Measuring out an elegy in Burgundy

It was a sort of wake. An old friend’s father had died, and some of us were helping him and his wife deal with oddments from the paternal cellar. As he had made 91, enjoyed cantankerous good health until earlier this year, and had always taken a thoroughly unsentimental view of the human condition, there was little call for mourning: more a matter of affectionate reminiscence.

The main theme was Burgundy. My chum’s wife — who used to have terrific rows with her father-in-law, which they both enjoyed — is a serious cook, in a Burgundian idiom. Her jambon persillé and coq au vin were both splendidly authentic. I have nothing against nouvelle cuisine when cooked by a master: third-rate versions are an insult to the palate and the ingredients. But French bourgeois cooking is hard to surpass.

In the Septième, not far from the Invalides, there used to be a restaurant called L’Ami Louis. Old Louis had been awarded the Légion d’Honneur for his chicken: well deserved. One night, I was there with a Parisian friend who was a discreet guide to the clientele, quite a few of whom had boutonnières. There were two senators, one with his maîtresse-en-titre: the wife rarely left the Riviera.

There was also a jaunty-looking girl who had shot her husband and been acquitted, plus a lady who looked like the epitome of b.c.b.g. My friend insisted that she was an alumna of Madame Claude’s. That great madame ran the best whorehouse in the world (or so I am informed). Supplying the right company for every occasion, she made a major contribution to French diplomacy and trade. She too should have been decorated by a grateful nation. Instead, she fell foul of the tax authorities and suffered durance vile, Doll Tearsheet’s fate: not a girl whom the madame would have employed.