ABSTRACT
Graves is the wine to drink with daffodil-crowned feast, golden Graves, light as the breakfast, gay as the sunshine, gladdening as the spring itself. Sweeter smiles fall from the daffodils, if now they prove motive to a fine symphony in gold; as they will if omelette aux rognons be chosen as second course. For golden is the rice, stained with curry, as it encircles the pretty, soft mound of chicken livers, brown and delicious. Coffee completes the composition nobly, if it be black and strong. And for liqueur, Benedictine, in colour and feeling alike, enters most fittingly into the harmony. Smoke cigarettes from Virginia, that southern land of luxuriant spring flowers. And, when all is said, few liqueurs accord with it so graciously as Cognac; that is, if the dishes to precede it have tended to that joyful flamboyancy born of the artist's exuberance in moments of creation.
