Words: Joseph Bullmore
Photography: Joseph Bullmore
Why didn’t anyone think of this before? I admit, absolutely, that ‘classic car show held on frozen Alpine lake’ sounds like the set up for a joke, or perhaps a discarded plotline from Succession — one involving the hubris of the fondued classes, and a few Moncler-sporting pekingese getting very soggy before the gala dinner. But really, it’s ingenious. (And, by the way, they’ve been holding events on this concrete-thick ice for decades and decades — and this is the hyper diligent Swiss we’re talking about here.) The light is the main thing. The white snow beneath the tires gives a glorious up-glow to every panel and fixture — as if some cosmic photographer’s assistant is bouncing God’s flash up onto the delicate bone-structure of a supermodel — while the piercing blue skies and mountain rays seem to dazzle and glint off every chrome handle and polished badge.
I won’t get any more technical than that, because I am not particularly a car guy. Then again, this is not particularly a car show. The thing about St Moritz, you quickly learn, is that everything is an excuse for something else; a vessel for further fun. The cars are simply the blini, to put it in a way the citizens here would approve of. But the pageantry, the outfits, the camaraderie — that’s the topping, the good stuff; the caviar of life.
"Good St Moritzer men have very good hair — a slick-back without the slick..."
One thing I always notice is the hair. Good St Moritzer men have very good hair. It is a sort of timeless slick-back, but without the slick. It stays that way on its own — buoyant but backwards; just long enough; possessed of all the ease and delicacy of a soft-pack cigarette carton. It is multilingual hair: French, Italian, Hamptons-English; perhaps a little Swiss-German if the rosti order requires it. Gunter Sachs — your favourite playboy’s favourite playboy — had that sort of hair in the sixties and seventies. He lives on here, deep in the follicles.
The view from Gunter Sachs, former apartment at the Palace. Credit: Badrutt's Palace
It is impossible, in fact, to come to the town without mentioning Sachs — like Hemingway in Paris, or Kafka in Prague. The industrialist heir, who never met a pair of white jeans he didn’t like, brought the Cresta Run — that downhill-on-a-tea-tray pursuit of British army officers — into the jet-set age. He founded Dracula’s, the most famous and beloved nightclub in town, which still hums and purrs to this day, awash with Braulio and musk. (We spot an old poster in a window advertising ‘Dracula’s Night of Erothic Mystery’, with the pleasing addendum “Dress: accordingly”.) In fact, Sachs used to race sports cars on the frozen lake, long before this lot got hold of the idea. (The police, fond of him and his entourage, would always turn a blind eye.)
But his longest association, perhaps, was with Badrutt’s Palace, the shining centre-point of St Moritz both physically and spiritually, with its roof like a cathedral spire doing an impression of a christmas tree. He lived here for years, and decked it out in priceless art, and installed a bullet-proof screen which he’d stand behind while guests — like Salvador Dali — shot at it, simply for fun. The pyramid-shaped tower has just been renovated when we arrive into town, so I insist we go and see it before anyone else moves in. (It was a long-time private residence, leased out by the hotel. Now it’ll be up for grabs for short stays again, should you have a particularly good reason to celebrate.) We board the Wes Anderson-grade private elevator — red and gold and tiny — and I quickly become a ghost-spotter and obsessive fan. “So Gunter Sachs would have used this bar to mix his martinis?” I ask. “And this peach marble basin, you say; this is the exact one in which he would have washed that face of his?”
"Gunter Sachs raced sports cars on the frozen lake back in the day..."
I am most taken by two spots. First, the balcony, which juts out midway up the green-tiled tower and affords the single best view over the eerily quiet lake and the looming mountains of the Engadine Valley beyond. And secondly, the bedroom — which sprawls out in the hollow of the pyramid roof, and is accessed by a spiral staircase, and is everything you would hope for from an Alpine lair. Wood everywhere. Bath big enough to drown a Friesian bull. Surprisingly practical storage.
Credit: Badrutt's Palace
Far below us, meanwhile, stretched out in the old indoor tennis court (the first in Europe, actually) , there’s a Peruvian-Japanese restaurant called La Coupole-Matsuhisa which leapfrogs the trappings of ‘fusion’ cuisine to become something else entirely. Nobuyuki Matsuhisa — Nobu, to you — is the man behind it, and his signature black miso cod (sticky, silky, rich, fleshy; umami on skis) sits at the centre of an ambitious menu, next to tempura as light as powdered snow (the rock shrimp is wonderful) and precise, perfect sushi. The patagonia-inflected steaks are very good too (the Swiss have form here), and the cellar is fitting for a place named The Palace.
Credit: Andrea Furger
Image courtesy of Gucci by Andrea Furger
Up in the mountains, meanwhile, Paradiso Mountain Club & Restaurant — an altitudinal annexe of Badrutt’s, and a private members den to boot — is full of fondue warriors, women in big headbands with small dogs, extras from the House of Gucci, and lithe seventy-year olds the colour of good mahogany. There is plenty of decent St Moritzer hair up here, among the twirling wreaths of pungent cigar smoke. And the view is lovely, whichever where you’re facing — up towards the white peaks, framed against the azure blue sky; or down, plate-wards, to the truffle croque monsieur with extra ‘monsieur.’
But back to the ice. The cars here are all very handsome and dashing. Collector and classic car expert Simon Kidston — James Bond’s funnier younger brother; half man, half shooting break — shows off an Aston Martin, firing blanks from a pistol at a villainous purple Lamborghini Countach. An old Porsche slides around in Persol insignia. There are Ferrari GTOs, and a superb rally-ready Mini Cooper in ruby red.
The ones that really stick in the mind, though, even to the blissful amateur, are those with the same playful, referential, practically-impractical mood as St Moritz itself. Like the Fiat 130 station wagon, once owned by Gianni Agnelli himself, resplendent in a roof-length wicker basket in which to stor skis/ cheeses/ children. Or the white rolls-royce mounted on off-road, mountain-ready tires, and plastered in Paris Match decals. Or the tiny Fiat Cinquecento, modified like a mini-Moke or Citroen Mehari, and so wonderfully out of its depth this far above sea level that it sputters to a halt on the lap of honour, and requires three young spectators, one of them still clutching a champagne flute, to push it back into the action. It is a moment of pure Engadine pantomime, and ignites the biggets cheer from the stand of the day. St Moritz: come for the cars. Stay for absolutely everything else.
Read next: Introducing Jim Niehues, the mountain ski map maestro
Become a Gentleman’s Journal Member?
Like the Gentleman’s Journal? Why not join the Clubhouse, a special kind of private club where members receive offers and experiences from hand-picked, premium brands. You will also receive invites to exclusive events, the quarterly print magazine delivered directly to your door and your own membership card.
