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.

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Ross Clark

The Waspi women don’t deserve compensation

In the Septième, not far from the Invalides, there used to be a restaurant called L’Ami Louis.