Alcohol and Alpine mountaineering

The refuge is run by guardian Gérard. “He’s evil,” averred my guide Rob on our way up to the refuge. We’d been talking about this and that, and our conversation had touched on the topic of alcohol and mountaineering. I’d said I was surprised at how much some alpinists drank — particularly, I asserted, some of the older ones. While acknowledging the achievements of the pioneers on their diet of butter and schnapps, I’d been saying — probably rather piously — that for me alcohol and altitude didn’t mix well, and that while I was as happy as the next man to have a beer or two back down in the safety of the valley, I preferred to abstain while there was serious mountaineering to be done.

I gathered that the reason for Rob’s assessment was Gérard’s propensity to offer visitors — especially guides — generous hospitality in the form of alcohol. “He likes me to join him in the kitchen for a few drinks before dinner,” said Rob. “And after. So be careful.”

We got to the hut in time for lunch. I ordered a salad mixte, and was presented with a giant plate of lettuce, sweetcorn (maize), beetroot, grated carrot, olives, tuna, lardons and croutons. I ate as much as I could and offered the rest to Rob, who polished it off. Then to bed for a while for a rest. Later, back in the common room around five o’clock, two mates were chatting to Gérard through the kitchen hatch, with a bottle on the table behind.

Rob emerged from the guide’s bedroom and joined me. Gérard’s mates had disappeared, and there were only 6 of us staying the night. Some time after six there were the first signs of dinner preparation as plates and cutlery were put out on one of the tables. Heading back to the kitchen, Gérard looked over in our direction and said something. I didn’t catch his words, but smiled politely and nodded.

“You’ve done it now,” muttered Rob.

“What?” I asked.

“He’s offered us an aperitif. What will you have? You can’t refuse now.”

“Wine,” I said, following Rob over to the hatch. “A small one. A glass.”

Rob did his best. The concept of a single glass of wine was obviously too far-fetched, but after some searching on the highest shelf in the kitchen Gérard produced a small quarter-litre wine jug, filled it with red wine, and passed it through the hatch. The list of drinks offered by the refuge was pinned up by the hatch: the smallest quantity of wine listed was half a litre. I took the jug and a glass, and looked at Rob. He shrugged, and went to join Gérard in the kitchen.

I should have learned my lesson, but my guard was still down. After dinner the six of us round the table were chatting idly and piling up the used plates and cutlery. Someone took a pile over to the hatch; I followed with the rest. Gérard smiled beneath his bushy black moustache. “Was everything OK?” he asked. I said, yes, we’d eaten very well. And foolishly continued, explaining that this was the first time I’d stayed in a French mountain refuge, and that I’d found the food better than in the Swiss and Italian ones I’d been in before. Gérard nodded in appreciation and turned back to the kitchen while I went back to the table. A moment later he re-appeared, clutching six shot glasses and an unlabelled bottle sealed with a much-used cork, three-quarters filled with a slightly cloudy honey-coloured liquid.

He poured a shot into each glass, and passed them towards us. Trying not to catch anyone’s eye, and conscious of Rob’s withering stare, I smiled at Gérard and thanked him. The drink was génépi, I gathered, home-made of course. It tasted of honey and herbs and the eau-de-vie used as its base. It was my turn to shrug: what the hell, I thought, at least I should sleep well tonight. And tomorrow, I’ll keep my mouth shut.