Hippodrome de Longchamp
Losing money in style.
The Bois de Boulogne park is famous for the Roland Garros stadium, Paris Longchamp racecourse and the "belles de jour" ladies who trade kinky favours from motorhomes. Whilst all three sound thrilling, only one of these activities allows you to get drunk and lose money at the same time, so I’m off to horses. We’ll see if we can swing round to the other places on the way back. Madame Coco’s Shaggin’ Wagon stays open late on Thursdays. So I’ve heard.
According to the website, the Hippodrome de Longchamp is apparently a ‘must-visit venue on the Parisian social scene’, so I’ve tried to dress up a bit. I’m wearing a Barbour jacket and a flat cap that I thought might make me look posh but in fact gives me the air of a man who would sell you a sheep from the back of an old Landrover. Almost immediately after arriving someone asks me if I’m Irish, which I choose to take as a compliment.
I’ve never placed a bet before, so I ask the young man at the booth how it works. He takes this request literally and begins to give me a lesson in the basic principles of gambling “You see, the horses that are the favourites have low odds so if you pick them you win less money.” This goes on for a while but he is so friendly that I just stand there nodding. When he’s done I’m fully clued up and in need of a drink.
Though still early, the bar is already filling up with lots of different characters. It’s all going on in here, there’s big TVs to watch other races and machines to place bets. The place really stinks of hotdogs and I inevitably end up buying one and eating it so quickly I nearly choke on it. The whole thing is gone in under a minute. Now nourished and with a beer inside me, I decide to ask someone for advice on what to bet on.
I look around and see a lot of varying styles going on in the bar. There are people who, unlike me, have succeeded in dressing posh, some old fellas that look like they hang around at the track all day, and a man sporting the most outrageously colourful suit. I even spot a couple of young guys in full matching tracksuits who look like their Mums’ still make their dinner. I’m not asking them for tips, I think to myself, and instead approach one of the old timers paying close attention to a TV.
The senior looks at me like I’m an idiot and brushes me off with such derision that I get embarrassed and decide to go out and just pick a horse on my own. With my ticket in hand, I wait by the edge of the track for the beasts to start running. Mine comes in third and I win nothing.
It is thrilling though, I think, as I head back to the bar. The horses are so beautiful, the area is green and refreshing. You can even see the Eiffel tower poking up above the treeline. The crowd in the bar has doubled now and it occurs to me that most of this lot came here just to watch the races on the screens rather than see them in the flesh. I fight the urge to get a second hotdog and instead grab a wine to take outside. “Hey,” a man says as I’m leaving the bar, “there’s that Irish guy.”
Outside on the other side of the building is a little fenced off bit where they lead the horses around before the race to give you a chance to look at them. There’s also a space where the winning horse poses for a photo, which for some reason I find hilarious. I make more bets and lose more money. It seems I’m not very good at this. While topping up on sauvignon at the bar I notice one of the tracksuit kids going up to claim his winnings. I can’t see how much it is but it’s all in 100 euro notes.
Despite the fact I’m haemorrhaging cash, I find Longchamp a very agreeable place to hang out. The building is impressive, the natural surroundings are lovely and there are a lot of interesting people to look at. Given that it’s only a three euro entry fee and you aren’t forced to gamble, you could just soak it all up while drinking wine that is no more expensive than it would be in any Paris bar. Perhaps it’s time to leave and use the rest of my money for some other activities. Then a suave looking gentleman sits down at my table with his racing paper.
“Irish?” he asks me. I shake my head and inquire about his newspaper. If I read that, will I know how to pick the right horse? “You’ll probably be worse off than knowing nothing..” he replies. “You have to look at the horses, really look at them to know which will win.” He gestures over at the parading area where the next set are doing their pre-race walkaround.
I’m struck by a beautiful grey mare who might just be the prettiest horse I’ve ever seen. Then a brown one goes by that looks utterly insane and I decide I’ll bet on that one instead. As I’m passing by the suave gent, he holds up five fingers and two thumbs. “Seven...” he says with a wink.
I place the bet with odds that would not only cover my losses for the afternoon but even make up for the fact that I didn’t go to work today. I have no idea what horse number seven looks like and I’m delighted to discover it is the pretty mare I had my eye on. The race kicks off and my heart is beating hard. There is a pack of five that pull away from the rest and my horse is at the back of them. As they get to the home straight she starts accelerating. Fourth, third, second, she is gaining on the leader but will she have enough time?
No. She comes in second, just a nose away. I look for the suave man in the garden bar but he is gone and so is all my money. I thoroughly enjoyed my day but I’m cleaned out so it’s time to go home. No point heading over to the Shaggin’ Wagons of Bois de Boulogne now. Madame Coco doesn’t do credit. So I’ve heard.