would remind me of a good Meursault – which is precisely what he did. This Bianco di Cademario was a blend of chardonnay, pinot gris and müller thurgau and manifested those elements of toast, vanilla and butter which I always enjoy (Malcantone, S.Monti, 2004 – 105 francs). My red was one of the famous Ticino merlots – full-bodied, bold and bursting with ripe blackcurrants (Rovere, S.Monti, 2005 – 119 francs). As I hope you will have gathered, it is my opinion that the Beau-Rivage is a very, very good hotel. It is clearly loved by those who own it and work within it. And now it is loved by me, too.
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HOTEL BEAU-RIVAGE |
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© Francis Bown 2003
Hotels are like people: they need looking after. When I encounter an hotel which is being cared for very well, it cheers me up. In Geneva, therefore, I was a happy fellow. Everywhere I looked at the Hotel Beau-Rivage, I saw evidence that this grand old lady was really loved. A plump velvet cushion was carefully placed on a sofa, a fine bronze statuette gleamed in a corner and a restored fresco decorated a ceiling. 
It struck me that the immaculate condition of this marvellous building was a real credit to its owner; and then I discovered that the current owner of the hotel, Jacques Mayer (pictured), is the great-grandson of its founder, Jean-Jacques Mayer. They should each be proud of the other, for the Beau-Rivage continues to do now what it has done since its opening in 1865: provide luxurious accommodation and proper service to discerning patrons from around the globe.
As soon as I reached the top of the steps (from the surprisingly unassuming entrance), and saw the gurgling fountain at the bottom of the soaring atrium, I knew that I was going to enjoy my stay. The staff at the Reception and Concierge desks quickly began to use my name, a small courtesy which I always appreciate. Soon I was being shown into my apartment on the third floor.
Number 312 was my sort of room. The hotel is proud of the spaciousness of all its 91 rooms. (I peeped into one of the standard category, and can confirm that such pride is merited.) But this was a ‘Prestige Suite Lake View’ – 1,990 francs a night, bed and breakfast for two – and was truly splendid. In the proper hall, I found fitted wardrobes (wherein was the safe) and a door to the cloakroom (with a loo, wash basin and bidet). And then it was through a glass-panelled door into the kind of light and spacious bedroom one used to see in black-and-white Hollywood films. Ever keen to keep my readers informed, I paced out the room and found its length was 22 feet and its breadth – into the six-sided bay – 15 feet. With its blue carpet, pale blue walls and pieces of furniture in the Empire style (with ormolu mounts), this was a chamber to which I could happily retreat for a year to write my magnum opus.
Yet there would be a difficulty, for the views through the three French windows would constitute a constant distraction. The famous spout of water, the Jet d’Eau, was directly ahead, the Old Town – crowned by the Minster in which Calvin preached – was to the right and, beyond the lake, were snow-topped mountains. I could, of course, block out these delights by touching a button on the control panel by my bed and causing the electric shutters to descend, but these were designed to keep out the early morning sunshine, not to obliterate one of the most civilized views in Europe. It was certainly an effort to keep my eyes from the panorama, as I sat at the desk to read or lounged on the sofa with the dish of marshmallows – one of the numerous treats provided for my arrival. Another was a vase of sixteen yellow roses and ten blue irises, carefully arranged by the hotel’s resident flower expert. (I saw much evidence of her work throughout the property: all excellent.)
A second glass-panelled door led to the bathroom, a chamber of some style. Light from hanging crystal lamps shone onto the grey marble and reflected in mirrors with Art Nouveau gilding. The tub was of the proper size, there were two wash basins and the shower was in a separate compartment. Here I could bathe and perform my ablutions in comfort.
Chef Gauthier offers a set three-course dinner for 135 francs. I chose four courses from the carte (for which you should allow around 230 francs). First, on a large white plate and with a lovely, painterly appearance, came fried scallops, with green asparagus, olive oil and truffle, with a glass of asparagus mousse. Both the conception and execution of this dish were first-rate. And my second course was even better – stuffed morels with green peas and almond milk-flavoured mousse. The meaty mushrooms, a treat in themselves, were set off wonderfully by the rest of the dish. This was a joy to eat. My roasted and glazed lamb – such gorgeous meat, from the Pyrenees – found itself, in contrast, in the midst of a dish which was a bit too complicated for my palate, with polenta, aubergine and caraway among the ingredients. I finished this thoroughly enjoyable repast with a happy piece of indulgence – white and red crisp of strawberries, with basil.
Those of you who love your claret will be in very heaven when you survey the wine list. Indeed, if you have the means and the inclination to drink some of the finest red Bordeaux ever made, the cellar will gladly offer its riches. Here are a few of them, with the prices in Swiss francs: 1921 Haut Brion (3,265), 1928 Margaux (3,500), 1947 Cheval Blanc (7,995), 1947 Mouton Rothschild (7,501) and 1955 Palmer (1,445). Moreover, each year a tasting (and dinner) is held at the hotel in December which is truly remarkable. The one for which they were preparing when I paid my visit included a vertical tasting of Château Latour, including the vintages of 1945, 1947, 1961 and 1982. (Tickets were 5,100 francs per person.) It will come as no surprise to you, therefore, that the Head Sommelier, Jean-Christophe Ollivier (pictured), is a man who also impresses.
Two other meals I must mention. I returned each morning to the restaurant for breakfast, where – settled into a capacious armchair and with the Daily Telegraph to one side – I tucked with relish into an onion omelette and pots of iced coffee, brought from the kitchen, and, from the buffet, dishes of prepared orange and pineapple, croissants, glasses of orange juice and slices of crusty bread, spread with generous dollops of the most delicious strawberry jam. Golly, this was good. And then there was tea in the sitting room – for I felt it was important that I did not neglect my eating while I was in Geneva. Here, in a green fauteuil, beneath a crystal chandelier, by a marble fireplace, I devoured delicate pastries and scoops of ginger ice cream. 
