High Life
Nose in. trough
Taki
Gstaad I've said it before and I'll say it yet again. icome wintertime, there is no place as beautiful as Gstaad, and no resort as much fun to be at. Once the high season is over, that is. By high season I mean the time of Year when the place is crawling with people Who consider themselves important. The Important types ascend on Gstaad during Christmas and New Year, and then again during the month of February. Along with the hawk-eyed important types come the mercantile class that sell the former the expensive trinkets that are de rigueur for the nouveaux. During February, the repre- sentatives of the avenging angels of Zion (the screwing you get for the screwing we got 12 years ago) whose firms go by names like Gerard, Cartier, Van Cleef and Harry Winston, wage all out war on each other trying to land the oil-rich invaders. The Palace and the Olden, two of Gstaad's most elegant eateries, are as packed as, say, Saudi private jets will be if Khomeini's hordes ever decide to go south. Thankfully, the high season ends early, especially this year. (One of the reasons I Will always respect British justice is for its timing. I was let out of prison two days before the season ended in Gstaad. There- fore I thank the Home Secretary for keeping me out of Gstaad during the high season, as well as in England in future.) During March the village reverts to type, !.e. a mountain resort of great beauty and In, formality, where visitors and locals blend In Perfectly, and where a good-natured atmosphere prevails. Unlike their French neighbours; and even their compatriots in Verbier (or Belgravia sur les Alpes) the Gstaad big wheels have refused to sanction the frenetic expansion that has turned most ski resorts into Centre Points with snow. All new construction, including that of hotels, is required to follow the traditional style of the region, and there have been no exceptions despite the shouting of greedy and developers. One of my favourite dining places is the Post Hotel, where Ernest Hemingway first stayed back in 1921. The dining room hasn't changed since Papa's days, and, more important, no important types have as yet discovered it. My first evening in Gstaad I dined there with friends, drank three bottles of white Fendant wine and ate the Bernese Oberland version of the Pen- tonville mashed potato, the roesti. Moving into the Palace Hotel, probably the best of its kind anywhere on earth, was not as dramatic an experience as I thought it would be. I guess it had to do with -the hotel's personnel. They all lined up and greeted me like the proverbial prodigal guest, and no one said anything until I broke the ice — upon seeing a well-known backgammon hustler and ex-tennis hustler — and proclaimed a desire to go back to Pentonville. Luigi Melina, the world's greatest bar-tender, and the most indis- creet too, went over the top, embraced me, and being Italian declared that it was all the fault of those Inglese di merda. The owner, Ernst Scherz, gave me the most luxurious suite, sent me flowers and fruit, and being Swiss, charged me per day what it costs the CND per month for anti- American demonstrations. The local book- store had my latest opus in the window, and the owner informed me that my latest publicity stunt had pushed the book to numero uno where Gstaad is concerned. (Polanski's apologia was numero dos.) Which goes to prove that criminals and intellectuals are one and the same.
Speaking of notoriety, I had always suspected that it was the same as celebrity, but now I know for sure. Since I arrived I have been deluged with invitations by the people who own chalets here, but for once I have decided to cool it. After all, why should I come to the aid of hostesses who have run out of things to say to each other following three months of partying and intimate little get-togethers for hundreds of their closest friends? From the very first day I decided that if they were desperate for the latest gossip from Pentonville they would have to find out for themselves. I did, however, make three exceptions.
My old mentor, William F. Buckley, who lives in a 15th-century château nearby, was one. Bill, his son Christopher and his (Christo's) wife Lucy, gave a grand dinner in my honour which was attended by such luminaries as Alistair Home, John Ken- neth Galbraith, Roger Moore (the worst skier since Sean Connery) and some peo- ple from the White House even I don't dare mention. Also a Romanoff or two, and the de rigeur billionaire bankers. Sea- ted on the right of the hostess I mused what trouble I had to go through to finally make it to the top of the Gstaad guest list. But joking apart, it was the most moving moment since I heard some cons banging their cups against the doors on the morning of my departure as a guest of Her Majesty. I owe Buckley a lot (and he has a lot to answer for to the Engkish-speaking world for giving me my start as a writer) and his latest gesture simply compounds the in- terest on the debt. Next week I will tell you about an Eagle Club coup d'etat that failed and the other two bashes in my honour. For my dishonour, rather.
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