I remembered about Seth’s dinner (‘There is the question of food. I have been reading that now it is called Vitamins’) when the proprietor of a village inn in the Var, about twenty-five miles from Aix-en-Provence, brought us bowls of jam as the final course of our delicious lunch. For the English, it’s always good for a laugh that the French eat jam for pudding – and jam by itself, jam without bread and butter, without toast or teacakes, or cream or even sponge or roly-poly. Just jam, and the point about this jam, and I can’t help how quaint it sounds, was its absolute Tightness on this particular occasion. The meal was faultless of its kind, a roughish country inn kind, beginning with tomato salad with chopped onion, the little black olives of the Nyons district, and home-made pâté – the basic hors-d’œuvre in this part of Provence – each item on its own separate dish, and left on the table so we could help ourselves. It was followed by a gratin of courgettes and rice.
What do You think about Omelette And A Glass Of Wine?
