Independent, The (London): The Weasel: Shaken not stirred in Monte Carlo

CUSTOMARILY, THE Weasel column shuns stereotypes, but they are hard to avoid in any discussion of Monte Carlo, an enclave solely populated by short, plump, moustachioed males accompanied by tall, slender females of unfeasible blondeness. When I arrived at my hotel, which happened to be next door to the Grand Casino, the first thing I saw was a top-of-the- range Rolls-Royce with Russian plates. Later, my taxi nearly brushed against this gleaming juggernaut, which probably would not have had happy consequences. We might have got away with flesh wounds, since I have never been anywhere as heavily policed as Monaco. On every corner, there is a Mongasque copper on the lookout for something or other.

There is plenty to guard in this bizarre community. In the harbour, Lady Moura, a yacht only slightly smaller than the Isle of Wight, dwarfed the floating palaces of other zillionaires. 'It's owned by a cousin of the Emir,' said my taxi driver knowledgeably. The Emir's vessel must be the size of Hampshire. In its splendidly over-egged

So, what was a clean-living chap like the Weasel doing in this raffish nook? In search of a cocktail, d'accord. I'd been invited to observe the Grand Marnier Trophy, a biannual cocktail competition between bartenders who had won national rounds in 26 European countries. The names of their competing concoctions, which naturally contained Grand Marnier, ranged from Grand Illusion (Hungary) and Grand Temptation (Estonia) to Grand Morning After (UK). Oddly, none of the entrants had come up with Grand Dad or Grand Larceny.

Skirting the town of Villefranche, where the Stones recorded Exile On Main Street, the coach bearing bartenders and attendant journalists made its way to St Jean Cap Ferrat, once home to W Somerset Maugham. Such cultural associations were of little consequence to the nervy competitors who were hoping to win a two- week holiday in Australia. Before the contest got underway, we were presented with an apritif in radioactive green. Grand Tropique was the winner of the student round of the competition. 'Personally I prefer something cleaner, but it's OK for breakfast,' declared a svelte German cocktail writer, much in the manner of her countrywoman Lotte Lenya seeking the next whisky bar.

You may think that watching 26 cocktails being constructed in the grounds of the Royal Riviera Hotel is the perfect journalistic assignment, but I've known more lively afternoons. Apart from the period when I joined a three-strong judging panel to assess three of the cocktails " two were unexciting and one was positively repulsive " I found myself drifting into a light doze. The hotel pool shimmered seductively, but I'd omitted to bring my swimming trunks. Visually, the most interesting aspect of the drinks was the Carmen Miranda-style garnishes created by the competitors. Personally, I find anything more than a slice of lemon surplus to requirements, but today's fashionable cocktail apparently requires carved lychees, edible purple orchids, heart-shaped melon chunks and, in one case, white birds carved from a large radish.

Later that night, the winner was declared in Monte Carlo. The Grand Chica by Michele Fiordoliva of Munich's Bar Negroni combines 3cl Grand Marnier, 3cl tequila, 2cl lemon juice, 2cl caramel syrup and 7cl fresh passion-fruit syrup. He was a nice guy and the drink sounds great, but where do you get fresh passion-fruit syrup? The Bar Negroni in Munich, I guess. E