March 24th, 1990
At Jean Jacques
I awoke with the aroma of fresh brewed coffee, one of my favourite smells, which is ironic given that if I were to indulge in even a few sips, I’d be violently sick. What I’m not allergic to, however, is Champagne, as witnessed today, when Jean Jacques and I ended up in Reims.
Madame Bertrand must’ve been up at the crack of dawn to make the buttery croissants she kept piling on my plate. “Vous etes trop maigre,” she uttered over and over again, a phrase I had no clue as to the meaning of until I later asked Jean Jacques. “Skin e. She said you are too skin e.” Ah, Madame Bertrand, if only I knew what you were saying, I would’ve kissed you!
The four houses we looked at today were “right up my alley,” which Jean Jacques said is his new favourite expression. I’d be happy with any of the houses but I can only imagine mum and dad’s reaction to me buying a rundown farmhouse, with nobody around for miles.
The afternoon was spent mostly in cellars, each with their own history which itself was fascinating but not as great as sipping chilled Taittinger at the end of the tour.
“We buy?” Jean Jacques asked, draining the last of his Champagne.
“Definitely,” I nodded, enthusiastically. “But not ‘til I’ve had a few more glasses.”
“But of course, Ecossais,” he laughed. “Of course.”
The house hunting may not have been a roaring success but we came back with a case of Champagne. And somebody called me skin e!