Sublime

I have a great fondness for boudin noir, which I think of as one of the aristocrats of the sausage family—a blood sausage made with pork, usually served on a warm bed of thinly sliced cooked apples. Smooth and rich and dark, it is a dish to be eaten in front of the fire on a day when there is frost on the ground and an icy wind butting against the

“If you permit, we might try with our dessert the closest thing Provence has to one of those Sauternes you Bordelais do so well. A glass of muscat from Beaumes-de-Venise.