But Le Houx’s charming eulogies are by no means confined to wine. Cider, among the most refreshing and prophylactic of summer beverages when well made, evokes almost equally the playful strains of his lyre. Not less renowned than the juice of the apple of Devonshire is the potent apple juice of Normandy, and even in his reference to this there constantly occurs the oft-repeated refrain:
Drinking is sweeter than a kiss to me.
The true raison d’être of the Vaux de Vire, it may be stated, was a jealous wife. Since the time of Le Houx there have been other jealous spouses that have driven their husbands to the bottle or to something worse; but none have done so with such smiling effect as the wife of the wine-loving lawyer-poet of Vire.
With the wine at the proper temperature (and this point it is the bounden duty of the host to personally superintend), a few well-prepared courses partaken of with congenial friends amid pleasant surroundings will prove far more agreeable and leave more grateful remembrances than the most elaborate banquet. In dining, more than in anything else, quality rather than quantity paves the way to happiness. The petit, and not the grand dîner is the grace of the table. Like many of the accidental things of life—the chance meeting, the suddenly conceived excursion, the unexpected visit from out-of-town friends—it is often the impromptu repast which inspires the most delightful souvenirs.
It was years ago, though I remember it as distinctly as if it were yesterday, when I found my friend St. Ange, after an absence of many months, ensconced in the library, La Gastronomie in one hand and the epicurean epigrams of Martial in the other.
A Julienne soup, some smelt with a tartare sauce, sheep’s tongues à la Jardinière, quail, and an endive salad were to compose the dinner. My guest’s rosy face took on an added luster. His eyes brightened perceptibly at the mention of the quail.
“Let me prepare them!” he exclaimed. “I will show you how to make a salmis of quail that is not down in the cook-books; it is composed as you would blend and form an exquisite perfume:
Thy crown of roses or of spikenard be;
A crown of thrushes is the crown for me.[[14]]
I term it a salmis à la bourgeois gentilhomme; like Molière’s comédie-ballet, it is piquant and full of delightful surprises. Give me the quail, the shallots, the truffles, the mushrooms, and you will never forget me!”