Musings on Wine and Other Libations
M. F. K. Fisher
Language: English
Pages: 133
ISBN: 2:00269823
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
For MFK Fisher, one of America's most-read and best-loved food writers, wine was a passion nurtured during her time in France and, later, California. This anthology, edited by acclaimed biographer Anne Zimmerman (An Extravagant Hunger: The Passionate Years of M.F.K. Fisher), is the first ever to gather Fisher's finest writings on wine. In sparkling prose, Fisher reminisces about marvelous meals enjoyed and drinks savored; describes the many memorable restaurants that welcomed and even educated her; discuses rosés, sherry, chilled whites, and cocktails; and escorts readers from Dijon to Sonoma. Open a bottle, open the book, and linger over some of the best wine writing ever done.
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exciting faint decadent flavor in my mouth. I beamed up at the girl. She nodded, but from habit asked if I was satisfied. I beamed again, and asked, simply to please her, “Is there not a faint hint of marc, or perhaps cognac?” “Marc, Madame!” And she awarded me the proud look of a teacher whose pupil has showed unexpected intelligence. “Monsieur Paul, after he has taken equal parts of goose breast and the finest pork, and broken a certain number of egg yolks into them, and ground them very,
and disappeared. We never saw him again, but I remember how pleased he seemed to be, to leave his own café for a few minutes and direct such obviously bemazed innocents upstairs to Racouchot’s. Probably it had never occurred to him, a good Burgundian, that anyone in the world did not know exactly how to come from any part of it straight to the famous door. The first meal we had was a shy stupid one, but even if we had never gone back and never learned gradually how to order food and wine, it
serving a glass of it with a sharp or fruity cheese is pleasant, especially if there is time to sit and talk, over the last bites of a meal, no matter how simple it may have been. This is a custom especially well suited to our habit of dining at night, instead of at noon, since port itself seems meant for nighttime enjoyment, a rich, reassuring thing to go to bed on. Of course fruits are basic to French provincial cooking, fresh or dried or preserved. They are basic as well to any good meal when
unlabeled, from a little vineyard off the Workman Mill Road, or Futelli’s over near Cucamonga, or Old Man Johnson’s back of Corona. They had to be honest to be good, and good meant drinkable. We moved down Painter Avenue and into the country when I was eleven, and as money flowed faster in the decade before the Crash of 1929, the family served dependable bootleg liquor to their friends, and the wines came oftener and tasted more exciting. The two decanters still stayed on the sideboard, and it
couldn’t—” He stopped very still, and looked at me. “Madame, you must drink one glass. Please!” he said, in a quiet voice, almost muttering. “Please drink this glass from me. It is I, Charles, who offer it to you and to Monsieur Chexbres.” “But—it is so late, and—” The thought of swallowing one more mouthful closed my throat, almost. “I have said I would stay until tomorrow for you. I would stay until the end of the world, truly.” He looked at me calmly, standing between us and the dark