The Name of Burgundy stirs up a strange variety of mental pictures. To some it means a color, applicable equally to dark red sport shirts in Miami and damask hangings on Madison Avenue. To others it signifies a flavor, and I report with chagrin that the ice cream taste thrill of the month in our neighborhood is called “Burgundy cherry.” To many others it means wine, probably the most cherished and best-known wines in the world. To a comparative few, however, the mention of Burgundy conjures up a vision of exquisite regional cookery.
Yet the cuisine of this rich province is every bit as noble as its wines. Add to this a rich, fertile countryside, and Burgundy’s true gastronomic stature becomes clearer. Savory things abound here, beef and poultry from the Charolais, fresh-water fish, game, fruit, mushrooms, truffles—ah yes, and snails—to make this province, even in this lean day, a shrine of fine cookery. This doesn’t mean that the Herculean menus and banquets of the dukes of Burgundy are on the way back or that these genial, red-cheeked people haven’t been thinned down by the privations of the last tragic decade. But the good Burgundian earth continues to pour forth its blessings of fruit and grain. The snails still slither their hungry way over the leaves of the vineyards. The keen-nostriled pigs still nuzzle the base of oak trees in search of truffles. You can’t keep French strawberries from growing big and luscious in June, nor the grapes of Burgundy from responding to an ardent sun. Great wine years, as 1945 and 1947 promise to be, are reassuring miracles of nature, untroubled by wars or economics.
In this land of the grape, water is scorned with more than the usual French disdain. One hears constant quips about its suitability to run water wheels and flour mills and to float canal boats. But to drink it, never! “Boire de l’eau, c’est une obscénité!” Perhaps you recall the Frenchman who stated with finality that he never allowed water to touch his lips. Someone asked, “What do you do about brushing your teeth, monsieur?” The reply was immediate. “Invariably I use a light, dry, unpretentious white wine.”
They tell of the venerable landscape painter, Henri Harpignies, who spent his vacations in Burgundy and thrived there on the absence of mineral water. He was a bit startled to learn one day of the demise of a centenarian in a nearby village, a most extraordinary Burgundian who had never touched a drop of wine or distilled spirits in all his hundred years. The newspapers seized upon that one, and temperance societies from all France sent delegates to the funeral. The old artist, faintly troubled, attended also and heard the priest draw the obvious moral: “This man has lived a hundred years, my brethren, due to his sobriety! Follow his example, all ye who are addicted to wine and vieux marc, if you wish to prolong your life!”
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