The grandest possible way of life
The grandest possible way of life
In defence of champagne
“When handing champagne at a dinner it is usual to ask in the first instance if it is desired, but when handing it later the glass should be refilled without any comment.”
– Florence B. Jack, The Woman’s Book (1911)
Recently, a writer I admire claimed that no one really likes champagne. On this, I must respectfully disagree. Champagne, to me, is the perfect drink. It is only after drinking champagne have I flirted extensively and well, or been seized by a kind of carefree giddiness that is otherwise absent from my nature. It has a vivifying effect. By virtue of its rarity and expense, it should be drunk with a certain kind of devotional attention. The burst of cork from bottle signifies a beginning, or perhaps a promise: only rarely does one serve champagne on an ordinary evening. And so there is a pleasing kind of ouroboros effect. If you are served champagne, then it follows the night must be, in some way, remarkable. If nothing else, in that you are drinking champagne.
New Year’s Eve is the most obvious time to drink champagne, of course. It brings with it expectations of elaborate settings, fussy canapés, and midnight toasts. But champagne does not require a crowd; nor does it need to conform to expectations of excess. For my own celebration to mark the close of the year, I wanted instead something simple and good: my own dining table, a long lunch, good conversation. Nothing more complicated than putting together a muffuletta sandwich, thick with layered vegetables and brushed with olive oil. A simple green salad. A bottle of champagne, shared.
Over several hours, we finished the bottle. The champagne worked its magic. We laughed until we were breathless. We were happy. The year ended as it should, with good food, among friends.
Outside, the lull of summer. The fig tree I’ve been tending has fruit: eight globes, still tight in in their casing. Soon, they will ripen and mellow. In the shops, peaches are plentiful. Sweet yellow ones with their tender sunset colours. Perfumy white ones, soft as a bruise. Champagne and peaches are a natural combination, each in their own way being scarce commodities. The writer Desmond Briggs suggests that pairing the two “suggests the grandest possible way of life” and I can only agree. His recipe for champagne peaches, reproduced below, offers the culinary equivalent of quiet luxury. No fuss, no pretension, instead a casual, almost careless gesture, signalling good taste. If you possibly can, serve this on one of those long, sultry evenings, when a little breeze has arrived to take the edge of the heat of the day and your guests are feeling languid and satisfied. If you possibly can, seek out long-stemmed silver coupes for this recipe. If they have a little tarnish on them, all the better.
Champagne Peaches
You need one peach and 1/4 bottle of champagne per head. Chill each peach thoroughly, and, if you can the glasses also. Put one peach into a large wide wine-glass and, before serving the main course, prick each one all over with a fork. Cover with chilled champagne and leave in the refrigerator if there is room. Serve.
Yes, but! The principle is that every guest takes their glass and toys with the peach, pricking it further with their fork. Of course, they sip. Of course, you top up with more champagne. After a few minutes of this delightful pastime (which also gives them something to do) the champagne gets more and more peachy and the peach more and more champagny. Also, the fuzz on the peach skin disappears and even an indifferent peach becomes something very luscious indeed. After all the toying and sipping, you can either mash your peach into the champagne or lift it out and eat it normally, skin and all.
If you make Briggs’ recipe, tell me, won’t you?
In case of interest
I interviewed director Kitan Petkovski about The Inheritance, a play that runs for a staggering seven hours. I also wrote about the connections between Joan Lindsay, Picnic at Hanging Rock, and Valentine’s Day.
Good things to read
“The scholar is a cripple — his left leg is useless, just dead flesh. His whole life the scholar has been acutely ashamed of his lameness. Everyone in the scholar’s life, his doctors, his family, his friends, has urged and urged the scholar to consider amputation, but he always refuses, he is too proud. This shame is a big part of the reason why he became a scholar in the first place, why he prefers to spend his time alone, in libraries and archives, communicating with the dead, distant, inanimate...” I recommend putting some time aside to read this offbeat, utterly unpredictable short story by Mencham Kaiser. – via The European Review of Books
One more thing!
Thank you to everyone who reached out after my last dispatch to check in. You are all very kind, and I raise a glass in your honour.