The victim: my waistline.
The culprit: the French chef who manages to stuff 130 people with five-star, four-course meals twice a day, with breakfast and afternoon tea thrown in for good measure.
The scene of the crime: a velvet armchair under crisp white linen in the dinner car.
It's not fair, really – first the Important Travel Information for Passengers booklet informs you that “gentlemen will feel comfortable with a minimum of jacket and tie” and that ladies should know that “the train provides a marvellous opportunity to display some glamour and style, and dressing up is encouraged.” So you arrive at the dinner table feeling very British-aristocrat-on-important-colonial-business, surrounded as you are by sequins and satin gloves.
But then, the food... Everything on the menu is irresistible – pan-fried goose liver tatin with pineapple chutney and savoury kaffir lime leaf, tom yam vichyssoise with quail medallion and vegetable tagliatelle, steamed seabass laqué and beetroot on lemongrass risotto with mushroom and asparagus, vanilla ice cream bombe drizzled with warm dark chocolate sauce with poached pear...
J'accuse monsieur le chef, in the kitchen, with the warm scallop soufflé!
Of course, it's a good thing the menu is spectacular, because there's not much else to do apart from eat. You're on a train, limited to roam the corridors (and wipe the walls with your best dress as the train rocks on the Thai tracks) or settle into the reading room before heading back to your cabin (albeit your verrrrrry comfortable cabin, with wood pannelling, gold fixtures, a private bathroom with Bvlgari toiletries, a monogrammed dressing gown etc etc).
You can watch the countryside go by, wistfully gazing at the water buffalo as they wade to the backdrop of lush tropical trees, you can sip your local tea served in heavy silver teapots and fine bone china teacups, and you can chat with your fellow passengers about how rich they are (actually, they were fascinating – I met the owner of a major French vineyard, a British astrophysicist on his way back to Japan for a work reunion, and a German man with a crazy moustache who has retired to a property in the Seychelles that provides fruit to the local hotels). And it's all punctuated with...that's right...food.
And drink – much champagne was consumed to toast the young honeymooners on board, as well as one lady's 60th birthday, another couple's 30th anniversary... It's a trip for special occasions, really (don't ask about the price...) and for people with plenty of time. In other words, retirees!
That's it, it's like a very stylish, very British retirement home on wheels.
It's really romantic though, too. In every sense of the word: not only is it a great place to sip champagne while gazing into each other's eyes, it's also a great setting for romanticising, in the sense of gossiping and inventing stories about complete strangers.
Apart from the obvious Colonel-Mustard-in-the-reading-room-with-the-candlestick thoughts that went through my mind, I spent most of my hours trying to freak out other passengers by looking mysterious as I read Murder on the Orient Express (punctuating my read with evil cackles seemed to achieve maximum effect) and gossiping with the other girls in my group (most fervently about one man who had two tickets but arrived alone, looking gaunt and never eating in the dinner car, just suspiciously gliding through the train and averting our glances).
And yes, the aforementioned champagne might have contributed to making the trip more fun (well you wouldn't want to sip red wine on a rocky train and be responsible for the big red stain on the immaculate white satin dress of your fellow diner would you?). In fact, champagne is responsible for me suddenly feeling the urge to accompany the train's INCREDIBLE pianist with a heart felt rendition of Sinatra's My Way... Not sure how pleased the other passengers were that I was in the bar car with them at that point...
All this to say that apart from two stops (one in Penang, the other on the River Kwai) during which I was not allowed to walk – only to sit, once more, on trishaws, buses and ferries – I had a great time on my trip just eating, drinking and chatting with strangers.
But that's what it's all about really. And brace yourselves, as there are times when only a cliché will do:
On trips like the Eastern & Oriental Express, it's not about the destination, it's about the journey.
