Dracula Club
Once, after an aperitif, I went to Angelo, my friend and sommelier at the Kulm. I told him that, unfortunately, I wouldn’t be dining there that evening as I had plans to eat at the Dracula. He said it would be wonderful and that Fabio worked there, a true grande who had spent years at the Hotel du Cap. People like Fabio are rare these days, they are gradually fading into obscurity. Angelo said I should wear a sport jacket, but I always seem to wear one anyway.
The last time I was at the Dracula, there was a famous jazz singer performing – someone I didn’t know, but who was very good and normally performs in front of twenty-thousand people. That’s kind of how this club feels to me – a place where very famous people can behave like regular human beings again free from the weight of their own legends. They still have their flaws, escapades, bad days, and they even want to smoke, despite being American. ,If you want to swing from a chandelier, swing from a chandelier, it’s okay,’ says Rolf Sachs, ‘even if you have to call the electrician every day.’ It’s almost childish, but the financial power behind it makes it extraordinarily serious. Membership is required and I think it’s for life but I don’t know for sure. Supposedly there are 168 members in total, though a few of them have already passed away. Anyway, it’s not about elitism at all, because the whole thing is elitist enough as it is.
We ate in the tower. The cups of departed members hung upside down on the walls, symbolising infinity. The food was fabulous, and Fabio, the venerable Italian, shone. He brought a bottle of white Burgundy chilled to perfection, French oysters, and white truffles. Mario, Rolf Sachs’s Club Manager, joined us for dinner. A very nice guy, or at least he played the part. He was accompanied by an assistant, and there were two very amiable gentlemen. The conversation was wonderful. Typically, at such dinners, you just talk about nonsense while imagining smashing your glass or peeing on the floor, but not with these people. They didn’t even have to drink to be human and engaging. They had business matters to discuss, but we spoke only of food. The Spaniard claimed his cuisine was the best, and the Italian guy said the same, and I, representing all things Portuguese, savoured the moment and kept quiet.
There was also a beautiful waitress with black curls who made me nervous. She walked around, lighting candles and setting the mood. Mario expounded on the concept of ‘making an entrance.’ Apparently, it’s not just about that, but about not being a complete idiot who only draws energy without being able to contribute any to this unique atmosphere. And unique it certainly was. And I typically hate clubs. But everyone here was genuinely pleasant, apart from an Italian with slicked-back hair who kept walking past us to look at himself in the mirror. I thought of Gunther Sachs and how, at the end of his life – and perhaps even before – he had overcome his own vanity. If you don’t do that sooner or later, life becomes hollow.
The music was good, the sparkling wine flowed freely, and I was allowed to smoke too. A rather robust German fellow in a bow tie was walking around, constantly inquiring after my well-being. In the end, I was the last one there, propping up the bar with Fabio. Fabio didn’t smoke, though. I couldn’t believe he was still here. He told stories from Gstaad about Elizabeth Taylor dancing with the entire village. The waitress didn’t dance with me, but he promised he would put in a good word if he could.
Author: Konstantin Arnold