Writing

I am enjoying A.J. Liebling's 1963 paean to French food and eating well, "Between Meals."  The book, which explores Liebling's "feeding" education in 1920's Paris, is full of masterful passages like this one describing a wine called Tavel, a type of rosé from Southern France's Rhone region:

The taste is warm but dry, like an enthusiasm held under restraint, and there is a tantalizing suspicion of bitterness when the wine hits the top of the palate.  With the second glass, the enthusiasm gains; with the third, it is over-powering.  The effect is generous and calorific, stimulative of celebration and the social instincts.  "An apparently light treacherous rosé," Root (a food writer) calls it, with a nuance of resentment that hints at misadventure.

Brilliant.  I've never heard of Tavel, but now want to try this bitter, treacherous wine that points to misadventure.