Friend, like wine, improve with age
Jun. 17th, 2009 02:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pecuniumThis weekend the local UU Church had a rummage sale. My youngest sister (aged 11) was working it, and came over for lunch. When we took her back, commodorified and I took a look around.
Everything was half-price. I missed the crossbow (someone had it in hand... probably a 25-35 lb draw weight. Sight), but I did score some books. A four volume edition (I think it’s complete) of Churchill’s History of the English Speaking Peoples, an out of date law school text on criminal procedure, and a 1956 printing, in good condition of the Oxford Book of English Verse.
The last was a treasure. My previous copy (of the same printing, actually) disappeared a while back. It may be in a box, but it was showing the strains of the well-loved life. As Rumpole does, so too do I find it a comfort. That book was my penalty-weight indulgence when sent on missions. It went to Ukraine, twice, Korea once, and I forget how many parts of the states. I really noticed it was gone when I couldn’t find it to take with me to Iraq in 2003.
And there, right were I thought it was, on page 861:
The Ballad of Bouillabaisse
William Makepeace Thackeray (1811–63)
A STREET there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des petits Champs its name is—
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there ’s an inn, not rich and splendid, 5
But still in comfortable case—
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 10
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terrés tavern, 15
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew ’t is;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks. 20
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is? 25
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheeked écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace; 30
He ’d come and smile before your table,
And hop’d you lik’d your Bouillabaisse.
We enter; nothing’s changed or older.
“How ’s Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?”
The waiterstares and shrugs his shoulder;— 35
“Monsieur is dead this many a day.”
“It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terré ’s run his race!”
“What will Monsieur require for dinner?”
“Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?” 40
“Oh, oui, Monsieur,” ’s the waiter’s answer;
“Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il?”
“Tell me a good one.” “That I can, sir;
The Chambertin with yellow seal.”
“So Terré ’s gone,” I say and sink in 45
My old accustom’d corner-place;
“He ’s done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.”
My old accustom’d corner here is—
The table still is in the nook; 50
Ah! vanish’d many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi,
I ’d scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 55
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty—
I ’ll pledge them in the good old wine. 60
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There ’s Jack has made a wondrous marriage; 65
There ’s laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There ’s brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There ’s poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James’s head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagg’d apace 70
Since here we set the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that ’s gone,
When here I ’d sit, as now I ’m sitting, 75
In this same place—but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face look’d fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smil’d to cheer me.
—There ’s no one now to share my cup. 80
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes;
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate’er the seal is; 85
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate’er the meal is.
—Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
The total for this haul... $1.50, all in. The OBEV, with still some gilt on the spine, .25.
(comment at Better than salt money)
commodorified and I took a look around. Everything was half-price. I missed the crossbow (someone had it in hand... probably a 25-35 lb draw weight. Sight), but I did score some books. A four volume edition (I think it’s complete) of Churchill’s History of the English Speaking Peoples, an out of date law school text on criminal procedure, and a 1956 printing, in good condition of the Oxford Book of English Verse.
The last was a treasure. My previous copy (of the same printing, actually) disappeared a while back. It may be in a box, but it was showing the strains of the well-loved life. As Rumpole does, so too do I find it a comfort. That book was my penalty-weight indulgence when sent on missions. It went to Ukraine, twice, Korea once, and I forget how many parts of the states. I really noticed it was gone when I couldn’t find it to take with me to Iraq in 2003.
And there, right were I thought it was, on page 861:
The Ballad of Bouillabaisse
William Makepeace Thackeray (1811–63)
A STREET there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des petits Champs its name is—
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there ’s an inn, not rich and splendid, 5
But still in comfortable case—
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 10
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terrés tavern, 15
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew ’t is;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks. 20
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is? 25
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheeked écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace; 30
He ’d come and smile before your table,
And hop’d you lik’d your Bouillabaisse.
We enter; nothing’s changed or older.
“How ’s Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?”
The waiterstares and shrugs his shoulder;— 35
“Monsieur is dead this many a day.”
“It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terré ’s run his race!”
“What will Monsieur require for dinner?”
“Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?” 40
“Oh, oui, Monsieur,” ’s the waiter’s answer;
“Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il?”
“Tell me a good one.” “That I can, sir;
The Chambertin with yellow seal.”
“So Terré ’s gone,” I say and sink in 45
My old accustom’d corner-place;
“He ’s done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.”
My old accustom’d corner here is—
The table still is in the nook; 50
Ah! vanish’d many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi,
I ’d scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 55
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty—
I ’ll pledge them in the good old wine. 60
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There ’s Jack has made a wondrous marriage; 65
There ’s laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There ’s brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There ’s poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James’s head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagg’d apace 70
Since here we set the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that ’s gone,
When here I ’d sit, as now I ’m sitting, 75
In this same place—but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face look’d fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smil’d to cheer me.
—There ’s no one now to share my cup. 80
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes;
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate’er the seal is; 85
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate’er the meal is.
—Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
The total for this haul... $1.50, all in. The OBEV, with still some gilt on the spine, .25.
(comment at Better than salt money)
