Lausanne’s Beau-Rivage Palace

LAUSANNE, Switzerland - Coco Chanel knew a thing or two about style. The little black dress has endured as an icon of elegance. So, too, has her favorite getaway spot, the Beau-Rivage Palace here. Chanel loved the hotel so much that she actually had her dog buried on the grounds.

So, to celebrate the 66th birthday of another paragon of elegance, my mother, the Beau-Rivage Palace seemed the perfect choice. First, my mother, who works in a china shop, appreciates the finer things in life with such a passion that my father could parody her on a “Saturday Night Live” skit. Second, my mother’s parents were Swiss, although she hasn’t been back to their homeland since she was 10, and third, what hardworking mom doesn’t deserve a luxurious splurge, even if it’s just for a long weekend?

“Switzerland for the weekend? That’s ridiculous!” my mother sputters when I tell her the plan. “Besides, I have to work.”

“Actually, I called your boss,” I inform her. “You have the weekend off.”

Cut to the airport and my lucky upgrade. After a mother-daughter smack-down of wills, she takes my seat in business class. Just a few rows behind her in economy, I watch as the flight attendant pours her champagne.

“Nice!” I yell up to her.

Several heads swivel in my direction, but not my mother’s.

“Nice, Mom!” I yell louder.

Finally Mom turns, toasts me, and smiles.

When we enter the hotel’s sumptuous marble lobby, my mother’s jaw drops. One of the original playgrounds of the rich and famous, the legendary Beau-Rivage Palace is regarded by many as the finest in Switzerland. My mother can’t help herself and fingers the ornate arrangement of orchids.

“Real, hon,” she informs me in a loud whisper.

The porter leads us to our room, an airy, antique-filled suite with a spectacular view of Lake Geneva and the snowcapped Alps just beyond. My mother blinks, but before she can acclimate to the glamour, it’s time for her first treatment at the hotel’s new spa.

The Cinq Monde, an outpost of the award-winning French spa, is a 15,000-foot Zen oasis featuring treatments from around the world.

I had signed up my mother for a papaya scrub and an Oriental massage. I pass the time with a nap and a Bulgari bubble bath in a gigantic pink marble bathroom. I was wondering how she would do, as she is not one for this fancy stuff.

My question is answered when I hear her come in and announce in an ethereal voice, “Hon, I’m baaaaack!” I pull on my robe and come into the bedroom and discover her inspecting a large framed print she has removed from the wall.

“Put that back, Mom,” I hiss.

“Everything is very fine quality,” she murmurs, ignoring me.

I consider giving her a timeout but coax her to dinner instead.

We head for dinner at L’accademia in the Beau-Rivage’s neighboring property, Hotel Angleterre & Residence, the oldest hotel here on the French Riviera — yes, French Riviera in Switzerland, at least as the people who visit and live here like to think of the city. It was in the Angleterre that Lord Byron penned “The Prisoner of Chillon” in 1816.

Despite the history, the Italian restaurant’s decor is chic and modern, as is the food. The presentation of the antipasti is an art form: a board with paper-thin shaved meats, grilled vegetables, marinated tuna and salmon. The pasta is so good we overdo it and must forgo the turndown-service nougats and snack on Rolaids instead.

The next morning, I awake to the sound of an antique car revving next to me. I’m wrong, it’s Mom.

“We’re both good snorers, hon,” she says the second her eyes snap open.

We put on our walking shoes and head up the hill to the British chocolatier Dan Durig. In his kitchen, we watch a truffle demonstration.

“Don’t you wish that we were Lucy and Ethel?” I whisper to my mother, knowing she will immediately get my reference to the “I Love Lucy” chocolate factory episode.

Soon we get our chance. We sample the specialties and buy the spicy Maya truffles and chocolate vinegar. Time to head to the vineyards.

Charming Swiss towns roll by until we reach the Domaine du Daley vineyard in nearby Lutry. Owner Cyril Severin gives us a tour of the wine cellar, which is built in a 15th-century house, and explains the fermentation process. His French-Swiss accent is as charming as his golden retriever, Mitchell.

It’s not even noon, but when Mr. Severin hands my mother a glass of pinot noir, she shrugs and says, “I guess we should.” She does the same thing with a glass of Le Chasselas, and then again with Mr. Severin’s own invention, dry and fruity Swiss Sushi Wine. He claims it’s perfect with raw fish, although we can only vouch for its compatibility with cheese straws.

“If I had another life to live, I’d do it on a vineyard,” Mom tells him. “I approve of the whole thing. Living off the land, using technology, the marketing,” she says, pausing to finish her third glass, “It’s all so interesting.”

After a fish lunch in Lutry, we amble back to the hotel along the halcyon banks of Lake Geneva, which was named by the Celts and is still known to the locals as Lac Leman; it is 50 miles long and nine miles across. Along the way, we pass mothers walking babies, dogs walking people, entourages of teenagers, boats, parks and manicured lawns.

“Everything is meticulous, not one scrap of garbage or stray newspaper in sight,” my mother declares approvingly.

Later that evening, we dress up for Mom’s birthday dinner at the Beau-Rivage’s fancy La Rotonde, the only Michelin one-star restaurant in Lausanne. As soon as we are seated by the maitre’d, my mother picks up the charger to inspect the brand on the back. I shake my head at her.

“What, hon?” she protests. “It’s Bernardaud; not bad.”

“Just don’t steal the rolls and sugar packets like Grandma always did,” I warn her.

Dinner in La Rotonde is more dramatic than Broadway. As our meal is served, the waiters in black bow over each silver dome set before us. Then, in unison, they lift the gleaming lids high into the air like a single cymbal.

A moment of silence is observed.

We look down at our plates, each hosting an architectural design of swirls and heights and drops as thoughtfully stacked as a half-played Jenga game. Each time we fight back waves of nervous giggles.

Next, a trolley laden with 38 cheeses arrives. Some of the selections are so stinky and gooey that they must be spooned out. After a chocolaty dessert comes a Japanese tea ceremony served from an Oriental wagon laden with pots, cauldrons and fancy accouterments. I choose the dragon tea, and the ensuing ceremony takes at least 10 minutes from start to steep.

After a food-coma sleep, we spend the next day touring the city of Lausanne. We visit the Olympic Games headquarters, the cathedral and the Christmas Market, where we buy honey, handmade soaps and other stocking stuffers to take home.

We return and meet our Swiss cousins for lunch at the Beau-Rivage Cafe. We settle into the cheerful brasserie and catch up about family, living and dead. As our cousins order coffee, I notice my mother starting to look anxious.

“Don’t I have a facial, hon?” she whispers to me.

Soon enough, I am luxuriating in the Royal Ritual of Siam. The treatment begins in a small, wooden tub filled with hot water and rose petals. I’m presented with a rainbow wheel and asked to choose a color. Hermes orange calls to me, and I’m told that this corresponds to fire, which corresponds to passion, which corresponds to my bladder.

Or something like that. I can’t really understood my therapist’s Italian accent, but I like the way it feels as she massages my head and instructs me to allow my body to absorb the power of orange.

Then I’m papaya-scrubbed front and back. After a shower, it’s back to the table for the finale, a Balinese massage.

Ninety minutes later, I emerge in the waiting room, which has a Japanese pool surrounded by rose petals and white chairs. I discover my mother sitting there in a daze, her hair looking like she joined the Ramones.

“How was your Taoist facial?” I inquire, as if I needed to ask.

We pad back to our suite in our slippers and terry robes. My mother uncorks the champagne. “Mother knows best,” she informs me, handing me a crystal flute.

We sit by the French doors and sip, admiring the view inside and out. My mother touches the long-stemmed pink roses in a tall crystal vase.

“Real, hon?” I ask, teasing her.

“Describe them as the size of teacups,” she instructs, then sighs. “Thanks, hon; this is the best birthday ever.”

The gift is really mine. Anais Nin once said, ’Writing lets one taste life twice.” Traveling with my mother has a similar effect. As I appreciate the details through her careful eye, somehow the luxury grows exponentially. I think about the credit card commercial. “Birthday weekend at the Beau-Rivage, $3,000. Mother-daughter bonding, priceless.”