Thirty years. The Roland Garros I visited in 2019 was barely recognizable from my working venue back in 1989, several professional lifetimes ago. I was a videotape producer for ESPN then, a hard charging idiot that career-wise, left the French Open in a body bag.
Before leaving tennis television for good in 2017, I had worked two-dozen grand slam events, but only one French Open. I've always considered Roland Garros to be the most tasteful, glamorous and seductive of them all, by far. It was Chanel compared to the Flushing Meadows street vendors selling you Heineken in a brown bag. To me the elusive French was like that one girlfriend from your past that was way out of your league, one that you still fantasized about three decades later.
I had one goal driving me during this dreamlike return to the Bois de Boulogne: to sit in front of the Four Musketeers statue with a French Roast cappuccino in one hand and freshly stabbed baguette in the other, the latter stuffed with a steaming wienie smothered in eye-watering dijon mustard. It was a sensory orgy that had endured through the ages. Alas, in 2019, two of the three no longer existed. The discovery was sobering: no matter how many Euros you invest to re-live a distant fantasy, it is no match for the ruthless ravages of time.
The Four Musketeers statue, a tribute to both clever craftsmanship and the most glamorous tennis swashbucklers of the 20th century, had vanished, sacrificed to the demand for space in a tournament whose human condition often resembled Tokyo at rush hour.
As for coffee products in France, a paying customer can still find a sublime Cafe-au-lait on the grounds of Roland Garros. But the "Sausage Baguette" was a different story, another indictment of progress that has stolen a gem from the fans' experience. The French Open still offers a variation of a hot dog to its fans, but it is much more like the mass produced offering at any ballpark in the United States. The one I sampled was cool to the touch, slathered in Cheez Whiz (is nothing sacred??) and dotted with bacon bits that had a scary resemblance to picnic ants, though maybe not as healthy. Technically, there was a dijon mustard option, served in the same sized plastic packaging as Heinz Ketchup. This was an entirely unreasonable facsimile of the superb original. Here's how it all went down before the age of cell phones.
The Roland Garros garcon began the process by stabbing half a fresh baguette over a heated steel spike. He would then splash a dollop of dangerously hot dijon into the newly created chamber, followed immediately by a steaming wienie, tightly encased with a button on each end to preserve the meaty juices. The perfect troika: Hot (temperature), Hot (spice) and Flaky.
Frankly (pun intended), I would have preferred there be no 2019 version. I scraped away the faux cheese and insects, tore open the tiny mustard packs, and began painting the poor wiener, which was the essentially the same specimen as his 1989 grandfather, other than being served at room temperature. I might as well have taken a prized painting, ripped it from its frame, and presented it in a pizza box. Whatever fantasy I had about the southwest corner of the Bois de Boulogne had evaporated in a cloud of corporate Cheez Whiz. I ate the snack joylessly and stepped into the mass of humanity in the shadow of Court Suzanne Lenglen, moving west like a slow tide.
My party and I rendezvoused at the famous Court #1, known to global tennis aficionados as "the Bull Ring," an aesthetically charming court built within a circle, fans able to share all their secret insights with their heroes, up close and personal. Since 1980, the 3800-seat Bull Ring had been a suitable second venue for this grand slam; today it is an anachronism. The architectural masterpiece is being razed at the conclusion of the 2019 tournament.
Rather than pine over the loss of yet another lost treasure, my troupe invaded this intimate theater, and were treated to a spellbinding live match between British star Johana Konta and American slasher Lauren Davis. Konta is lanky but precise, on the cusp of contention for a Grand Slam title. Davis is a diminutive counter-puncher, a dangerous floater for any seeded player due to here smoking, flat groundstrokes.
I have always loved Konta (nod of the head to women's tennis TV groupie Mark Topaz), whose deliberate psychological mindfulness has carried her into a Slam's second week four different times, but never at Roland Garros. Our clan sunk its teeth into this match, loudly, from very close proximity. It was a three-set drama of the highest order, with Konta needing all her mental strength to subdue the stubborn Yank in three-sets. I would not have traded that experience for a dozen designer hot dogs.
In a chance encounter, my wife and I connected with pro-tennis' aging wildcat promoter Donald Dell. I had stage-managed him dozens of times back in the States, and he knew Amy through her late uncle Barry MacKay, one of his dearest friends back in the day.
Donald insisted that we stroll through the new garden wing of the French Open. The ruling powers of Roland Garros had purchased several additional acres of park land, refurbishing old buildings into tasteful hospitality suites, alongside glorious gardens en route to the latest show court known as the Greenhouse, another beautiful design but with three times the capacity of the Bull Ring.
Most importantly was the human experience of RG's Garden Party. We all strolled in dignified comfort, away from the madding crowd and the sensory overload of the French Open's compact east side between showcourts Chartier and Lenglen. We had elbow room at last! Much needed human space had been added, and next year a sprawling greensward would replace the Bull Ring, easing congestion with Paris' version of Henman Hill.
Unlike the U.S. Open's old home at the West Side Tennis Club in Forest Hills, New York, which had imploded from the growing pains of professional tennis, the French Open has adapted. By expanding into the Bois de Boulogna, RG has restored taste and humanity into an experience that nearly collapsed under its own weight.
Although the Bull Ring stadium will be missed, its vacuum will be filled with vital space for fans, and a statue that should return from the scrap heap—the Four Musketeers. The Bronze likenesses of Rene Lacoste, Jean Borotra, Henri Cochet and Jacques Brugnon will grace the grounds once again. Old will become new, and the world's most stylish tennis tournament will march proudly through the 21st century once more. Au Revoir Roland Garros!
Before leaving tennis television for good in 2017, I had worked two-dozen grand slam events, but only one French Open. I've always considered Roland Garros to be the most tasteful, glamorous and seductive of them all, by far. It was Chanel compared to the Flushing Meadows street vendors selling you Heineken in a brown bag. To me the elusive French was like that one girlfriend from your past that was way out of your league, one that you still fantasized about three decades later.
I had one goal driving me during this dreamlike return to the Bois de Boulogne: to sit in front of the Four Musketeers statue with a French Roast cappuccino in one hand and freshly stabbed baguette in the other, the latter stuffed with a steaming wienie smothered in eye-watering dijon mustard. It was a sensory orgy that had endured through the ages. Alas, in 2019, two of the three no longer existed. The discovery was sobering: no matter how many Euros you invest to re-live a distant fantasy, it is no match for the ruthless ravages of time.
 |
| Musketeers Unseeded |
The Four Musketeers statue, a tribute to both clever craftsmanship and the most glamorous tennis swashbucklers of the 20th century, had vanished, sacrificed to the demand for space in a tournament whose human condition often resembled Tokyo at rush hour.
As for coffee products in France, a paying customer can still find a sublime Cafe-au-lait on the grounds of Roland Garros. But the "Sausage Baguette" was a different story, another indictment of progress that has stolen a gem from the fans' experience. The French Open still offers a variation of a hot dog to its fans, but it is much more like the mass produced offering at any ballpark in the United States. The one I sampled was cool to the touch, slathered in Cheez Whiz (is nothing sacred??) and dotted with bacon bits that had a scary resemblance to picnic ants, though maybe not as healthy. Technically, there was a dijon mustard option, served in the same sized plastic packaging as Heinz Ketchup. This was an entirely unreasonable facsimile of the superb original. Here's how it all went down before the age of cell phones.
 |
| Naked Wiener |
Frankly (pun intended), I would have preferred there be no 2019 version. I scraped away the faux cheese and insects, tore open the tiny mustard packs, and began painting the poor wiener, which was the essentially the same specimen as his 1989 grandfather, other than being served at room temperature. I might as well have taken a prized painting, ripped it from its frame, and presented it in a pizza box. Whatever fantasy I had about the southwest corner of the Bois de Boulogne had evaporated in a cloud of corporate Cheez Whiz. I ate the snack joylessly and stepped into the mass of humanity in the shadow of Court Suzanne Lenglen, moving west like a slow tide.
My party and I rendezvoused at the famous Court #1, known to global tennis aficionados as "the Bull Ring," an aesthetically charming court built within a circle, fans able to share all their secret insights with their heroes, up close and personal. Since 1980, the 3800-seat Bull Ring had been a suitable second venue for this grand slam; today it is an anachronism. The architectural masterpiece is being razed at the conclusion of the 2019 tournament.
 |
| Last Hurrah for the Bull Ring |
I have always loved Konta (nod of the head to women's tennis TV groupie Mark Topaz), whose deliberate psychological mindfulness has carried her into a Slam's second week four different times, but never at Roland Garros. Our clan sunk its teeth into this match, loudly, from very close proximity. It was a three-set drama of the highest order, with Konta needing all her mental strength to subdue the stubborn Yank in three-sets. I would not have traded that experience for a dozen designer hot dogs.
Super Jo
In a chance encounter, my wife and I connected with pro-tennis' aging wildcat promoter Donald Dell. I had stage-managed him dozens of times back in the States, and he knew Amy through her late uncle Barry MacKay, one of his dearest friends back in the day.
Donald insisted that we stroll through the new garden wing of the French Open. The ruling powers of Roland Garros had purchased several additional acres of park land, refurbishing old buildings into tasteful hospitality suites, alongside glorious gardens en route to the latest show court known as the Greenhouse, another beautiful design but with three times the capacity of the Bull Ring.
Most importantly was the human experience of RG's Garden Party. We all strolled in dignified comfort, away from the madding crowd and the sensory overload of the French Open's compact east side between showcourts Chartier and Lenglen. We had elbow room at last! Much needed human space had been added, and next year a sprawling greensward would replace the Bull Ring, easing congestion with Paris' version of Henman Hill.
 |
| RG Garden Party |
Although the Bull Ring stadium will be missed, its vacuum will be filled with vital space for fans, and a statue that should return from the scrap heap—the Four Musketeers. The Bronze likenesses of Rene Lacoste, Jean Borotra, Henri Cochet and Jacques Brugnon will grace the grounds once again. Old will become new, and the world's most stylish tennis tournament will march proudly through the 21st century once more. Au Revoir Roland Garros!
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