Can the loving decadence of a haute French feast thaw hearts hardened by years of puritanical self-denial, unrequited love and too many harsh Danish winters? In Babette’s hands, the answer is yes.
This was a sweet movie, good rainy day fare.
I’m pretty ignorant about wine. I lean toward that which is sweeter, and cheaper, and when I do partake I’m usually satisfied with one glass and tipsy by the second. But Babette’s careful attention to the pairings underscored their central role in French cuisine. Every course had its wine accompaniment, and Babette was fastidious about each. I couldn’t help thinking though, if I were so lucky to have been a guest of Babette’s I’d have been drunk and under the table before the quail ever made it out.