Roland Garros
An Olympic booze-ban-busting special!
“Mate,” says the posh boy in the queue behind me. “Coca Cola is totally killing it at this Olympics...” He’s in his late twenties and has wrap-around sunglasses and a headband on. If matching pyjamas or Coldplay was a person it would be this guy.
“Yeah, mate…” says his equally posh friend, “Pepsi less so.”
They were referring to the blanket branding for the fizzy drink company, which is dominating everything in eyeshot. I’ve been told that there is no alcohol allowed at the Olympics and Coke has seemingly taken over almost every food and beverage kiosk. It feels a bit like fascism if Ronald Mcdonald was the dictator.
We are in line at a candy shop in the middle of the Roland Garros concourse. I’m here because I already spent 20 minutes waiting at a Costa Coffee when all I wanted was a bottle of water which they didn’t have. Coffee and Coca Cola I understand, but a candy shop? Who buys sweets to watch a tennis match? These two over-eager lads standing behind me, apparently.
“Look out!” says the first one, pretending to theatrically lunge at the pick-n-mix.
“You are an absolute madman!” his mate says, taking a picture to capture the insanity. I’ve been going to professional football matches for 30 years but this is the first time I’ve paid to see tennis. The differences between the two are far broader than just the amount of available Haribo but one thing the football does have is beer. Here is the rub though: I know there is booze around somewhere. My mission today is to find it.
My seat is in the Philippe Chatrier court and as I take my place it occurs to me that I have no idea who is playing. When I bought the ticket it only said Men’s Singles or Women’s Singles and ‘subject to change’. Anyone playing at this level would be worthy of watching, but I’m more than happy when the young American starlet Coco Gauff waltzes out onto the court.
The world number two is up against Donna Vekic of Croatia and my view is from an angle that allows you to appreciate the absolute ferocity of the balls they are hitting at each other. Gauff seems to be running away with the match and at one point is leading Vekic by five games to two. Then there is a turning point.
At the end of an epic volley where she was hanging on for dear life, Vekic manages to find a spot along the byline that Coco just can’t reach. She offers the crowd a shrug that is dripping with cool self-confidence and for the first time they start chanting her name. This is followed by another gruelling exchange that Gauff wins in equally spectacular fashion before revving the crowd up herself.
Vekic finally takes the first set 7-6 and the players get a break from the unforgiving sun. All the Costa Coffee and candy shop mineral water has made me want to take a break of my own but getting through the crowds towards the toilet is going to be tricky. Then, an invisible door opens and I follow the people through it.
The cool freshness of an air conditioned room. Plate glass with a superb view of the court. A full menu and private barman. When I realise that there is no money changing hands at the bar I know that I’m in an executive box. I also know damn well that I’m not supposed to be in here. Though when life hands you an opportunity like this, you have to take advantage.
There’s a full wine list to read but weather such as this demands rosé. They have one from a Provence, along with a Grenache and a recommended Gourmand, which they describe as having ‘dominant notes of red berries’ and a ‘round and crisp’ palette. I walk straight up to the bar and with a poker face point at the bottle.
The match has started again but now I don’t want to leave this wonderful place. I rather enjoy watching these two incredible athletes battle it out as I contemplate the wine’s ‘slight sweetness that balances its liveliness’. Gently caressed by the AC, I slip into a seat and try not to blow my cover. The wine goes down far too smoothly though, and before long I need a refill.
The room has largely thinned out, as the other, genuine VIP guests have gone back to their seats. I no longer have the anonymity of the group but I’m able to secure the second glass with little hassle. I should really have left things there but, like Icarus, I’d already flown too close to the sun and been blinded by the juiciness it has instilled in these grapes. By the time I approach the bar for a third time the barman had changed and the new one eyes me with deep suspicion before handing me the glass.
Coco at this point is in a heated disagreement with the umpire over a disputed call. She is clearly rattled and knows the game is slipping away from her. I have problems of my own though, as I am tapped on the shoulder and asked to show my VIP bracelet. A young female member of staff, who had done nothing since I’d been here but hang around the bar and flirt with the barman, now grinning with glee at the prospect of booting me out. I immediately switch to English to buy myself some time and feign utter ignorance.
The girl goes over to consult her boss and look for security but it is already too late. Vekic has finally finished poor Coco off, leaving the 20 year old in tears. I down my last gulp of rosé, head for the exit and disappear into the crowd. The winner of Roland Garros hospitality is me. Game, set and match.
Roland Garros - 2 avenue Gordon Bennett, 75016, Paris.