1964
In Switzerland, the fourth Thursday in November isn’t special. It’s just another day like any other unlike in the United States where it’s Thanksgiving.
I was invited as a friend of a friend–and I’ll say straight off that I regret that I wasn’t more appreciative of the hostess’s gesture at the time. Madame Geneviève des Beauchamps had taken it upon herself to organize a Thanksgiving dinner–in French as it has become known, le jour de Merci Donnant– for her somewhat adrift American friends and a few more of those considered sympa towards Americans.
While I didn’t know Madame des Beauchamps, one of my acquaintances–Karen of Philadelphia and the Main Line–who was attending a Swiss boarding school in Clarins was. Karen was the reason I was included.
I picked Karen up in my Austin Healey around 15:00, three in the afternoon. And we only had to backtrack from Clarins to a remodeled farmhouse halfway up the slope on the lower Corniche above Lutry, a small medieval town with its famous bell tower, located on the Lake of Geneva between Lausanne and Montreux. The weather was autumn headed towards winter, cool but dry and a certain stillness and calm prevailed.
The farmhouse sat on a commanding promontory isolated by vineyards crisscrossed by small lanes bordered by walls of long ago origin. Moss and lichen encrustations splotched their north walls. By November, the once green vines heavy with fruit are gnarled and only the support wires and stakes stand out casting a desolate landscape, yet the sky was a crystal blue with the sun just beginning to be tangent to the peaks of the Alps.
Karen introduced me to Madame des Beauchamps, immediately recognizable as a woman of sophistication and hospitality, while Monsieur des Beauchamps, who I learned later was a violinist in the Lausanne Symphony Orchestra, was more reserved, even shy and self-effacing.
Although the farmhouse was modest from the outside, the interior reflected the taste of a connoisseur des arts. No item escaped the expert curation of someone who knew what they were doing. The casual seating arrangements comfortable and conversational, luxuriously clothed in silks and skins. Lighting fixtures and all manner of interesting and varied glass and metal bric-a-brac were silhouetted against walls and paneling of imported woods and tiles where important works of modern art watched over us. The Thanksgiving table, a setting for twelve dominated the space in front of the huge window that overlooked the vineyards, the lake, and the Dents du Midi. Baccarat crystal, Christolfe silver, and Bernadaud china were positioned on hand-embroidered place mats with motifs of Swiss Alpine origin. In the middle of the rectangular but hand-hewn farmhouse table were two flower arrangements with orange roses, green pine needles, and miniature fir cones.
I can’t remember each of the twelve. There was Karen, myself, Monsieur and Madame des Beauchamps, a couple, I believe Edward and Elizabeth from Kansas City, he working for Citibank, and a young woman, Molly, an American, another American from Minneapolis visiting Molly, a Dutch couple, he working for the International Herald Tribune, but posted in Geneva. There was another couple, I think a banker with Credit Suisse and his wife, but they were at the opposite end of the table. Most of the conversation was in English although the Dutch couple and the banker couple of course spoke excellent French.
Tradition dictates that most special occasions begin with Champagne. And this was no exception. Just the right amount of time was allowed by Madame des Beauchamps for all the guests to arrive, enjoy a flute or two of Champagne, size each other up, and then dinner was served.
The meal began with a cocktail of crab and hearts of palm on a bed of butter lettuce with a sauce Louis accompanied by a crisp Swiss white Dezaley. Next, came not the moribund turkey that I was accustomed to, but a magnificent Bresse chicken, prepared with a cream sauce laced with mushrooms. A medley of sautéed vegetables was there for those not mesmerized by the chicken. A Pommard from Burgundy was the perfect wine pairing for this dish. Dessert was a delicious combination of fresh de-veined blood orange slices and a lemon sorbet with a dollop of crème fraiche. Coffee and Kirschwasser–a Swiss aquavit based on cherries and the omnipresent squares of individually wrapped chocolates finished us off.
I remember that after dinner we all moved to the living room where now we could see Evian’s lights across the lake. It seems that at least some of the conversations touched on the nostalgia of Thanksgivings past with families and friends at homes in the United States. As the afterglow began to wear off, first the Dutch couple thanked the hostess and wished us all well and said their adieux. And once a break is made, a general exodus slowly but surely follows. Karen and I too thanked the hostess and elaborated on her thoughtfulness, the excellence of the meal and the good camaraderie that her generosity had provided.
I’ve always liked Thanksgiving more than Christmas, less stress and less competition. And I have many great memories of my own small family and my extended family particularly while my grandmother was still the matriarch without rival. But I will always mark down my unexpected Swiss Thanksgiving as one of the best.
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