Murder House

A Votre Service – At Your Service

“Coucou!” Monsieur Bar Fly is drunk. It’s two in the afternoon, and JL has been here all day, swilling pint after pint of Cardinal beer. He steps outside every five minutes to smoke. He’s lonely. Bored. And I’m one of two people at this auberge (inn) he can target. I try to blend with the dining room furniture when JL finds me again. “Coucou!” I’ve already seen him several times this week, and feel familiar enough and annoyed enough to let him have it: “Pas ‘coucou!’ N’avez vous rien de faire toute la journee?”

Translation: “No ‘coucou’ [in this case, ‘hello’ and ‘peek-a-boo’ at once]. Don’t you have anything to do all day?” No. It’s JL’s day off, and this world offers two choices: pickling his liver and scarring his lungs.

The monsieur is one of several characters who frequent the restaurant and inn my friends, Anne and Arthur, own. Called L’Armailli (pronounced larm-ay-ee), it’s named after a herder of cows and goats and has lived in Anne’s family for generations. It’s not a place you stumble upon, more than 1100 metres (3600 feet) above sea level, in the Valais region of Switzerland.

View from the dining room

 

This is the third time Fiona and I have been to Mex. The first visit, Fi was 14 months old and I was newly pregnant with Finley. Sean noticed the small village included teenagers. “Maybe one of them would want to be a nanny in Spokane,” he said. We asked around, and found Anne. She lived with us for six months, in 2007, when Fiona was three and Finley was about a year-and-a-half. Anne patiently bore Finn’s bedtime refusals and didn’t panic when she couldn’t find Fiona’s preschool. She went to camp with us, shared our celebrations and empathised with our sorrows. Even at 19, she had wisdom. And she’ll always be family. Anne and Arthur visited Spokane after Sean’s death and the kids and I returned to Switzerland to stay with them for several days in 2010.

 

 
Drive about an hour and-a-half from Geneva, leave the highway at Lavey and look for signs saying Epinassey/Mex. Then, at the base of the mountain, breathe deeply. Clear your mind. Pray to the driving gods for a successful journey. For five kilometres, you’ll switchback on a road mostly wide enough for a single vehicle, but one that often sees two cars driving in opposite directions. Tour buses travel the road, too. Near the top, pass under a bridge, then navigate two narrow tunnels. Honk your horn to let other drivers know you’re coming, because only one of you can pass at a time. Try not to fixate on a sign indicating falling rock, especially while motoring beneath a large limestone overhang.

Near the top, pause as you encounter a small white Renault. In a polite game of chicken, wait to see who’ll reverse. Thankfully, it’s Renault, because you’re not sure how far back you’d have to roll before finding a space wide enough for two cars.

Exhale and smile upon seeing Bienvenue a Mex (Welcome to Mex). You’ve arrived. And could probably use an adult beverage, though not so many you’re coucou-ing strangers.

Fiona about to savour the plat du jour: stuffed tomato

Follow the sign to the town’s only restaurant. Step inside to the sunny front room with gasp-worthy Alpen views. During summer, l’Armailli is open seven days a week, from 9am until whenever. Anne will greet you with a smile and “Bonjour” before asking what you’d like. In the kitchen, her husband, Arthur, whips up plats du jour and other fare such as sautéed chicken and potatoes; pasta shells with vegetables and cheese; enormous stuffed tomatoes; sausages with fries; and fondue. He makes tons of fondue. If there’s a fondue going, you’ll smell it: the stinky-socks aroma of Gruyere and Emmenthal cheeses, mixed with white wine and kirsch (cherry) liqueur. If you’re lucky, Arthur will add an egg and remains of a bottle of Jack Daniels (because there was no Cognac) towards the end of the pot after the children finish eating. It’s like a lucky dip for adults that finishes with a kick. If you have any room after fondue (probably not), there’s crème caramel, ice cream or cherry clafoutis for dessert. My new fat cells and I recommend the last one, a French dessert with carmelized top, though again, do not attempt this manoeuvre after diving into a vat of cheese.

Arthur's lucky last dips fondue

 

On fondue night, a group of eight or ten had reserved a table in the bar where they could watch the World Cup: France versus Belgium (France won, which equals a happy native Parisian chef).  About an hour before the group was due, they cancelled. Anne removed some of the settings and left most for us: her family of four, me, and several regulars.

Hours before the game, one of those regulars, Madam O, introduced herself, saying she’s from Siberia. “I don’t meet many people from Siberia,” I said, before correcting myself. “I haven’t met anyone from Siberia.” O had just returned from the Yukon, in Canada, where she and her daughter had won a performance category in a First Nations festival. When I asked what kind of performance it was, she sang, motioned, and made grunting sounds similar those of the Maori haka of New Zealand. O typed her name into my phone to show me she’s well-known in indigenous circles.

Anne had noticed during our girls’ night at the hot pools, my feet are ticking time bombs. Beyond Morton’s toe and rhinoceros heels, I also have reddish-purplish bands running outside both feet, possibly a combination of poor circulation and pounding pavement while running. Anne suggests trying medicinal leeches, which looks and sounds disgusting, but would be better than surgery or injections. Meantime, my friend asks O if she’d look at my problem. “She’s a shaman,” Anne says.

O tells me to remove my flip flop and place my left foot on her lap. She holds it, squeezes, then bows her head and says something while making clicky-smacky sounds. “Wait three days and it will be better,” she says. “Thanks,” I say. “How about my other foot?” O gives me a look indicating “Don’t press your luck.”

O and Anne on fondue night

 

We sit, awaiting football and fondue, O with her beer and me with water. She tells me two family members were killed earlier this year, and she must return to her home country to perform a ceremony. I tell her I’m sorry. When she tells the story a fourth time, however, I start to wonder. O says, “I’m very drunk.” That explains it. Not that the tragedy isn’t true, but repetition of the same information was concerning. Later, Arthur tells me he likes O, and the world would be a boring place if we were all the same. “She has character. She’s different, and it’s not something you see every day.” This is why he and Anne have succeeded in hospitality. They possess not only a tolerance for unusual and sometimes, annoying, guests; they embrace people’s quirks.

Arthur and Anne

 

Another reason my friends have endured is their astonishing work ethic. The two of them handle everything at l’Armailli, from bookings, to cleaning to cooking and serving to more cleaning. They have two young children, ages three and five. Anne told me when Arthur burned himself with hot oil, he waited hours before seeking help because the restaurant was full (help took the form of a telephone call to a guerisseur/healer. Apparently, lots of Swiss people call these numbers when they’re hurt. Arthur says he had a second-degree burn, yet there’s scant evidence on his skin).  Anne was working the day her waters broke with her youngest child. Thankfully, her chef father-in-law and his wife were there to help. The new mom-of-two returned to work shortly after the birth.

Mex is nestled in a region famous for hiking trails, so trampers come to spend a night and have a meal. They enter, all sinew and bone, boots wider than thighs, bearing bulky backpacks with collapsible walking sticks tucked into the sides. One woman in her sixties, who couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds, downs a pint of beer, then promptly asks for another. If you’d hiked some of these steep paths, you might want a pint or three, as well.

Hiker's paradise: Mex, Valais, Switzerland

The innkeeper business will soon be in the rear view mirror for Anne and Arthur. After four years and two children, they’re ready to leave 14-hour (oftentimes more) workdays behind for a less hectic life in France. Anne has already trained in a discipline related to physical therapy, and if her session with my creaky body is any indication, she’s very good. Like Anne, Arthur will succeed in whatever he does.  

It’s been one week since O tried to heal my multi-colored foot. Upon careful examination I see – no change. At I have a new story to tell.