"You don’t have to be French to enjoy a decent red wine, " Charles
Jousselin de Gruse used to tell his foreign guests whenever he
entertained them in Paris. "But you do have to be French to recognize
one, " he would add with a laugh.
After a lifetime in the French
diplomatic corps, the Count de Gruse lived with his wife in an elegant
townhouse on Quai Voltaire. He was a likeable man, cultivated of
course, with a well deserved reputation as a generous host and an
amusing raconteur.
This evening’s guests were all European and
all equally convinced that immigration was at the root of Europe’s
problems. Charles de Gruse said nothing. He had always concealed his
contempt for such ideas. And, in any case, he had never much cared for
these particular guests.
The first of the red Bordeaux was being served with the veal, and one of the guests turned to de Gruse.
"Come
on, Charles, it’s simple arithmetic. Nothing to do with race or colour.
You must’ve had bags of experience of this sort of thing. What d’you
say?"
"Yes, General. Bags!"
Without another word, de
Gruse picked up his glass and introduced his bulbous, winey nose. After
a moment he looked up with watery eyes.
"A truly full-bodied Bordeaux, " he said warmly, "a wine among wines."
The
four guests held their glasses to the light and studied their blood-red
contents. They all agreed that it was the best wine they had ever
tasted.