Bordeaux Quotes

You are a pastel-colored Persian carpet, and loneliness is a Bordeaux wine stain that won’t come out

Burgundy makes you think of silly things, Bordeaux makes you talk of them and Champagne makes you do them.

.. and these days I've come to prefer the more steady Bordeaux. I am no longer up to champagne from Ay: it's like a mistress: sparkling, flighty, vivacious, wayward - and not to be trusted. But Bordeaux is like a friend who in time of trouble and misfortune stands by us always, anywhere, ready to give us help, or just to share our quiet leisure. So raise your glasses - to our friend Bordeaux!

The slave-trade and slavery were the economic basis of the French Revolution. ‘Sad irony of human history,’ comments Jaurès. ‘The fortunes created at Bordeaux, at Nantes, by the slave-trade, gave to the bourgeoisie that pride which needed liberty and contributed to human emancipation.

She was so tight and compact; it would be nothing to tuck her neat and warm into the inside of his jacket and carry her wherever he went and feed her bites of cheese biscuits. Skin so creamy with just a touch of makeup dusting over her face, she had luscious lips the color of a Bordeaux wine and a slim neck he ached to suck on. God her fucking eyes… it was like they were constantly smiling.

She discovered that the most comfortable position in society was slightly off to the side...

As I lie on my couch by the fireplace, looking out from my hillside home at the snow leading down to the ocean, with the right woman in my arms, a glass of Bordeaux beside me and a Puccini opera on the stereo system, knowing that I’ve earned the pleasure I feel, I’m so glad I didn’t let someone else decide what’s best for me.

The wealth of the imperial countries is our wealth too. On the universal plane this affirmation, you may be sure, should on no account be taken to signify that we feel ourselves affected by the creations of Western arts or techniques. For in a very concrete way Europe has stuffed herself inordinately with the gold and raw materials of the colonial countries: Latin America, China, and Africa. From all these continents, under whose eyes Europe today raises up her tower of opulence, there has flowed out for centuries toward that same Europe diamonds and oil, silk and cotton, wood and exotic products. Europe is literally the creation of the Third World. The wealth which smothers her is that which was stolen from the underdeveloped peoples. The ports of Holland, the docks of Bordeaux and Liverpool were specialized in the Negro slave trade, and owe their renown to millions of deported slaves. So when we hear the head of a European state declare with his hand on his heart that he must come to the aid of the poor underdeveloped peoples, we do not tremble with gratitude. Quite the contrary; we say to ourselves: "It's a just reparation which will be paid to us.

Grimm: BeeWare (#1.3)" (2011) Nick Burkhardt: I don't need you for what you know, I need your nose. Monroe: Oh, I get it. So little Timmy's stuck in a well, you need Lassie to come find him. You really know how to butter a guy up for a favor. Nick Burkhardt: I've got a '77 Bordeaux in my truck Monroe: I can maybe catch a scent.

Come here, Grimaud," said Athos. To punish you for having spoken without leave my friend, you must eat this piece of paper: then, to reward you for the service which you will have rendered us, you shall afterwards drink this glass of wine. Here is the letter first: chew it hard." Grimaud smiled, and with his eyes fixed on the glass which Athos filled to the very brim, chewed away at the paper, and finally swallowed it. "Bravo, Master Grimaud!" said Athos. "and now take this. Good! I will dispense with your saying thank you." Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux; but during the whole time that this pleasant operation lasted, his eyes, which were fixed upon the heavens, spoke a language which, though mute, was not therefore the least expressive.

Because you already know what it means to be Men Without Women. You are a pastel-colored Persian carpet, and loneliness is a Bordeaux wine stain that won’t come out.

I watched Daryl swirl, sniff, sip, swish, chew, swallow, and sometimes spit his way through countless glasses of Bordeaux and all I could think was that someone who spent so much time and care on all the oral and olfactory acrobatics involved in wine tasting should really be more adept at oral sex

The world is filled with moralizers who forget to sweep in front of their own doors.

From Boston to Bordeaux, revolution was in large measure the achievement of networks of wordsmiths, the best of whom were also orators whose shouted words could rally the crowd in the square and incite them to storm the towers of the old regime.

Starting with religion, as the British historian Hugh Thomas noted in his monumental study The Slave Trade: The Story of the Atlantic Slave Trade, 1440–1870, “There is no record in the seventeenth century of any preacher who, in any sermon, whether in the Cathedral of Saint-André in Bordeaux, or in a Presbyterian meeting house in Liverpool, condemned the trade in black slaves.

So imagine two scenarios. Let’s say it’s the holidays, and two different neighbors invite you to their parties in the same week. You accept both invitations. In one case, you do the irrational thing and give Neighbor X a bottle of Bordeaux; for the second party you adopt the rational approach and give Neighbor Z $50 in cash. The following week, you need some help moving a sofa. How comfortable would you be approaching each of your neighbors, and how do you think each would react to your request for a favor? The odds are that Neighbor X will step in to help. And Neighbor Z? Since you have already paid him once (to make and share dinner with you), his logical response to your request for help might be, “Fine. How much will you pay me this time?” Again, the prospect of acting rationally, financially speaking, sounds deeply irrational in terms of social norms. The point is that while gifts are financially inefficient, they are an important social lubricant. They help us make friends and create long-term relationships that can sustain us through the ups and downs of life. Sometimes, it turns out, a waste of money can be worth a lot.

Does it matter if they were from Kielce or Brno or Grodno or Brody or Lvov or Turin or Berlin? Or that the silverware or one linen tablecloth or the chipped enamel pot—the one with the red stripe, handed down by a mother to her daughter—were later used by a neighbour or someone they never knew? Or if one went first or last; or whether they were separated getting on the train or off the train; or whether they were taken from Athens or Amsterdam or Radom, from Paris or Bordeaux, Rome or Trieste, from Parczew or Bialystok or Salonika. Whether they were ripped from their dining-room tables or hospital beds or from the forest? Whether wedding rings were pried off their fingers or fillings from their mouths? None of that obsessed me; but—were they silent or did they speak? Were their eyes open or closed? I couldn't turn my anguish from the precise moment of death. I was focused on that historical split second: the tableau of the haunting trinity—perpetrator, victim, witness. But at what moment does wood become stone, peat become coal, limestone become marble? The gradual instant.

My name is Patricia Lauren Bordeaux, and I, like my creator before me, am a very lonely vampire.

Bordeaux are named after châteaux. Castles.

Phylloxera was the yellow root louse that devastated Bordeaux’s vineyards in the late 1870s.

The best wines are produced when the summer is warm and dry, which makes the Bordeaux wine industry a likely beneficiary of global warming.

Dipendesse da me, le espadrilles – tutte, non solo quelle bordeaux – sarebbero vietate per legge.

Because problems aren't like great Bordeaux wines—they don’t improve with age.

who then brings them two glasses of Bordeaux, leaving the bottle on the table next to a small vase holding a yellow rose.

Significance unfortunately is a useful means toward a personal ends in the advance of science - status and widely distributed publications, a big laboratory, a staff of research assistants, a reduction in teaching load, a better salary, the finer wines of Bordeaux. Precision, knowledge, and control. In a narrow and cynical sense statistical significance is the way to achieve these. Design experiment. Then calculate statistical significance. Publish articles showing "significant" results. Enjoy promotion. But it is not science, and it will not last.

You are a pastel-colored Persian carpet, and loneliness is a Bordeaux wine stain that won’t come out. Loneliness is brought over from France, the pain of the wound from the Middle East.

But for now, I would be the happiest of men if I could just swallow the overflow of saliva that endlessly floods my mouth. Even before first light, I am already practicing sliding my tongue toward the rear of my palate in order to provoke a swallowing reaction. What is more, I have dedicated to my larynx the little packets of incense hanging on the wall, amulets brought back from Japan by pious globe-trotting friends. Just one of the stones in the thanksgiving monument erected by my circle of friends during their wanderings. In every corner of the world, the most diverse deities have been solicited in my name. I try to organize all this spiritual energy. If they tell me that candles have been burned for my sake in a Breton chapel, or that a mantra has been chanted in a Nepalese temple, I at once give each of the spirits invoked a precise task. A woman I know enlisted a Cameroon holy man to procure me the goodwill of Africa's gods: I have assigned him my right eye. For my hearing problems I rely on the relationship between my devout mother-in-law and the monks of a Bordeaux brotherhood. They regularly dedicate their prayers to me, and I occasionally steal into their abbey to hear their chants fly heavenward. So far the results have been unremarkable. But when seven brothers of the same order had their throats cut by Islamic fanatics, my ears hurt for several days. Yet all these lofty protections are merely clay ramparts, walls of sand, Maginot lines, compared to the small prayer my daughter, Céleste, sends up to her Lord every evening before she closes her eyes. Since we fall asleep at roughly the same hour, I set out for the kingdom of slumber with this wonderful talisman, which shields me from all harm.

We got cocktails to start and decided on a bottle of Bordeaux to share with dinner. We ordered voraciously. The pumpkin soup, the beef in banana leaf, fried spring rolls, crispy squid, a bowl of bún bò hué, and a seafood mango salad recommended by the waitress. Ordering food so as to maximize the quantity of shared dishes and an exuberance for alcohol are the two things my father and I have always counted on for common ground.

Joséphine helped me prepare dinner: a salad of green beans and tomatoes in spiced oil, red and black olives from the Thursday market stall, walnut bread, fresh basil from Narcisse, goat's cheese, red wine from Bordeaux.

Once in the glass, as dark as blood, the Bordeaux seems almost as though it is a living thing. Von Rumpel takes pleasure in knowing that he is the only person in the world who will have the privilege of tasting it before it is gone.

He weathered the disorder, oversaw his estate, assessed court cases as a magistrate, and administered Bordeaux as the most easygoing mayor in its history. All the time, he wrote exploratory, free-floating pieces to which he gave simple titles:

What do you think of the war, M. Severn?" [...] "What can one think of war?" I said, tasting the wine again. It was quite good, though nothing in the Web could match my memories of French Bordeaux. "War does not call for judgment," I said, "merely survival.

.”…On the way home, we were getting pissed at Bordeaux airport, and asked each other what could be the greatest gift you could give your children. Moray and I gave some kind of inane account man answer, “Ferrari” I suspect. Paul’s answer was “a sense of wonder.

For dinner, he orders wild boar cooked with fresh mushrooms. And a full bottle of Bordeaux. Especially during wartime, such things remain important. They are what separate the civilized man from the barbarian. The hotel is drafty and the dining room is empty, but the waiter is excellent. He pours with grace and steps away. Once in the glass, as dark as blood, the Bordeaux seems almost as though it is a living thing. Von Rumpel takes pleasure in knowing that he is the only person in the world who will have the privilege of tasting it before it is gone.

He was a crusty old bastard, dressed like my uncle in ancient denim coveralls, espadrilles and beret. He had a leathery, tanned and windblown face, hollow cheeks, and the tiny broken blood vessels on nose and cheeks that everyone seemed to have from drinking so much of the local Bordeaux.

When the Nazis overran France in the spring of 1940, much of its Jewish population tried to escape the country. In order to cross the border south, they needed visas to Spain and Portugal, and tens of thousands of Jews, along with many other refugees, besieged the Portuguese consulate in Bordeaux in a desperate attempt to get the life-saving piece of paper. The Portuguese government forbade its consuls in France to issue visas without prior approval from the Foreign Ministry, but the consul in Bordeaux, Aristides de Sousa Mendes, decided to disregard the order, throwing to the wind a thirty-year diplomatic career. As Nazi tanks were closing in on Bordeaux, Sousa Mendes and his team worked around the clock for ten days and nights, barely stopping to sleep, just issuing visas and stamping pieces of paper. Sousa Mendes issued thousands of visas before collapsing from exhaustion. The Portuguese government – which had little desire to accept any of these refugees – sent agents to escort the disobedient consul back home, and fired him from the foreign office. Yet officials who cared little for the plight of human beings nevertheless had deep respect for documents, and the visas Sousa Mendes issued against orders were respected by French, Spanish and Portuguese bureaucrats alike, spiriting up to 30,000 people out of the Nazi death trap. Sousa Mendes, armed with little more than a rubber stamp, was responsible for the largest rescue operation by a single individual during the Holocaust.

You, after all, are well aware of what it is to become one of the men without women. You are a faintly colored Persian carpet, and loneliness is the indelible stain of Bordeaux. And so your loneliness is brought in from France, and the pain of your wounds from the Middle East. For the men without women, the world is a vast and keen mixture, it is just exactly the far side of the moon.

Philippe, I’m going to Spain and I’m not coming back, at least not right away. You are going to Bordeaux and I know it will be only the first step in a long journey. I always knew you were made for somewhere else. Our paths are separating. I know you would have liked for things to be different, for me to say the words that would have reassured you, but I could not, and I never knew how to talk anyway. In the end, I tell myself that you understood. It was love, of course. And tomorrow, there will be a great emptiness. But we could not continue—you have your life waiting for you, and I will never change. I just wanted to write to tell you that I have been happy during these months together, that I have never been so happy, and that I already know I will never be so happy again.

This is not my first road trip and it's not my first marriage either. I know that my hissy fit in Fougeres and our bad luck on the road to Bordeaux does not spell doom for either our love affair or our journey. Love affairs are like road trips, and road trips are like love affairs -- from beginning to end the emotions are equally intense, the phases just as predictable. Love and travel. They both have their ups and downs.

Love is an honorable thing to base a life upon, Addo says, swabbing the crumbs off his face with the back of his hand. "What that's not what you've got here, because love is like an amazing Bordeaux, or properly aged Gouda, or pickles. It's got to have time to ferment on a shelf in a quiet chamber, and then to be proven good, despite itself." He adds, "What you've got right now is more like a cheese stick...with some moonshine and cucumbers.

Now, my friends, keep you from the white and from the red, and especially from the white wine of Spain that is for sale in the streets of London. This wine of Spain creeps subtly into other wines, which are grown nearby, from which there rise such fumes to the head that, when a man has drunk three draughts and thinks he is at home in London, he is in Spain, right at the town of Lepe—not in La Rochelle, nor at Bordeaux town—and then will he drunkenly say, “Samson, Samson!

Montaigne was neither one of the academics of the Sorbonne nor a professional man of letters, and he was not these things on two planes. First, he was a doer; he had been a magistrate, a businessman, and the mayor of Bordeaux before he retired to mull over his life and, mostly, his own knowledge. Second, he was an antidogmatist: he was a skeptic with charm, a fallible, noncommittal, personal, introspective writer, and, primarily, someone who, in the great classical tradition, wanted to be a man.

The Portuguese government forbade its consuls in France to issue visas without prior approval from the Foreign Ministry, but the consul in Bordeaux, Aristides de Sousa Mendes, decided to disregard the order, throwing to the wind a thirty-year diplomatic career. As Nazi tanks were closing in on Bordeaux, Sousa Mendes and his team worked around the clock for ten days and nights, barely stopping to sleep, just issuing visas and stamping pieces of paper. Sousa Mendes issued thousands of visas before collapsing from exhaustion.

Unscrupulous vendors turn the situation to their advantage. In China, nouveau-riche status-seekers are spending small fortunes on counterfeit Bordeaux. A related scenario exists here vis-à-vis olive oil. “The United States is a dumping ground for bad olive oil,” Langstaff told me. It’s no secret among European manufacturers that Americans have no palate for olive oils. The Olive Center—a recent addition to the Robert Mondavi Institute for Wine and Food Science, on the campus of the University of California at Davis—aims to change that.

French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty argued that human perception is deeply invested in a full-bodied exchange with the rest of the world. Sitting near his home on the seacoast near Bordeaux, he writes: “As I contemplate the blue of the sky…I abandon myself to it, and plunge into this mystery, it “thinks itself within me.” I am the sky itself as it is drawn together and unified…my consciousness is saturated with this limitless blue.” The lines blur between his act of perceiving and the stunning character of what he perceives. The sky “thinks itself” within him.

Sir!’ said the captain again. ‘I insist that you head towards Bordeaux.’ He showed signs of advancing upon them; one of the crew behind him began to pull the boat-hook clear, and it would be a dangerous weapon. Hornblower pulled one of the pistols from his belt and pointed it at the captain, who, with the muzzle four feet from his breast, fell back before the gesture. Without taking his eyes off him Hornblower took a second pistol with his left hand. ‘Take this, Matthews,’ he said. ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Matthews, obeying; and then, after a respectful pause, ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but hadn’t you better cock your pistol, sir?

In a blind taste test at the University of Bordeaux, students in the faculty of enology were given two glasses of wine, one red and one white. The wines were actually identical except that one had been made a rich red with an odorless and flavorless additive. The students without exception listed entirely different qualities for the two wines. That wasn’t because they were inexperienced or naive. It was because their sight led them to have entirely different expectations, and this powerfully influenced what they sensed when they took a sip from either glass. In exactly the same way, if an orange-flavored drink is colored red, you cannot help but taste it as cherry.

«Ehi, guarda... anche Harry ha un maglione alla Weasley!» Fred e George indossavano due maglioni blu, uno con una grossa F in giallo, e l’altro con una G. «Quello di Harry è più bello del nostro, però» disse Fred tenendolo aperto perché lo vedessero. «Naturalmente, mamma ci mette più impegno se non sei della famiglia». «E tu, Ron, perché non ti sei messo il tuo?» chiese George. «Su, dai, mettilo anche tu, sono belli caldi». «Io odio il bordeaux» piagnucolò Ron sconfortato, mentre se lo infilava dalla testa. «Sul tuo non c’è nessuna lettera» osservò George. «Segno che mamma crede che tu non ti dimentichi come ti chiami. Ma neanche noi siamo stupidi... sappiamo benissimo che ci chiamiamo Gred e Forge!»

Now there," Ken said, "is the kind of shit I just can't believe people fall for. I mean, hell, what kind of name is 'Bordeaux' for a housing tract in Southern California? Are they trying to make you believe there's going to be vineyards here one day? And they call it 'Ridge,' but the whole tract's in this stretch of flatland between the hills. Their sign prom ises serenity. Maybe now. But what about when they pitch up another three thousand houses out here in the next five years?" Teel said, "Yeah, but the part that gets me is 'miniestates.' what the fuck is a MINIestate? Nobody in his right mind would think these are estates--- except maybe Russians who've spent their lives living twelve to an apartment. These are tract homes

Philippe, I’m going to Spain and I’m not coming back, at least not right away. You are going to Bordeaux and I know it will be only the first step in a long journey. I always knew you were made for somewhere else. Our paths are separating. I know you would have liked for things to be different, for me to say the words that would have reassured you, but I could not, and I never knew how to talk anyway. In the end, I tell myself that you understood. It was love, of course. And tomorrow, there will be a great emptiness. But we could not continue—you have your life waiting for you, and I will never change. I just wanted to write to tell you that I have been happy during these months together, that I have never been so happy, and that I already know I will never be so happy again.

The boy, called Urbain, is now fourteen years old and wonderfully clever. He deserves to be given the best of educations, and in the neighborhood of Saintes the best education available is to be had at the Jesuit College of Bordeaux. This celebrated seat of learning comprised a high school for boys, a liberal arts college, a seminary, and a School of Advanced Studies for ordained postgraduates. Here the precociously brilliant Urbain Grandier spent more than ten years, first as schoolboy, and later as undergraduate, theological student and, after his ordination in 1615, as Jesuit novice. Not that he intended to enter the Company; for he felt no vocation to subject himself to so rigid a discipline. No, his career was to be made, not in a religious order, but as a secular priest.

La sala d'aspetto è una piccola stanza quadrata con le pareti dipinte di due tonalità di verde, nella parte più bassa la tinta più chiara, nella parte alta la tinta più scura. Lungo le pareti si appoggiano le sedie di plastica rigida, di colore rosso bordeaux, unite a sei sei da una gamba sola, come i calciatori del calciobalilla. Lo schienale delle sedie arriva giusto nel punto dove si incontrano i due colori del muro, a sottolineare, se qualcuno di noi ancora ne dubitasse, che noi che stiamo qui seduti ad aspettare facciamo parte del mondo più basso, quello con i piedi per terra, quello delle tinte più deboli, quello dei malati. L'altra metà del mondo, quella dove la speranza è più viva, come il colore deciso delle pareti, accoglie solo le nostre teste, che si perdono in ricordi e fantasticherie, ma è un mondo di illusioni, nel quale non riusciremo mai a vivere.

We make the delicate liqueur chocolates, the rose-petal clusters, the gold-wrapped coins, the violet creams, the chocolate cherries and almond rolls, in batches of fifty at a time, laying them out onto greased tins to cool. Hollow eggs and animal figures are carefully split open and filled with these. Nests of spun caramel with hard-shelled sugar eggs are each topped with a triumphantly plump chocolate hen; pie-bald rabbits heavy with gilded almonds stand in rows, ready to be wrapped and boxed; marzipan creatures march across the shelves. The smells of vanilla essence and cognac and caramelized apple and bitter chocolate fill the house. And now there is Armande's party to prepare for, too. I have a list of what she wants on order from Agen- foie gras, champagne, truffles and fresh chanterelles from Bordeaux, plateaux de fruits de mer from the traitor in Agen. I will bring the cakes and chocolates myself.

He stood just near the club’s steps, his back to me along the foggy English night, and it was not until I’d passed him and began my ascent of the many steps that I’d heard his voice. The voice I knew, in all my years of living upon the Earth, that I would never forget. Even then I had known this. It was the slippery way of his tongue, or perhaps it was the coolness of which his words passed across the air and slid its way into my ears as though they were only meant for me.

The wines were great, and better by the minute, even as the drinkers softened. Just as wines opened at the table, so the friends' thirst changed. Their tongues were not so keen, but curled, delighted, as the wines deepened. Nick's Latour was a classic Bordeaux, perfumed with black currant and cedar, perfectly balanced, never overpowering, too genteel to call attention to itself, but too splendid to ignore. Raj's Petrus, like Raj himself, more flamboyant, flashier, riper, ravishing the tongue. And then the Californian, which was in some ways richest, and in others most ethereal. George was sure the scent was eucalyptus in this Heitz, the flavor creamy with just a touch of mint, so that he could imagine the groves of silvery trees. The Heitz was smooth and silky, meltingly soft, perhaps best suited to George's tournedos, seared outside, succulent and pink within, juices running, mixing with the young potatoes and tangy green beans crisp enough to snap.

Why not stop awhile? Your record is pretty good; you might form younger pilots, and in time go back to your squadron." "Yes, and people would say that, hoping for no more distinctions, I have given up fighting." "What does it matter? Let people talk, and when you appear in better condition they will understand...you will admit that human strength has its limits." "Yes," Georges interposed, "a limit which we must endeavor to leave behind. We have given nothing as long as we have not given everything.

Et toujours ces questions si naturelles, anodines en apparence, ça marche toujours avec lui ? Est-ce que tu comptes te marier ? La désolation de mes parents devant une situation incertaine, "on aimerait bien savoir où ça va te mener tout ça". Obligé que l'amour mène quelque part. Leur peine sourde aussi. Ce serait tellement plus agréable, plus tranquille pour eux de voir se dérouler l'histoire habituelle, les faire-part dans le journal, les questions auxquelles on répond avec fierté, un jeune homme de Bordeaux, bientôt professeur, l'église, la mairie, le ménage qui se "monte", les petits-enfants. Je les prive des espérances traditionnelles. L'affolement de ma mère quand elle apprend, tu couches avec, si tu continues tu vas gâcher ta vie. Pour elle, je suis en train de me faire rouler, des tonnes de romans qui ressortent, filles séduites qu'on n'épouse pas, abandonnées avec un môme. Un combat tannant toutes les semaines entre nous deux. Je ne sais pas encore qu'au moment où l'on me pousse à liquider ma liberté, ses parents à lui jouent un scénario tout aussi traditionnel mais inverse, "tu as bien le temps d'avoir un fil à la patte, ne te laisse pas mettre le grappin dessus !", bien chouchoutée la liberté des mâles.

Later in the evening, Devon and West had dinner in the dilapidated splendor of the dining room. The meal was of far better quality than they had expected, consisting of cold cucumber soup, roast pheasant dressed with oranges, and puddings rolled in sweetened bread crumbs. “I made the house steward unlock the cellar so I could browse over the wine collection,” West remarked. “It’s gloriously well provisioned. Among the spoils, there are at least ten varieties of important champagne, twenty cabernets, at least that many of bordeaux, and a large quantity of French brandy.” “Perhaps if I drink enough of it,” Devon said, “I won’t notice the house falling down around our ears.” “There are no obvious signs of weakness in the foundation. No walls out of plumb, for example, nor any visible cracks in the exterior stone that I’ve seen so far.” Devon glanced at him with mild surprise. “For a man who’s seldom more than half sober, you’ve noticed a great deal.” “Have I?” West looked perturbed. “Forgive me--I seem to have become accidentally lucid.” He reached for his wineglass. “Eversby Priory is one of the finest sporting estates in England. Perhaps we should shoot grouse tomorrow.” “Splendid,” Devon said. “I would enjoy beginning the day with killing something.

A study titled, simply, “The Color of Odors,” will destroy your faith in anybody’s ability to taste anything. Here’s how it worked: three French researchers started with two wines from Bordeaux, a white made with Sémillon and Sauvignon grapes and a red made with Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. The researchers first had a group of subjects taste both the white wine and the red, under white light in clear glasses, and write down all the words they could think of to describe each one. In this test it didn’t matter whether the tasters perceived the same things. Inter-rater reliability wasn’t a factor here—the researchers didn’t care if tasters agreed with each other about the wine color and taste, just that each taster would consistently call one “red” and one “white.” Then the researchers took an odorless, tasteless extract of the grape-skin pigment anthocyanin and dripped it into the white wine, turning it red. And they called the tasters back for a second go-around, asking them to compare the white wine and the colored wine—the same wine, in other words, with red food coloring. The result was a taste-test catastrophe. Almost to a person, the tasters chose to use the same words for the white wine from the initial tasting on the white wine in the second. And they used the same words for the red wine on the red-colored white wine. They simply could not tell the difference. Color alone—not aroma, not flavor—told them what to expect, and that’s exactly what they tasted.

The only traveler with real soul I've ever met was an office boy who worked in a company where I was at one time employed. This young lad collected brochures on different cities, countries and travel companies; he had maps, some torn out of newspapers, others begged from one place or another; he cut out pictures of landscapes, engravings of exotic costumes, paintings of boats and ships from various journals and magazines. He would visit travel agencies on behalf of some real or hypothetical company, possibly the actual one in which he worked, and ask for brochures on Italy or India, brochures giving details of sailings between Portugal and Australia. He was not only the greatest traveler I've ever known (because he was truest), he was also one of the happiest people I have had the good fortune to meet. I'm sorry not to know what has become of him, though, to be honest, I'm not really sorry, I only feel that I should be. I'm not really sorry because today, ten or more years on from that brief period in which i knew him, he must be a grown man, stolidly, reliably fulfilling his duties, married perhaps, someone's breadwinner - in other words, one of the living dead. By now he may even have traveled in his body, he who knew so well how to travel in his soul. A sudden memory assails me: he knew exactly which trains one had to catch to ho from Paris to Bucharest; which trains one took to cross England; and in his garbled pronunciation of the strange names hung the bright certainty of the greatness of his soul. Now he probably lives like a dead man, but perhaps one day, when he's old, he'll remember that to dream of Bordeaux is not only better, but truer, than actually to arrive in Bordeaux

The Princeton economist and wine lover Orley Ashenfelter has offered a compelling demonstration of the power of simple statistics to outdo world-renowned experts. Ashenfelter wanted to predict the future value of fine Bordeaux wines from information available in the year they are made. The question is important because fine wines take years to reach their peak quality, and the prices of mature wines from the same vineyard vary dramatically across different vintages; bottles filled only twelve months apart can differ in value by a factor of 10 or more. An ability to forecast future prices is of substantial value, because investors buy wine, like art, in the anticipation that its value will appreciate. It is generally agreed that the effect of vintage can be due only to variations in the weather during the grape-growing season. The best wines are produced when the summer is warm and dry, which makes the Bordeaux wine industry a likely beneficiary of global warming. The industry is also helped by wet springs, which increase quantity without much effect on quality. Ashenfelter converted that conventional knowledge into a statistical formula that predicts the price of a wine—for a particular property and at a particular age—by three features of the weather: the average temperature over the summer growing season, the amount of rain at harvest-time, and the total rainfall during the previous winter. His formula provides accurate price forecasts years and even decades into the future. Indeed, his formula forecasts future prices much more accurately than the current prices of young wines do. This new example of a “Meehl pattern” challenges the abilities of the experts whose opinions help shape the early price. It also challenges economic theory, according to which prices should reflect all the available information, including the weather. Ashenfelter’s formula is extremely accurate—the correlation between his predictions and actual prices is above .90.

Everything has already been caught, until my death, in an icefloe of being: my trembling when a piece of rough trade asks me to brown him (I discover that his desire is his trembling) during a Carnival night; at twilight, the view from a sand dune of Arab warriors surrendering to French generals; the back of my hand placed on a soldier's basket, but especially the sly way in which the soldier looked at it; suddenly I see the ocean between two houses in Biarritz; I am escaping from the reformatory, taking tiny steps, frightened not at the idea of being caught but of being the prey of freedom; straddling the enormous prick of a blond legionnaire, I am carried twenty yards along the ramparts; not the handsome football player, nor his foot, nor his shoe, but the ball, then ceasing to be the ball and becoming the “kick-off,” and I cease being that to become the idea that goes from the foot to the ball; in a cell, unknown thieves call me Jean; when at night I walk barefoot in my sandals across fields of snow at the Austrian border, I shall not flinch, but then, I say to myself, this painful moment must concur with the beauty of my life, I refuse to let this moment and all the others be waste matter; using their suffering, I project myself to the mind's heaven. Some negroes are giving me food on the Bordeaux docks; a distinguished poet raises my hands to his forehead; a German soldier is killed in the Russian snows and his brother writes to inform me; a boy from Toulouse helps me ransack the rooms of the commissioned and non-commissioned officers of my regiment in Brest: he dies in prison; I am talking of someone–and while doing so, the time to smell roses, to hear one evening in prison the gang bound for the penal colony singing, to fall in love with a white-gloved acrobat–dead since the beginning of time, that is, fixed, for I refuse to live for any other end than the very one which I found to contain the first misfortune: that my life must be a legend, in other words, legible, and the reading of it must give birth to a certain new emotion which I call poetry. I am no longer anything, only a pretext.

In the spring of 1940, when the Nazis overran France from the north, much of its Jewish population tried to escape the country towards the south. In order to cross the border, they needed visas to Spain and Portugal, and together with a flood of other refugees, tens of thousands of Jews besieged the Portuguese consulate in Bordeaux in a desperate attempt to get that life-saving piece of paper. The Portuguese government forbade its consuls in France to issue visas without prior approval from the Foreign Ministry, but the consul in Bordeaux, Aristides de Sousa Mendes, decided to disregard the order, throwing to the wind a thirty-year diplomatic career. As Nazi tanks were closing in on Bordeaux, Sousa Mendes and his team worked around the clock for ten days and nights, barely stopping to sleep, just issuing visas and stamping pieces of paper. Sousa Mendes issued thousands of visas before collapsing from exhaustion. 22. Aristides de Sousa Mendes, the angel with the rubber stamp. 22.​Courtesy of the Sousa Mendes Foundation. The Portuguese government – which had little desire to accept any of these refugees – sent agents to escort the disobedient consul back home, and fired him from the foreign office. Yet officials who cared little for the plight of human beings nevertheless had a deep reverence for documents, and the visas Sousa Mendes issued against orders were respected by French, Spanish and Portuguese bureaucrats alike, spiriting up to 30,000 people out of the Nazi death trap. Sousa Mendes, armed with little more than a rubber stamp, was responsible for the largest rescue operation by a single individual during the Holocaust.2 The sanctity of written records often had far less positive effects. From 1958 to 1961 communist China undertook the Great Leap Forward, when Mao Zedong wished to rapidly turn China into a superpower. Intending to use surplus grain to finance ambitious industrial projects, Mao ordered the doubling and tripling of agricultural production. From the government offices in Beijing his impossible demands made their way down the bureaucratic ladder, through provincial administrators, all the way down to the village headmen. The local officials, afraid of voicing any criticism and wishing to curry favour with their superiors, concocted imaginary reports of dramatic increases in agricultural output. As the fabricated numbers made their way back up the bureaucratic hierarchy, each official exaggerated them further, adding a zero here or there with a stroke of a pen. 23.

There is no fault that can’t be corrected [in natural wine] with one powder or another; no feature that can’t be engineered from a bottle, box, or bag. Wine too tannic? Fine it with Ovo-Pure (powdered egg whites), isinglass (granulate from fish bladders), gelatin (often derived from cow bones and pigskins), or if it’s a white, strip out pesky proteins that cause haziness with Puri-Bent (bentonite clay, the ingredient in kitty litter). Not tannic enough? Replace $1,000 barrels with a bag of oak chips (small wood nuggets toasted for flavor), “tank planks” (long oak staves), oak dust (what it sounds like), or a few drops of liquid oak tannin (pick between “mocha” and “vanilla”). Or simulate the texture of barrel-aged wines with powdered tannin, then double what you charge. (““Typically, the $8 to $12 bottle can be brought up to $15 to $20 per bottle because it gives you more of a barrel quality. . . . You’re dressing it up,” a sales rep explained.) Wine too thin? Build fullness in the mouth with gum arabic (an ingredient also found in frosting and watercolor paint). Too frothy? Add a few drops of antifoaming agent (food-grade silicone oil). Cut acidity with potassium carbonate (a white salt) or calcium carbonate (chalk). Crank it up again with a bag of tartaric acid (aka cream of tartar). Increase alcohol by mixing the pressed grape must with sugary grape concentrate, or just add sugar. Decrease alcohol with ConeTech’s spinning cone, or Vinovation’s reverse-osmosis machine, or water. Fake an aged Bordeaux with Lesaffre’s yeast and yeast derivative. Boost “fresh butter” and “honey” aromas by ordering the CY3079 designer yeast from a catalog, or go for “cherry-cola” with the Rhône 2226. Or just ask the “Yeast Whisperer,” a man with thick sideburns at the Lallemand stand, for the best yeast to meet your “stylistic goals.” (For a Sauvignon Blanc with citrus aromas, use the Uvaferm SVG. For pear and melon, do Lalvin Ba11. For passion fruit, add Vitilevure Elixir.) Kill off microbes with Velcorin (just be careful, because it’s toxic). And preserve the whole thing with sulfur dioxide. When it’s all over, if you still don’t like the wine, just add a few drops of Mega Purple—thick grape-juice concentrate that’s been called a “magical potion.” It can plump up a wine, make it sweeter on the finish, add richer color, cover up greenness, mask the horsey stink of Brett, and make fruit flavors pop. No one will admit to using it, but it ends up in an estimated 25 million bottles of red each year. “Virtually everyone is using it,” the president of a Monterey County winery confided to Wines and Vines magazine. “In just about every wine up to $20 a bottle anyway, but maybe not as much over that.

Humans are better equipped for sight than for smell. We process visual input ten times faster than olfactory. Visual and cognitive cues handily trump olfactory ones, a fact famously demonstrated in a 2001 collaboration between a sensory scientist and a team of oenologists (wine scientists) at the University of Bordeaux in Talence, France.

I had made a sort of Japanese antipasto to accompany a bottle of French Bordeaux I had bought in the food hall of Daimaru department store. So while John sat on a blue cotton cushion hunched over the low unfinished wooden table sipping red wine from a small glass tumbler, I presented him with a succession of nibbles: chili-speckled rice crackers and peanuts; boiled edamame tossed with coarse salt; chewy strands of dried calamari; and chilled steamed asparagus that I had bought fresh that morning at Nishiki market. For a taste of home, I sautéed pudgy slices of herb-flavored wheat gluten, soft as gnocchi, in garlic butter with sliced shiitake mushrooms. Dinner ended with snappy red grapes and imported coconut sables that broke into buttery splinters in our cupped palms.

As late as 1701, a Bordeaux ship’s captain was able to persuade his employers that he had lost his cargo off Newfoundland to a fire-breathing dragon looming out of the deep.

After several courses, Dylan looked at the menu, noting that "Cheeseburger" was next up. "Okay, this is something I recognize," he said with relief. "Don't get too excited," said Grace knowingly as she sipped the last of a bright and barnyard funky Romanee-Saint-Vivant from a big-bowled burgundy stem. The waiter stepped out of the shadows and set two servings of the next course on the table simultaneously. Another server placed two very large Bordeaux stems on the table, and then carefully filled each with just one and a half ounces of wine. "This is Chef's cheeseburger," the waiter said. "Paired with the '70 Latour." The waiter and other server then backed away. Dylan and Grace leaned forward, examining the strange creation. It smelled amazing, though it looked much more like something from a science class than from a Michelin-starred restaurant-- a tiny piece of freeze-dried cheese on a teaspoon of bison tartare, lying atop a small lettuce pillow that had been filled with Vidalia onion smoke. It sat on a small warm open-face wheat bun, and the whole thing was presented on a miniature plate on which was a little pool of foamed heirloom tomato, and another of foamed mustard seed. And it was all topped with a few droplets of pureed brined Japanese cucumber. Dylan just stared at it. "I feel like it belongs in a museum." "I know. It's almost too beautiful to eat," Grace said. They were both captivated by the variety of scents coming from the presentation. It did, indeed, smell like an amazing cheeseburger. "Well, I'm gonna try," said Dylan, putting the little top bun on. Grace watched as he picked it all up with his thumb and forefinger, dapped it in the foamed tomato and mustard, and popped it in his mouth. Dylan's mouth and nose were filled to bursting with all the expected flavors and scents of a great cheeseburger-- bread, meat and cheese, ketchup and mustard, lettuce and pickle. Oh, wow, it was good. And as he chewed, he popped the lettuce pillow, adding just the right touch of sweet onion scent and flavor to the mouthful.

Taking in the scents of very high-end colognes and perfumes, a whiff of Joy, a trace of Shalini, equally exquisite whiskeys and wines, a mossy Islay, Lagavulin perhaps, first-growth Bordeaux, Latour definitely, a distant hint of Cohiba, Grace headed towards the bar. A melange of fascinating and captivating foods, spiced Kobe beef bao buns and Georgia shrimp and grits souffle and warm Coca-Cola chocolate cake, wafted from a variety of restaurants and open spaces to where Grace stood at the entrance, a cozy intimate living room-like space populated by a very well-dressed, well-heeled, and decidedly young crowd, to which Grace looked as though she belonged.

Circumstantial evidence is not, as they [defense counsel] claim, like a chain. You could have a chain spanning the Atlantic Ocean from Nova Scotia to Bordeaux, France, consisting of millions of links, and with one weak link that chain is broken. Circumstantial evidence, to the contrary, is like a rope. And each fact is a strand of that rope. And as the prosecution piles one fact upon another we add strands and we add strength to that rope. If one strand breaks—and I’m not conceding for a moment that any strand has broken in this case—but if one strand does break, the rope is not broken. The strength of the rope is barely diminished. Why? Because there are so many other strands of almost steel-like strength that the rope is still more than strong enough to bind these two defendants to justice. That’s what circumstantial evidence is all about.5

This is the first real food I've had since the patisserie trolley at the Bordeaux airport," Shannon said. She took a bite, and an expression of rapture came over her face. "They'll probably close the borders of France to me for saying this, but I've never had a better quiche lorraine." Tess's mother possessed a combination of Irish charm and whimsy and American directness. According to Tess, these traits had served her well in her profession and maybe in her social life. As a mother, perhaps not so much, judging by what Tess had said. With her auburn hair and English tea rose complexion, Shannon didn't really look like anyone's mother.

important political center and the capital of a vast territory with

Krause and his team unearthed the evolution of Yersinia pestis, and the genomic tracks of its terrible journey. An earlier study had shown that, just like the Plague of Justinian, the Black Death in the 1340s had also originated in China. With a publicly available database of the full sequence, the history and the genetics can be aligned. Over a five-year period we can track a course from Russia to Constantinople, to Messina, to Genoa, Marseille, Bordeaux, and finally London. All these ports acted as points from which radiation of the plague could crawl inland. En route, it claimed the lives of some 5 million people.

All that fancy wine in my basement was nothing but alcohol. What was I going to do about the couple thousand dollars’ worth of Bordeaux futures I owned? I cried tears of joy for having been such an idiot and having things now be so clear. It was also an enormous relief that, since I knew what the problem was, I wouldn’t have to do anything degrading like go to a hospital.

Red wine and Hennessy She fell out of her bottle when she fell into love, cup running over, overflowing emotions in glass- red stained palet, on a pallet on the grass, to a quilt on the floor -affixed between lips and red lipstick on a shirt that he wore. A familiar place, she know she's been here before Reminiscent of the evening On his shirt that she tore ............ Drop by drop, puddle in glass getting lower- impressions in her gut, rim of her glass, hour glass figure moves counter clockwise - while absorbing the contents of merlot. Hard liquor and fine wine ............. Red Wine and Hennessy A wicked twist on some champagne tips French nails, manicures over grapes Whoever said wine and liquor don't mix? Last night I had six Bottle caps, corks, bedazzled juice Merlot was her name - slim waist - good taste slinger neck, red lace. Long stem, pedestal - hands embraced her face ............. room temperature, her body temperature ... personality of two, she's mellow and chill... aged to perfection- pop the seal- watch the erection ... splatters on the floor- covers the rug, Residue of red lipstick- Merlot stained lips match the kiss on his neck ............ Chasing fantasy through the Red Sea While chasing that with a white BC How much will she pour- how much will she drink How much more before her ship sinks ........... A full body lush, blackberry crush Medium sized Bordeaux Intense velvety plum I asked her where she's from She said she's international She's longer thinking rational .......... Sips in sync with blinking eyes She sips too much to realize Every time you pour into me, my bottle gets more empty- Glass falling to the floor She staggers to the door Glass shatters her feet She stumbles to her seat She's still asking for more But she falls to the floor Red lipstick in the mud She covers up the blood ............ She lays in her wine She forgot about the time Clock on the wall Footsteps in the hall Pounding in her head She rushes to the bed ......... She lays motionless ... but her head is racing Her heart is pacing Her lungs are gasping - air, she needs air Rolls to her side, brings her self to sit up She gags and gags until She throws it all up- ........... Wakes up the next morning Dazed and confused She's laying in a bed That she's not used to She moves slowly, where did everyone go? She checks the time- it's a quarter pass 4 sounds on the other side of the door Are Muffled by the sound of a knock at the door ........... Looks around for her little red dress Notices a blotch - a red stain on her breast Lipstick smeared an accessory to her mess She reached for her clothes and saw a note on the desk. .......... Dearly beloved, I want to see you again I'd love to have to back I think we make a great blend I tried to wake you Because I had to go And Oh by the way, my name is merlot "Little Black Bird

Elle aurait bien accusé le décalage horaire, mais la faute en revenait davantage au bon bordeaux et à une trop forte dose de Marthe de Florian.

Euh… oui, répondit-elle en étouffant un petit renvoi qui sentait encore le steak et le bordeaux.

Basle in Switzerland. The next season, Juventus was in the European Cup. In the first round, it played the Finnish team Ilves-Kissat and won six-nil. It won the second round, and in the quarterfinals played Sparta Prague: again a victory for Juventus. The semifinal was against Bordeaux. It wasn’t until the final that Juventus played an English team again, the first time since Manchester United visited Turin. The team was Liverpool; the stadium was Heysel in Brussels. Juventus won one-nil; the goal was a penalty kick. Before the match began, thirty-nine people died; six hundred were injured.

Boston may be known for the historical tea party, but in Bordeaux, we live for the spilling of the tea.

Bordeaux, Ohio, the land of zero boundaries and infinite mystery casseroles.

Une image me terrifiait, je le voyais danser avec des femmes d'une quelconque délégation (comme nous, en URSS), j'étais exclue, toujours la même histoire (Et comme j'ai souffert de cela, avec Philippe, ces soirs où il ne rentrait pas, c'était donc l'enfer ? Ou bien, ce n'était pas pire que maintenant ? Simplement identique ?) Je me souvenais de la chambre de Bordeaux, la découverte des draps avec le sang de la virginité de cette fille (Annie comment ? j'ai oublié), ma douleur.

Le seul à ne pas paraître intéressé était celui dont j'étais enceinte, qui m'envoyait de Bordeaux des lettres espacées, dans lesquelles il évoquait allusivement les difficultés pour trouver une solution. (Dans l'agenda, « Il me laisse me débrouiller seule ».) J'aurais dû en conclure qu'il n'éprouvait plus rien pour moi et qu'il n'avait qu'une envie, redevenir celui qu'il était avant cette histoire, l'étudiant juste préoccupé de ses examens et de son avenir. Même si j'ai dû pressentir tout cela, je n'avais pas la force de rompre, d'ajouter à la recherche désespérée d'un moyen d'avorter le vide d'une séparation. C'était finalement à bon escient que j'occultais la réalité.

The pirogue Jean sat in was so close to the water he could hear it splash against the sides as it glided through the night. He reached out and let the cool and soft liquid brush along his hand, then let the drops that trembled at his fingertips drip into the Mississippi. He enjoyed this intimacy with the river, and it reminded him on his childhood where he and his brother Pierre spent days building boats and racing on the Garonne river near Bordeaux, sometimes even on the Bay of Biscay.

Jesus,” Rome says. “I thought you were a poet.” “I do sometimes.” “You do what?” “Write poetry about you. Because you’re so… you could be so much, I think. If you weren’t—“ Damien sighs. “It helps… to write about you. Sometimes.” Rome suddenly feels a lot more sober, standing there in the hallway, for all intents and purposes, holding hands with Damien Raphael Bordeaux. “Yeah?” “Yeah,” Damien sighs, letting go of his hand. He stumbles a little, and Rome catches him before he can topple back down the stairs. “Don’t tell, okay?” Damien says, leaning into him. “About the poetry.” “Don’t tell who?” “Rome.” “Okay,” Rome agrees. “I won’t.

Most readers will be familiar with the name of Oberon as the king of fairyland.  William Shakespeare is responsible for this, but he borrowed the name; he did not invent it.  It derives from the early to mid-thirteenth century French romance Huon of Bordeaux.  In that story Oberon/Auberon appears as a magical fairy king- as well as being a dwarf who’s the height of a three-year-old child as the result of an enchantment. A dwarfish fairy king was not a unique notion: the same is true of the fairy king in the English romance of King Herla).  Auberon is a French name, an affectionate diminutive form of Aubert, which in turn is derived the Frankish/Germanic name Alberic (to which we may compare the Anglo-Saxon Aelfric) and which means no more than 'elf rule.'  In other words, this is not really a name at all, it's just a job title- 'King of the Elves.

The faery king’s name seems to have been familiar to English speakers well before its use by Shakespeare. For example, a very revealing incident concerning the collection of magical fern seed was described by the Puritan preacher Thomas Jackson in 1625:85 “It was my happe since I undertook the Ministrie to question an ignorant soule… what he saw or heard when he watch’t the falling of the Ferne-seed at an unseasonable and suspitious houre.  Why (quoth he) … doe you think that the devil hath aught to do with that good seed? No: it is in the keeping of the King of Fayries and he, I know, will do me no harm: yet he had utterly forgotten this King’s name until I remembered it unto him out of my reading of Huon of Bordeaux.” (i.e. the king was Oberon)

Of all the dwarfs of the Middle Ages, Aubéron or Oberon, alias Alberîch, is certainly the most famous. He belongs to a long literary tradition and made his appearance in France during the twelfth century, in Huon de Bordeaux, a text that met with enormous popularity but whose author remains unknown to us.

I just want to love you. However you want to be loved.

The insistence with which the author of Huon de Bordeaux speaks of the beauty of Aubéron, the almost constant comparison of this dwarf to the radiance of the sun, make the small king of Faery an angel from the Christian perspective, or a solar hero from the pagan view of the matter. It so happens that this feature is confirmed by Ortnit: we have noted that Alberîch appears in the guise of a very beautiful child, and that Ortnit discovers him thanks to a magical ring whose power is connected to the sun.

It is in Huon de Bordeaux, a romance written between 1220 and 1260 that Aubéron makes his first appearance.1 He is therefore a latecomer to the romance literature, which has had one important consequence: his personage was exposed to many influences and, to a certain extent, became adulterated. Aubéron is a literary creation constructed from pieces borrowed from almost everywhere with fairly happy results.

We can assume that the author of Huon de Bordeaux has retained the virtue of such gems without mentioning them, thereby creating a new wondrous object, Aubéron’s throne, which we can be fairly confident in recognizing as an attribute of sovereignty.

Let me repeat that Aubéron, such as he appears in Huon de Bordeaux, is a composite figure made up of different elements drawn from oral traditions and other texts. Researchers have long recognized the importance of the Germanic traditions, without truly being able to pin them down. The possession of the hauberk is revealing in this regard. Throughout the medieval Germanic-speaking world, dwarfs are primarily smiths, and when they feel friendship toward a mortal, they offer him creations from their forge.

Aubéron’s horn most likely has the same origin, but the author of Huon de Bordeaux has obviously compounded several traditions together: in fact, one magical object never possesses this many powers.

A functional analysis of these objects clearly shows that each of them belongs not to just to one of the three Indo-European functions, but to several. The hanap, for example, is in the domain of the Third Function (abundance) but also the First Function (magical discrimination, recognition of the qualities that make a good ruler). An amalgamation of this sort demands that we exercise caution in its interpretation. Taken on their own, the motifs are all possessed of great antiquity, but in the way they are presented in Huon de Bordeaux, they are incapable of providing a solid basis for research.

The major interest of this figure specifically lies in the fact that he is the brother of Aubéron, which, we should note, brings Aubéron close to the world of water. Furthermore, Picolet seems capable of unleashing a tempest like Aubéron, except in Huon de Bordeaux, the little king of Faery must strike his horn with his finger to unleash the elements. One final detail deserves to be singled out because it establishes a connection with the Alberîch of the Nibelungenlied: it is said in the Bataille Loquifer that Aubéron lives in Montnuble. It just so happens that this place-name can be translated as “Cloudy Mount” or “Dark Mount,” because nuble corresponds exactly to the old German word nibel that we see in the name Nibelungen.

At my cabin I got so jumpy after saving my young heroine from three older men who resembled my friends that I flipped and conceived of a highly illegal meal, a thirty-pound elephant's asshole shipped FedEx from Zimbabwe, cooked for three days in a rock-lined fire hole in a bleached gunnysack soaked in 151 rum, to which is added thirteen pounds of garlic and an equal amount of fresh hot chiles. Serve with plain white rice. A Bordeaux is a possibility.

But as I remember it, he looked alternately bored and preoccupied throughout the meal, as if, while one part of him was drinking Bordeaux and cutting his food into bite-sized morsels, the other half was engaged with shepherding a herd of goats across a bone-dry plain.

El odio 10. Amáos unos a otros y seréis felices. Procurad, sobre todo, amar a los que os inspiran indiferencia, odio o desprecio. Cristo, vuestro modelo, os dio ese ejemplo de abnegación; misionero de amor, amó hasta dar su sangre y su vida. El sacrificio que os obliga a amar a los que os ultrajan y os persiguen, es penoso; pero esto es precisamente lo que os hace superiores; si los aborreciéseis como ellos os aborrecen, no valdríais más que ellos; es la hostia sin mancha ofrecida a Dios en el altar de vuestros corazones, hostia de agradable aroma cuyos perfumes suben hasta El. Aunque la ley de amor quiera que indistintamente se ame a todos los hermanos, no endurece el corazón contra los malos procederes; por el contrario, la prueba es más penosa, lo sé, puesto que durante mí última existencia terrestre, experimenté ese tormento; pero Dios existe y castiga en esta vida y en la otra a los que faltan a la ley de amor. No olvidéis, queridos hijos, que el amor os aproxima a Dios y que el odio os aleja de El. (Fenelón, Bordeaux, 1861).

On one of his trips with Jill they visited Montaigne’s tower, “twenty miles outside Bordeaux,” said Michael, who liked to pinpoint the author’s biographical geography. We also went about to several of the other places where he had been and so I read every Montaigne essay in a year or two either at the place he’d written about or in the vicinity. I have it marked. It changed my life. Mostly I was reading it with Jill. It’s got the whole humanist case of how you should look at the world. Jill and I were absolutely captivated by it. I started collecting Montaigne’s other translations. I’ve got a Florio ... which Shakespeare read. Not my particular copy, you know, but the same edition ... Hazlitt himself wrote about Montaigne. His own essays ... were obviously inspired by ... Swift also translated Montaigne. The only genealogy that meant anything to Michael was a literary one and that is why his father was the only family member admitted to this pantheon.

Chinese clients used to talk only about prices and vintages, not what was in the bottle. Now the important thing is not how much money you have but how you express it in wine knowledge.” Tim Weiland, former general manager of the exclusive Aman at Summer Palace in the emperor’s onetime retreat in Beijing, suggests that the image of China’s wealthy class as crass nouveau riche—mixing expensive Bordeaux with Coca-Cola, for example—is entirely out of date. “The nouveaux riches of ten years ago are now the old rich,” he says. “They have homes in Switzerland and Aspen, they’re incredibly sophisticated and well traveled—much more well traveled than I am—and they know their wines.