The French Riviera
While I have consistently failed to predict French pronunciations, I have resigned to the fact that no French word should be pronounced the way it is spelt. The French city of “Nice” is no exception. It is pronounced as “Niece”. It’s an incredibly beautiful city in the French province of Cote d’Azur, on the Riviera, close to the Franco Italian border. While fun has no age limit, one should really visit the Riviera while you are young. I was fortunate to have been sent on a work assignment in Nice, during my late twenties.
In the south of France, particularly along the Mediterranean, the weather is just perfect! Over two hundred and twenty absolutely gorgeous sunny days a year, azure blue waters and fresh sea breeze, incredibly long sandy beaches, comfortable temperatures from 6 to 28 degrees Celsius and on average 6 weeks holidays a year to enjoy it all! Of course what makes these beaches famous, are the stunning sun-kissed Mediterranean blondes dotting the sand and in every beach café, making the whole scene way better than “Baywatch”.
Beside the beach runs a wide, pedestrian walkway with intermittent steps leading down to the beach. A parade of roller-bladers, joggers, and sun-baskers strolls its pavement, looking out over the hypnotic blue expanse of the sea.
The whole area of Cote d’Azur has a certain mystique about it. The nearby city of “Cannes” (pronounced “Kaan”) is famous for its international film festival. The city of “Antibe” (pronounced “Awnteeb”) is famous for its hills with panoramic views of the sea and by consequence, for its massive multi-million Euro celebrity houses. The hilly area of Antibe, combined with its celebrity image, gives it a very Hollywood like feel.
My employer, a technology consulting multinational, had just opened its offices in Sophia. We had hired Jean-Pierre, to run the local operations, perhaps the most well networked individual in the area. He was the vice mayor of the town. As the vice mayor, Jean-Pierre had two constitutional rights. He could arrest anyone at once or get a consenting couple married (i.e. the right of the police and that of a priest). I thought that was handy!
Jean-Pierre suitably impressed the executive management team of my employer by getting the local business community of Sophia to attend our inaugural event where we articulated our value proposition and outlined our consulting services. This was followed by wine and hors’d’oeuvres. The event had an excellent coverage from the famous local newspaper Nice-Matin (pronounced Niece Mataa). By late evening, we had at least a hundred potential and a dozen qualified leads. Within the next three weeks, we had signed a letter of intent with our first client – Robertet, a perfume factory – (pronounced Robertey with the French R).
Up until that point, I had worked for global Banks and Insurance clients. However, understanding the requirements of a perfumery was interesting. Their entire IT department had 2 people, a bunch of Microsoft Excel spreadsheets and an IBM AS/400 server, which they had bought a couple of years ago, but no one quite knew how to use it. They wanted me to give them a “fixed price” proposal to automate their entire supply chain from inventory management through to purchasing to accounting. They obviously wanted the proposal within a week!
The requirement gathering process started with a leisurely tour of the perfume factory, where they explained (in French), how nearly four thousand ingredients are procured, carefully tagged and stored at the right temperatures, and mixed in the right quantities, to produce their award winning perfumes. Language was a big problem. My knowledge of French was limited to ordering a Pizza (“Une Pizza avec quarto fromagé sil vous plais”, followed by a “merci boku madame”, followed by a “bon appétit monsieur”, usually concluding in an “au revoir”). Every time I would ask a question to clarify the requirements, they would just give me another tour of their manufacturing process, repeating the whole explanation in French and broken English. The one week deadline was fast approaching. By now I had completed seven tours of the factory, peered over those French Excel spreadsheets many times over, and was nowhere near producing a credible proposal.
I suppose on the positive side, they had given us three 50ml free perfume samples at the end of each tour. These were perfumes that would not be on the market for at least another year. Having been exposed to all possible sweetest fruity, flowery and spicy odors that exist on the planet, my olfactory sense was greatly enhanced. It’s a bit like what would happen to your taste buds if you grew up marooned on a remote island surviving on coconuts and sea weed, and then suddenly invited to a seven course dinner after being rescued by the world’s biggest luxury cruise ship!
On a sunny Saturday afternoon, I was relaxing on the deck chairs next to the swimming pool of my hotel, along with an Irish American couple from Chicago, Mr. and Mrs. Schlieper. A gorgeous blonde in her early twenties walked to the swimming pool, took off her bathrobe and swam in the pool in the nude. The French are completely relaxed about nudity. Later that evening, I went to the local markets with the Schliepers to buy a plaster of Paris mask, as a souvenir from Cote d’Azur. The whole time that evening, Mrs. Shlieper was complaining how indiscreet and inappropriate it was, for the French woman to bathe in the nude. While she was busy complaining, she wore shorter than thigh length shorts, a dress completely acceptable in balmy Cote d’Azur, but which I knew would be highly indiscreet and inappropriate in many parts of the world. I chuckled to myself at the irony of the whole situation.
Within a few weeks, we had realized that despite Jean-Pierre’s excellent networking skills and contacts, he was a local politician, not a businessman. He certainly did not know the first thing about running an information technology consulting business. However, it was interesting working with him. Jean-Pierre was so well connected, that walking with him from our office to the local restaurants, a five minute walk, would take half an hour. I obviously didn’t follow most of the French conversations, but through the body language I could tell that people were sharing with him their personal, family, or professional problems and asking for his favors. Jean-Pierre would oblige every man and woman in his husky, yet reassuring voice and they would invariably leave with a grateful smile. Although no one kneeled and kissed his hand, I had a feeling as if I was walking along side Merlin Brando or Robert de Niro from the “Godfather”.
One sunny Friday afternoon, as we sat down for an extended business lunch at an Italian restaurant in Sophia, it suddenly occurred to me that we were not that far from Italy (Nice is near the Italian border). The mixed aroma of cheese, olive oil and wine reminded me of the Louis restaurant where Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) kills Sollozzo and McClusky. I had a strong desire to go to the toilet and check if a gun was taped behind the toilet flush.
The oval table was nicely decorated with laced crisp white table-cloth, large wine glasses and silver cutlery except the forks were on the right and the knives on the left. Which was just as well, because I am left handed and therefore used to eating the French way. For once, I would not be frowned upon.
While there were several prominent business personalities, the main celebrity at the lunch was the Mayor. The chatter in the restaurant dropped momentarily to a whisper, to acknowledge the Mayor, a man in his early fifties, as he walked in. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but built strong, with a spotty tanned skin. He sported a milky white French beard. As he took off his French hat, revealing his hair dyed jet black, in stark contrast to his beard, he took the time to look around him – his small, inquisitive grey eyes searching every man’s expression in the room from behind his rimless glasses that drooped on his nose brim. Once he settled down, he called for the sous chef to discuss and select the best bottle of red wine from the restaurant’s cellar.
Until that day, I considered myself at least wine literate. I thought I knew enough about wines to sit at a French lunch and participate in the conversation. Having lived in USA, Australia and the UK, I had been to a few wine tasting events and blind folded, I could at least tell what grape it was, eighty percent of the time. I knew the difference between a Cabernet Sauvignon, a Merlot and a Pinot Noir (unless of course it was a blend – the edge of my wine competence). I knew about famous wine regions and had read about famous vineyards. I knew that certain years were good since that year, the combination of sun, rain and humidity was most conducive to produce the best quality grape. I could tell how dry or sweet a wine was and whether it was light or heavy. However, what I witnessed in that restaurant in Nice, proved beyond doubt that I was a complete novice. From that day, I stopped showing off my knowledge about wines, even with friends.
The sous chef brought a dusty bottle of a most special wine from his cellar downstairs. One of those, preserved for a special occasion like this; and poured a very small quantity for the Mayor. The Mayor tilted his glass all the way down so it touched the table and then turned it a full circle, such that the wine created a thin line along its brim. He then carefully lifted the glass, held it at an angle against the light, cocked his head, scrunched his eyes and examined whether the wine was of just the right viscosity. While everyone was pretending to carry on their conversation, they all had an eye on the result of Mayor’s scrutiny. As the audience saw the mayor’s approving smile, they relaxed once more, in the knowledge that the lunch would now be a success.
Most of the lunch conversation revolved around what type of wine goes with which kind of cheese, the grand prix at Monte Carlo and the Nice carnival. The mayor boasted about his wine cellar being the best in town and how he was once interviewed by a vintner (winemaker) to establish whether or not the Mayor deserved his exquisite wine before he was even prepared to sell it. The Mayor then went on to describe how he felled that bottle in his cellar for the exact period of time, at the exact temperature and humidity for it to mature to its peak potential. He talked about his cellar as if it was Alibaba’s cave, clearly his most priced possession. I had read and heard about the French being true wine connoisseurs. However, this conversation was clearly bordering on a wine obsession.
As a globe trotting IT consultant, I cannot say that Nice was my most professionally successful assignment. However, I came back knowing a thing or two about how to live a good life!
by Sachin Kulkarni, London 23rd March 2014.
