“She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.”
Jerome wrote these words. Better known as J. D. Salinger. Whenever I read them, I always imagine ‘her’ with a flute of Champagne in her hand, hair tousled and sexy, with an air of unfettered you’re-looking-at-me, I’m-not-looking-at-you going on. And of course, to my mind, she is French.
Pour me a glass of fine Champagne, and I can even become her.
Champagne has that utterly cool transformative quality, doesn’t it? Sure, it demands the drinker meet it half way, pay attention, and notice its intricacies. But in return, it yields, unfurls, and reveals layers. Cooked apple, freshly rolled pastry, perhaps a note of almond or warm brioche.
