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About Bordeaux

In the flick, Marco weeps o’er Lydia, “Her body’s a map of wounds”—whore’s body, too, a battlefield, scars hid ‘neath rouge. I’m gutted thinkin’ it, how she’s mocked, yet craved. Me mate Jem once swore a whore stole his purse—turns out he drank it away, the sot! Laughed me arse off, I did. But serious now—dost thou see her? Not just a trollop, but a player in life’s mad masque. “Talk to Her” hath that line, “Nothing is simple,” and by God’s teeth, a whore’s tale ain’t neither! She’s a riddle, a rose with thorns, prickin’ thee to ponder.

La Provence de Marcel Pagnol

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First, I get a call from Mrs. Dupont. She’s in a tizzy. Her cat, Mr. Whiskers, is stuck in a tree on Rue des Écoles. I’m like, “Lady, I’m a clergyman, not a cat rescuer!” But you know me, I can’t say no. So, off I go.

The wineries making the preferred papal vino