Dining in a Room That Refuses to Be Ordinary

 Dining in a Room That Refuses to Be Ordinary

(Photos later)

There are dining rooms, and then there are rooms where simply sitting down for dinner feels like becoming part of the château’s history.

The main dining hall at Château Marouatte is unquestionably the latter.

The first thing that strikes me is its length. A single enormous table runs almost the entire distance of the room, lined on both sides with high-backed, dark wooden chairs. The table is covered in a magnificent red and gold patterned cloth, creating a brilliant ribbon of color straight through the center of the hall. When we gather here for meals, there is nothing intimate about the architecture, yet the long communal table somehow makes the experience wonderfully intimate. We are all brought together in one place.

And then you look up.

The ceiling may be my favorite feature of the room. Massive, rough-hewn wooden beams form the exposed roof structure, their irregular surfaces and age left visible rather than polished away. Between them, the ceiling is painted a mottled, almost cloud-like blue and scattered with small golden fleurs-de-lis. It gives the extraordinary impression of dining beneath a medieval blue sky.

Or perhaps beneath a royal tent.

The fleurs-de-lis continue the heraldic theme found throughout the room. Coats of arms and colorful shields march along the upper walls, and banners hang near the ceiling. Everywhere I look there seems to be another crest, carving, figure, painting or architectural detail waiting to be noticed.

One entire wall is dominated by deep burgundy velvet curtains trimmed with elaborate gold-colored swags. Against them stand dark Gothic furnishings, including intricately carved cabinets and tall, pointed pieces that look as though they would be perfectly at home in a medieval chapel.

The opposite wall is even more theatrical.

A large stone fireplace is surrounded by elaborate dark woodwork and a remarkable Gothic-style decorative installation rising high above it. Pointed arches, finials, painted panels and carved architectural details make the whole wall resemble the façade of a tiny cathedral. Above the fireplace stretches a long, colorful narrative scene filled with figures. Nearby, a narrow stained-glass window throws jewel-like greens and blues into an otherwise warm, earthy room.

And standing beside it is a full suit of armor.

Of course there is.

At this point, I think I would have been disappointed if there weren’t one.

The far end of the hall provides a natural focal point. The table leads the eye directly toward an elaborate painted panel framed in Gothic ornamentation, with large heraldic shields on either side. The arrangement almost resembles an altar, giving that end of the dining room a ceremonial quality.

Old chandeliers descend from the rafters, their warm lights illuminating the red tablecloth and dark furniture below. One of them is particularly unusual, with a crown-like circular form and colored decorative elements hanging beneath it. The warm artificial light against that extraordinary blue ceiling makes the entire room glow.

What I particularly love, though, is the contrast between all this grandeur and the evidence that the room is actually being used.

At the near end of the table are stacks of everyday white plates. There are forks and spoons waiting in containers, drinking glasses turned upside down, folded napkins, serving bowls and a large metal bowl covered with a cheerful red-and-white polka-dot cloth. A simple brown-and-white checked cloth protects the working end of the table.

It is such a wonderful juxtaposition.

Medieval armor and breakfast plates.

Heraldic shields and silverware.

Gothic carvings and a polka-dot bowl cover.

A ceiling covered with golden fleurs-de-lis, and all of us coming in to find something to eat.

That may be what makes this room so memorable. It doesn’t feel like a museum room that has been roped off and preserved for people to admire from a distance. It is still doing exactly what a great dining hall was meant to do.

People enter. Chairs scrape against the floor. Plates are passed. Wine is poured. Conversations overlap. Someone gets up for another helping. Someone else lingers at the table.

And above all of it are those ancient-looking beams and hundreds of little golden fleurs-de-lis floating against a painted blue sky.

For a little while, this magnificent hall isn’t simply part of Château Marouatte.

It’s our dining room.