Public Indecency in Monte Carlo
A new travel series
The Greatest Coffee Shop in the World series sees caffeine addict John Paul Brammer marrying his two passions of Travel and Giving Himself Heart Palpitations in Cafés to produce colorful field notes that will be especially useful to, one imagines, gay manic-depressives.
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In Mediterranean culture, working on your laptop in a coffee shop is considered somewhat akin to public masturbation. Pulling out your MacBook may as well be unzipping your pants and whipping it out—either way, a repulsed barista will stop you. You can try to explain you’re not trading stocks, rather you’re producing literature, but this, in my experience, will not get you terribly far, monsieur.
If after sheepishly putting your wretched little device away you attempt to order a cold coffee drink, the local population will all but prepare the torches and pitchforks (assuming they ever get around to it). This is to say the native coffee culture and attitudes regarding work has made my time here in Monte Carlo a bit challenging. “Laptop” and “Caffeine” are cornerstones of my culture and, were I a country unto myself, there would be festivals celebrating them, complete with sacrifices.
However: after five days of struggle, you’ll be delighted to know that I now sit sipping an iced latte beside two fellow perverts; women in blazers typing away on MacBooks. We’re operating on card tables strewn about outside with seemingly no organizational intention and drinking what I’ve learned is basically “Italian Starbucks,” but nonetheless I’m here at Casa Del Caffè, which is, to the best of my knowledge, the greatest coffee shop in Monte Carlo, where I can recount in vivid detail my experiences in this strange microstate.
Monte Carlo is first of all bizarre simply for being one of those places I was sure I’d die without seeing, such as Panevėžys, Lithuania, or Daytona, Florida. I was fine with that. If I had the opportunity, yes, I’d go absolutely everywhere. I’m just plain nosy. But “everywhere” isn’t practical on a writer’s budget, and thus I operate on a whimsical system of being led to my various destinations by a personal sense of prophecy—see my nascent plans for Catemaco, Mexico’s “witchcraft capital” on a lake in Veracruz, where I can quite easily picture myself drinking an iced Americano sitting cross-legged beside a shaman in some kind of headdress.
I was never prophesied to be in Monte Carlo, and so I’d never bothered envisioning it. Upon learning, however, that my dad had “won a trip” there for the family, I found myself scrambling to mosaic something out of imagined stereotypes. My Mental Monaco (the country and city are basically interchangeable) was a giant, elegant casino where Bond villains in tuxedos holding cigars in white-gloved hands played roulette, flanked by beautiful women in expensive, shiny gowns with daggers strapped to their thighs. This nation-sized casino was Euro-genteel with chandeliers and velvet, and had none of those vulgar slot machines with vaguely racist theming that can be found, for example, in Comanche Nation Casino in Lawton, Oklahoma, into the maw of which was thrown every last of my dear abuelita’s nickels (note: Dark! Cut?) (note to note: Eh!).
This private vision of Monaco led to some discomfort on my end when divulging I was going there, as if it were the same as confessing that I come from a wealthy family that earned their bajillions in some uniquely immoral trade, and while none of that is true I would nonetheless communicate my travel plans to friends with a wince and in a befuddled tone, a song and dance that, it might bewilder you to learn, no one had much patience for. “Poor you,” my buddy and barista in Brooklyn said (I was clueing him into my itinerary, as my absence in this Brooklyn coffee shop for even three days might result in a wellness check).
Part of the reason I had so little to work with re: stereotypes about Monaco was that Monaco is a microstate. The rude creature of my brain kept trying to conjure up assumptions within the framework of ethnicity, which doesn’t quite work in this context. A person living in Monaco is called a Monegasque. Very few people are from there, it being 500 acres, and it being a tax haven for the ultra wealthy. I tried, and failed, to imagine a proud diasporic Monegasque at a house party in Park Slope, bragging about their Monegasque cuisine, and their Monegasque traditions, and, oh, isn’t their Monegasque grandmother a firecracker! But alas, I couldn’t picture it, as that sort of thing is reserved for nations with standing armies.
I couldn’t for the life of me imagine where Monaco sourced the yin to its yang, that acidic presence that makes the whole thing sing—the holes in the walls, the crunchy dive bars, the sweaty street carts that sizzle and sputter far below the penthouses. I, like most cosmopolitans who consider themselves Real Travelers, seek this element out wherever I go, believing it’s where the Good Stuff is. I anticipated Monaco would be an overpriced fancy cake that was all piped icing in the shape of rosettes, and that I’d quickly get sick of it.
Let me spoil it: Monaco is a place I’m not likely to return to. But it’s also a place that, to my total surprise, I greatly enjoyed, and I enjoyed it in an uncomplicated way, the way a child enjoys Six Flags or ice cream for dinner. This isn’t at all the way I enjoy much of anything. Monaco unlocked some secret personality in me that I wasn’t aware of. Monaco made me want to buy a sports car. Monaco made me want to lie supine on the deck of a yacht. Monaco made me want to punctuate my sentences with “darling,” darling.
Anyone interested in my analysis of Monegasque culture, or in tips on where to go there, or in the answer to the question of if my quest to find the Greatest Coffee Shop in the World ends here, are welcome to my field notes.
June 9: Our accommodations are in Beausoleil, which is French, and which takes its soleil theme very seriously. Its sidewalks are embossed with lovely, judgmental French suns. We’re set up in the shadow of an unattractive blue tower, upon which sits the most expensive penthouse in the entire world. The entire world? I suppose it had to be somewhere.
June 9: There’s a Napolese pizzeria on the French border with Monaco (I don’t care if Monaco is basically France, I intend to point out the absurdity of these borders at every opportunity) that has maybe the best pizza crust I’ve ever had. Fans of pizza crust simply must go. It’s called La Chamade Lab. There’s also an Italian man who works there I call Mr. Waiter. I ordered a salad with tuna and the pizza ragú, though Mr. Waiter thought I’d only ordered the salad, which earned me his Italian ire.
My family has a tradition that shows up on Christmas, birthdays, and mealtime. Whenever someone gets a gift or their plate comes out, we all go “Oooh!” This is ironic. The joke is that nothing in the box or on the plate is likely to alter our fates much. Mr. Waiter brings everyone’s pizzas and my salad out, all of which are met by familial “Oooh’s!”
“It is a salad!” he declares, setting my bowl down in front of me with a disgusted look on his face. “Do not ‘Oooh’ it!” He apparently either believes I’m an adult with an eating disorder that’s being actively encouraged by my parents, or I’m an incredibly vain creature prioritizing macros over the proud culinary traditions of Naples.
“Pizza ragú?” one of the employees asks the restaurant, holding up my pizza, and when I claim it Mr. Waiter sets it down before me and then shakes my hand in apology. “You have ordered,” he says, “our best pizza. The best pizza on the menu.” He bows a little, then proudly proclaims to my parents, “He is normal!” as if he’d just facilitated my birth.
June 9: Invisible companion of mine, the coffee situation here is more dire than I could have imagined. I’ll not last much longer. This morning, I had to rely on the espresso machine. I fed it a little red cup and it spewed out some weak, aerated sludge that my brain (used to a matutinal caffeine gut punch) absolutely does not respect. It remains asleep inside my skull no matter how many of these pathetic little red cups I pelt it with. I will flee France and see if the country of Monaco can address my situation.
June 8: Entering France from Monaco is an unceremonious and invisible process. The border is a sidewalk that doesn’t announce itself. Two French teens loitering by a long flight of stairs ask me for a euro, and when I say “sorry, no,” accompanied by the international body language for “I’m broke!” they shrug and walk away. This interaction is what likely passes for street crime here in the principality of Monaco.
Monaco is a principality. It’s ruled by a prince, not a king. It’s a protectorate of France. The current prince is Albert Grimaldi, son of Prince Rainier III and Grace Kelly. It’s important to note that I’m thinking about Monaco being a principality as I turn a corner and am met with a grand palatial casino of such beauty that a Catholic saint could comfortably be buried beneath its foundations. My Mental Monaco turns out to be pretty on the money (ha) in at least this respect: this is a casino for royalty and for spies wearing Rolexes with little cyanide compartments.
It strikes me now, leaving the gorgeous casino and walking past Hermès and Gucci and Goyard on a sun-drenched boulevard with ocean vistas, that Monte Carlo may in fact be an incredibly honest city, in the way that Las Vegas is honest: obvious and unapologetic in its vice, its “underbelly” fully exposed. “Fully exposed” is what’s on my mind walking down this bright boulevard; 500 acres of non-mystery. To tickle myself, I imagine my favorite YouTuber, Zazza the Italian1, trying to find “the most dangerous neighborhood in Monaco” and turning up empty-handed after a brief interview with the teens who asked me for a euro, and who are, technically, in France.
I’m sure there’s all sorts of funny business at play here. Why would France tolerate anything that smacks of monarchy? How did Monaco pull all this off? I imagine Monaco as a neotenic organism reaping the benefits of a perpetual juvenile phase, a forever-prince with none of the responsibilities or complications of a king, delighting in the advantages of stunted growth.
June 8: I’m lucky caffeine is a socially acceptable drug. If it weren’t, people would stop associating with me. Ezra (my friend, he’s here too, and speaks français) and I pass a sign for “Coffre Forts,” which is very obviously selling metal safes, but which my brain convinces me is by some miracle of Monegasque cultural interference selling “Coffee Strong” (Oh, how interesting! Here in Monaco it’s not “café,” but “coffre!!!”) and which prompts me to say, out loud and with a manic chuckle, “Haha, what do you think this store is?!”
We pass a restaurant called “Le Cedre Bleu,” which my eyes contort into “Le Cold Brew,” and I’m starting to feel like I’m in one of those Looney Tunes episodes where one of the characters is starving to death and starts having hallucinations of his friend as a giant honeyed ham with legs (imagine Ezra as a sloshing glass of cold brew with a splash of oat milk).
Out of desperation, I purchase a gallon of oat milk at some French equivalent to Whole Foods in Beausoleil, unsure when I’ll encounter another gallon of oat milk and thinking I can bring it home and put some four red espresso cups into a glass to make an iced latte. I end up giving this gallon of oat milk a grand tour of its home country.
June 8: For whatever reason, I’m responding to every Grindr message I receive on the French Riviera with an old-school emoticon such as :) or ;). Why this is my Grindr personality here is anyone’s guess. According to the horny gay data, most people in this area stay in Nice, France, and consider Monaco a day trip. I’m relieved to find I’m not the only person who feels compelled to distance themselves from the sort of person who actively wants to be here: “It’s great if you like gambling and expensive restaurants I guess,” says the Canadian 5’11” white athletic bottom, looking for dates and fun.
June 8: I almost buy this bizarre shirt that reads “Old-Where 86,” which I initially misread as “Old-Whore 86,” which excites and confuses me, but it’s a bit too small for me and anyway what if it’s some niche Monegasque cultural reference that would get me beaten by the $2,000 velvet nightsticks carried by the Monegasque police, dressed in Hermès?
June 8: I’m carrying this fucking gallon of oat milk all over this tiny country. I don’t know if I’ll be allowed into the aquarium or Grace Kelly’s tomb with it. I’m imagining it as the true Prince of Monaco, swaddled in a cloth grocery sack. “Look,” I will whisper to it near Grace Kelly’s tomb, “your mother’s resting place. It was her greatest wish to see you ascend to the throne or whatever chair principality’s use and lead the House of Grimaldi. In time, we will oust the great pretender. Your beloved Monegasques will celebrate in the streets, a great wrong having been righted.”
June 9: Tried to get a latte from a Chinese restaurant but they only took cash. The boulangerie next door accepted cards, and I’m now sitting outside drinking an incredibly mid lukewarm latte. The pigeons here all have one thing wrong with one foot. I suspect this is only the case here on the French side of things and I’ll confirm later if the Monegasque pigeons are unafflicted.
June 9: Monte Carlo, famous for hosting fancy car races, has achieved something that growing up in the USA has not—I want a car. Nothing about car culture in the USA has ever made them feel desirable to me, but here in Monaco, which celebrates race cars with feline curves and plush leather interiors, I’m starting to see a more effete, luxurious appeal of automobiles, and my brain is associating them more with outrageously expensive handbags and watches, and, now, I want one.
June 9: Another thing I now want is what I call the Time Rifle. It’s a gun that’s also a clock. I don’t think the gun actually works, but imagine! I would mount it over my fireplace and when one of my guests asked for the time I’d say, “let me consult the weapon.”
June 10: Amazing little phenomenon. The people walking around Monte Carlo in the daytime look like generic tourists, the lazy, leisurely rich you see in cities like these in khakis, white crew socks, and loafers. But, just as the sun starts to set, the women shoot up to seven feet tall. I saw what I think is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, a giantess wearing a silk headscarf and bug-eyed sunglasses in homage to classic black-and-white movies, dark skin radiating a supple red heat. She was standing near the steps of the casino, waiting, I imagine, for some wealthy man to meet her. There are many tall women in the square in front of the casino, near sunset.
June 11: The Monegasque pigeons, sure enough, have all their toes intact, and I imagine they dread family reunions with the rugged pigeons in Beausoleil, who are rowdy when drunk and uncouth, un-coo-th, but are nonetheless tolerated out of obligation.
June 12: One notable thing about Monte Carlo, it being a freakishly rich pseudo-country, is that it has public infrastructure that registers to this New Yorker as flatly unhinged and dreamlike. There are elevators absolutely everywhere. There are several outdoor escalators, an outdoor escalator being something that, to me, looked weirdly and inappropriately naked.
June 12: I didn’t want to include much of the French Riviera as this is already running long, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that there’s a French town some fifteen minutes away by train that I highly recommend. It’s called Menton, and the people there worship lemons. They sell lemon magnets and skinny bottles of award-winning limoncello and jars of lemon compote and most people are eager to talk about lemons. One woman flagged us down from the street to discuss the yellow wares in her shop. She gave us a sample of lemon liquor in tiny paper cups and let us try a gelato made out of lemon pith and told us that, of all the lemon-related products available here in Menton, her shop certainly had the finest. “Twelve days!” she said, when asked how long she’d lived here.
June 13: It’s 3 AM and I’m rushing to meet a deadline for this essay for a New York magazine, and I'm having a slight panic attack from all the caffeine I had today at Casa Del Caffé, the Greatest Coffee Shop in Monte Carlo, and, yes, I do feel incredibly glamorous, here in this principality, where I’m not likely to be again. Our vices just aren’t compatible.
Zazza! My beloved Zazza…
The beginning of a series, I hope!
Reminds me of trying to order *iced* tea in Toronto. "You are American?" the waitress asked, judging me, but politely.
Oh I love LOVE this piece! I kept laughing throughout. You have such a unique way of telling a story.