Everyone called her "bulldog-face"; however, defying all expectations, in nineteenth-century France, she would save her father's business, and become the most famous, and the only vinologue-woman in the world, just by fermenting an exclusive blend of grapes grown on the terroir of the family chateaux, and forever, ONLY there. All the rest just sparkle, twinkle, shine. And as the Beatles song about her life, I proclaim, "Hey, Mrs. Bulldog." I almost bought LVMH in 1987; now the most profitable luxury-stock of all. I had the honor of attending an oenophile dinner, organized by The Confrérie des Chevaliers du TastevinWine, where tasting a vintage The Great Lady, was both very deep, and very deep, as they say in Paris ... I still remember it today as a woman. she returns to me in dreams ... reminding me not to forget her ... scent of Poulaine, six in the morning! Too francophile for you? Capitalist? I'm neither, "but I know where to go to buy a key." Remember, champagne and her ridiculous, high-cost brother, were co-opted by gentlemen more lenient than The Executives of the 1990s, partly explaining LVMH's stock peak, and all her street-creed. And after Paris has publicly posed itself, coming back to the horror, they, like Donald Trump, now in retrospect embrace "both sides" as "very kind, decent, honest, good, honorable, brave, people." This amazing-too short podcast is responsible for my awakening this morning, singing the half-eponymous song of Muddy Waters, whose best half, and my other favorite thing (as Pivot used to ask), escapes me today . probably responsible for my over-indulgence, self-insuflant (look at this evocative port-coat of HL Mencken, who, at the same time, named strippers and burlesque dancers "ecdysists" among my favorites). This has been "a gratitude for the simple pleasures of a simple, suddenly austere man, however, yeah, only of a certain age. cheers!
