I first read A.J. Liebling while lying in a bathtub at the Château Frontenac in Quebec. It was an August evening, not yet half-a-lifetime ago, and I had spent the afternoon driving in the rain from Montreal in the company of a woman to whom I am no longer married. The days were already perceptibly shorter than they were at home in Massachusetts, and though the rain had broken by the time we arrived, the wind was up and the fading sun over the St. Lawrence gave an orange tint to the broken clouds. We were timid travelers. I remember worrying about where to put the car — there didn’t seem to be a parking lot, I couldn’t find the valet, and even if I had I wouldn’t have known how to tip him. But with our new graduate degrees and good jobs we took ourselves very seriously, and ate… More…