By now, you may have noticed that half the genius of French cuisine is the poetry used to describe the dishes.  I am often incapable of rendering it, so the crudeness here is due to my own linguistic failings -- and not at all to the delicacy of the dishes themselves.

Today we enjoy an entrée of warmed goat cheese on toast on a bed of salad, a main dish of locally raised duck in its own sauce with sauteed new potatoes and spinach, creamed and gelled.  Our dessert was a modest truffé au chocolat.