"Kentucky Derby weekend is about never slowing down." © Velo Steve
There is no finer place to find yourself on the first weekend in May than Kentucky. I landed in a throng of giant hat boxes bumping through the arrivals hall at Louisville airport. Spring was green all over and the dogwood was in bloom. My taxi drove through stone gateposts and up a long curving drive to a grand and columned mansion and deposited me in the middle of a cocktail party. A banjo trio were playing in one corner; the assembled guests murmured a soft and tinkling sound, like pearls clicking gently against champagne flutes. A waiter appeared with a silver tray of frosted silver goblets. “Mint julep ma’am?”
This was my introduction to the Kentucky Derby. It was a most marvellous and swellegant weekend. My host was an old friend of mine, Molly, the daughter of a newspaper proprietor and a member of the Louisville great and good—or, as she put it wryly, “the same six families who have been going to each other’s parties for generations.” For two days I was swept up in a happy swirl of ice cream colours and candy-striped seersucker.
I have always been skeptical of the mint julep. Bourbon, ice, mint, a ton of sugar. Too sweet, too sickly. The first evening I surreptitiously put a slice of lemon in mine. “Don’t let anyone see you do that!” said Molly laughing. Her sister Emily stirred her spearmint into the crushed ice slushie and took a sip. “The secret is to steep the mint in the sugar syrup overnight.” I lost money backing a horse called Sugar Shock that day and stuck to mimosas.
On the grand day of the big race we went to Emily’s for breakfast. A waiter swooped in with a welcoming silver salver of something he described, in deep southern gravel tones, as brown sugar bacon. Candied bacon, sticky-toffee porky; it made my teeth ache as much as fudge. I reached for another piece.
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There is nothing finer than an American breakfast. There is nothing finer than a southern American breakfast. Emily served turkey hash and soufflé grits, cheddared within and golden crust on top, a little Tabasco kick. I had another julep to help down a slice of Derby Pie. Pecans and butterscotch and more bourbon, as rich dense caramel sludgy brown as demerara mud.
“Who do you like for the Derby?” I asked a handsome grey-haired man in a blue jacket, the only and universal question of the day. “Well I’m from California,” he said. “So I like the Californian horse.”
I have never had much of a sweet tooth. But then I have never properly experienced a sugar high before. We watched the races from Millionaires’ Row, the best seats in the house, among the grandees and the gatecrashers. All day we gigglingly deliriously happily trotted the triangle between the all you can eat buffet—where I discovered something called bread pudding, a fried syrup-drenched cube—the betting window and the terrace that overlooked the finish line. The juleps kept coming. I put $20 on California Chrome to win.
The sun shone glorious, the thoroughbreds were sleek and skittish, the crowd surged forth and sang My Old Kentucky Home, the stars and stripes fluttered behind a marching band. The jockeys threaded their mounts into the starting gate. They were off!
I held a glass of julep in one hand and waved my fist with the other shouting “HOLD THE LEAD!” as the horses thundered around the far corner into the home stretch. California Chrome won! The man standing next to me in a powder blue suit and alligator boots jumped up and down singing, “We’re rich, we’re rich!” A fight broke out at the back of the terrace. “It’s the Derby!” said Molly. “You see a bit of everything.” I have never felt so happy or high.
Kentucky Derby weekend is about never slowing down. We went straight from the racing track to Christie Brown’s legendary annual party and her famous mint julep fountain. It was a supper party, which turned out—of course! Genius!—to be breakfast. Chefs were flipping omelettes to order. I had mine with ham and cheese and jalapenos. I piled the other half of my plate with waffles. I had to momentarily put down my julep to ladle on whipped cream and maple syrup and chocolate sauce. I was still flying. Sugar and alcohol; elemental energy. I saw the suave and charming David at a table and thanked him for his winning tip. He allowed a small modest smile. “Yes, I had a very good day too.” Turned out, Molly told me later, he owned a share in “the Californian horse.”
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