Déshabillé — French, more or less: the barely-dressed. The slip you answer the door in, the thing you wear to do nothing at all. This weekend, with the heat doing what it's doing, we're taking it as a dress code.
Here is the whole plan: wear almost nothing, drink something frozen, eat something you didn't have to cook, and read in the shade until the worst of it passes. Below, everything you'll need.
To (barely) wear
The lightest things we make. White eyelet that lets the air through. Embroidered linen gone soft with washing. A lace-trimmed cotton so light it feels like a second sleep — the closest a dress comes to wearing nothing. And the pointelle tee-and-short, which is really just your best pajamas, made to be seen.
Nothing that clings, nothing with an opinion. Barefoot is correct.
To drink — La Piscine
Literally: the swimming pool. Possibly the easiest drink ever invented.
- A very large wine glass
- Plenty of ice
- Cold champagne, crémant, or prosecco
- A strawberry or a twist of lemon, if you like
Fill the glass with ice. Pour the champagne over it. That is the entire recipe.
Purists will object — ice, in champagne! — and they are welcome to object from somewhere cooler. The whole point is a glass so big and so cold you could swim in it, which is exactly where the name comes from. (It's also, as it happens, one of the films from our first year of Cinémille. Delon, a pool, a great deal of tension. Watch it after.)
To nibble — Melon, Burrata & Torn Basil
No stove. That's the point.
Tear a ball of burrata into the middle of a plate. Surround with cold, ripe melon (cantaloupe or a good honeydew). Torn basil, a long pour of your best olive oil, flaky salt, a few cracks of black pepper. A little prosciutto if you like. Eat with your hands, over the sink if it's very hot.
To read — five for the shade
- Evil Under the Sun, Agatha Christie — a sun-drenched island resort, and Poirot in the deck chair next to you.
- The Talented Mr. Ripley, Patricia Highsmith — the Amalfi sun, and something off about it.
- Tender Is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald — the Riviera, a villa, the beautiful and the doomed.
- The Vacationers, Emma Straub — a Mallorca summer, a family, breezy and sharp.
- Call Me by Your Name, André Aciman — a whole Italian summer in a single peach.
To dream of — my favorite hotel pools
The ones I know by heart:
- Hotel Saint Cecilia — Austin (the perfect size, great music)
- The Beverly Hills Hotel — Los Angeles (iconic, simply)
- Hotel Esencia — Riviera Maya (margaritas and a view of the ocean)
- Villa San Michele — Florence (the yummiest plush towels, unbeatable surroundings)
- Korakia Pensione — Palm Springs (the best mint tea in the desert)
And the two on the list: Passalacqua, Lake Como, and The Lido at Hotel Peter & Paul, New Orleans.
To hear
Our Déshabillé poolside mix — sun-warmed, unhurried, a little French and a little Italian. The sound of doing absolutely nothing by the water. Put it on and don't get up.
That's the weekend. Stay in the shade, stay barely dressed, and we'll see you when it cools down.
Crafted slowly, worn often.
