Once I was a master at recycling leftovers. Now I cultivate the art of simmering memories. You can sit down to table at any hour, with no fuss or ceremony. If it’s a restaurant, no need to book. If I do the cooking, it is always a success. The bourguignon is tender, the boeuf en gelée translucent, the apricot pie possesses just the requisite tartness. Depending on my mood I treat myself to a dozen snails, a plate of Alsatian sausage with sauerkraut, and a bottle of late-vintage golden Gewurztraminer, or else I savour a simple soft boiled egg with fingers of toast and lightly salted butter.
