|
EYE ON EUROPE |
 |
|
|
 "I looked down and was surprised to see hundreds of black seeds clinging to the honey all over my body, like a colony of black ants looking for something to bite." |
Things you never thought
you could do with grapes
By MICHAEL JOHNSON
of TheColumnists.com
BORDEAUX, France
When I first heard of something called vinotherapy I assumed it was a fancy term for what the Australians call getting pissed. Down in Sydney it’s considered therapeutic to dull the senses with a couple of bottles of local wines.
I was curious to know what it really was, though, so I asked my doctor. He seemed to be agreeing with my first notion. He laughed and made the French heavy-drinking gesture of head tossed back and thumb in mouth. “That’s the only vinotherapy I know,” he said.
I decided to dig deeper into the practice, and discovered it has nothing to do with getting hammered. It’s a new process of applying balms and creams based on white grape pits to slow the aging of skin. Women are going crazy for these antioxidant skin products, mainly under the Caudalie brand in upmarket shops around the world.
The center of the Caudalie phenomenon is just 15 minutes from my front door, so I decided to inquire at the source about getting a closer look. At my age, my skin resembles sandpaper, so knew it was time to do something anyway. Here was a chance to be a minor-league George Plimpton and engage in a few hours of participatory journalism.
The receptionist bounced my call to a PR agency where a lady named Marie leapt into action. Within a day I had an appointment for what they call a “programme,” a grape juice bath and special massage to prove to this investigative journalist that the antioxidants contained in grape pits can stop your skin from self-destructing.
When I turned up for my programme, I had a bad case of the jitters. I had never had a massage but I knew nudity was involved. I had seen this in gangster movies. The massé usually gets shot while stretched out naked.
But the staff was used to my reticence and cooed soothingly as they led me to a private room with an enormous tub, its bottom and sides pierced with about 50 menacing power-jet holes of various sizes.
“Er, I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” I stammered.
“Pas de problème,” chirped the girl in charge of this phase of my treatment. She handed me a tiny triangle of cloth with a couple of strings sewn on the points. “Just slip this on. You’ll be fine.” She turned her back as I fiddled with it, finally getting the right strings and the pouch in place.
“Now let’s get you into the water,” she said, a bit patronizingly, I thought. I am not that infirm yet.
She helped me slide into place as she emptied a big vial of grape essence into the warm water. Then she flipped a switch.
The water erupted with a violent surge that lifted me off the bottom. Bubbles and foam roiled to the surface. The roar was deafening and I had to hang on to the sides to keep from going under. A headline flashed before my eyes:
Thong-clad Plimpton
copycat
Drowns in tub of grape juice
The grape solution was actually a combination of seeds, skins and pulp of white grapes that vineyards put aside after pressing the grapes for white wine. Before the Caudalie people came along, this sludge was disposed of as waste.
With the help of a Bordeaux University chemist, they discovered that the seeds contain a rich polyphenol, an antioxidant that retards the aging of skin. Lancôme had tried a similar product a few years earlier but withdrew it from the market when it was discovered to be unstable. The Caudalie team managed to stabilize the polyphenols.
In the past six or seven years the process has been refined and applied at the spa near Bordeaux. Other Caudalie spas have been opened in Italy and Spain, and soon to come are installations at New York’s Plaza Hotel and the trendy ski resort Gstaad. Franchises are operating in Sonoma County, in Brazil, in Taipei and at the Hotel Meurice in Paris.
In the tub, tried to stay alert while fighting for my life, wondering how I would report that this was a good experience. After a half hour the attendant switched off the power and I climbed out, shaking like a leaf.
“This is normal,” mademoiselle said when she noticed my wretched state. “Soon you’ll feel fine.” She handed me a towel.
The recovery room is a sunlit deck that overlooks hundreds of acres of vineyards. At this time of year the vineyards are at their most restful -lush foliage in a range of deep greens. The grapes are just starting to form. I was served a cup of herbal tea to help me come down. I think I passed out for a few minutes.
After a quarter of an hour, a small but perfectly formed girl named Alexandrine led me to a private massage room. She invited me to hang up my robe, leaving me standing there in my triangle.
“I’ve never done this before,” I explained pathetically.
“Relax. Just lie down on your front,” she said with a combination of encouragement and professional control.
As I settled in, she approached my head and showed me something that might have come from the kitchen: a bowl of honey, oil and raw grape seeds. “This is our secret,” she said.
Without further warning, she attacked my legs with a handful of her potion, raking the seeds across my flesh with impressive power. “This will be good for you,” she promised. Yeah, I thought, like a lot of things that hurt.
I asked her where such a small person found such superhuman strength. “I go to the gym a lot,” she said flexing her biceps. I made a mental note to behave.
A half hour of this vinotherapy--back and front--had released a charge of antioxidants into my system, and body chemistry was doing the rest.
“You may rinse now,” Alexandrine said, indicating the adjacent shower stall. I looked down and was surprised to see hundreds of black seeds clinging to the honey all over my body, like a colony of black ants looking for something to bite.
“This is not pretty,” I managed.
Alexandrine smiled and indicated the shower stall again. “No soap,” she added.
Once shed of my seeds, I emerged glistening and lay down on the table again on my front. Then came the soothing part. For an hour, Alexandrine applied hot oil almost everywhere, periodically whispering, “Ca va?” (Everything okay?) I told her I wasn’t sure.
Once on my feet again I could see the effects of the treatment. My skin had lost its pebbles and the wrinkles seem to have disappeared. I gradually stopped shaking and I promised Alexandrine I would be back.
The next morning at home after dressing I found two grape seeds on my bathroom floor. I can’t imagine where they had been.
©2007 by Michael Johnson. The illustration
by the author is also ©2007 by Michael Johnson. This column
first posted July 2, 2007.
You
can comment on this column online. Please address your message
to either "The Editors" or Michael Johnson. To send
an email, click here and don't forget to mention Michael's name:
talkback@thecolumnists.com
|
|
|
Archives |
|
|