I was re-reading The Tenth Muse the
other night, Judith Jones' wonderful
reflections on an active relationship
with food and wine. I wasn't yet sen-
sitized to the moral hazard of people
of means, intruding upon that natural
pursuit, and indeed it wasn't until
I overheard a Presidential candidate
warn of their presence that I was ab-
le to imagine the great risks which
lie in one's path, unless they are ex-
cluded. Suppose they should take an
interest in Paris; there might be a
Tuileries. There might be no end to
manifestations of means, and their
unbearable reminding of inequality.
It was enough to make one remorseful
for one's own appetite, for a com-
petently prepared sorrel soup. What
had been so wrong with that bitter
green, to make me want it luscious?
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