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180 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1908
“It is for this reason, perhaps, that after a morning among the hills and valleys of the Morvan, in sight, almost continuously, of that astonishing Burgundian canal, with its long lines of symmetrical poplars, its massive masonry, its charming lock-houses, all repeating themselves like successive states of a precious etching—that after such a morning I seek, and seem to find, its culminating astonishment in the luncheon which crowned it in the grimy dining-room of the auberge at Précy-sous-Thil. But was it an auberge [inn], even, and not rather a gargote [greasy spoon], this sandy onion-scented ‘public,’ with waggoners and soldiers grouped cheerfully about the petit vin bleu [ordinary and mediocre wine], while a flushed hand-maid, in repeated dashes from the kitchen, lad before us a succession of the most sophisticated dishes—the tenderest filet, the airiest pommes soufflées [sliced potatoes fried twice], the plumpest artichokes that ever bloomed on the buffet of a Parisian restaurant?” (157). Wharton’s dinner knife seems to slice both ways.