"Les Écrivains-cuisiniers sont aussi nÉcessaires que les autres littÉrateurs: il vous faut connaÎtre la thÉorie du plus ancien des arts."—Charles Gerard.

Among the great professional cooks who were not alone notable practitioners, but who have written understandingly on the art, the names of Beauvilliers, CarÊme, Ude, Francatelli, Soyer, Urbain-Dubois, and GouffÉ are preËminent. We have already considered the important rÔle enacted by Beauvilliers as chef, restaurateur, and author. The unctuous name of CarÊme, however, is more often uttered with reverence, and even yet evokes visions of all that is most delectable in sauces and entremÊts de douceur.

Indeed, were one to wish that he might turn an Aladdin's ring and summon some genius of the range who would be most gladly welcomed, surely on CarÊme the choice would fall. As for the dinner one might wish to command, what better than the feast at the ChÂteau de Boulogne, so eloquently described by Lady Morgan, when he presided at the Baron Rothschild's villa—that dinner of an estival eventide when the landscape lay sweltering in the heat, without, but where all was deliciously cool within the vast pavilion which stood apart from the mansion in the midst of orange trees: "where distillations of the most delicate viands, extracted in silver dews, with chemical precision,

formed the base of all; where every meat presented its own natural aroma, and every vegetable its own shade of verdure; where the mayonnaise was fried in ice (like Ninon's description of SÉvignÉ's heart); and the tempered chill of the plombiÈre anticipated the stronger shock, and broke it, of the exquisite avalanche, which, with the hue and odour of fresh gathered nectarines, satisfied every sense and dissipated every coarser flavour."

The age of CarÊme was the era of quintessences—of the cuisine classique, when chemistry contributed new resources, and fish, meats, and fowls were distilled, in order to add a heightened flavour to the sauces and viands that their etherealised essences were to accentuate. One thinks of Lucullus and Apicius, and of the "exceeding odoriferous and aromaticall vapour" of the ovens of the artist mentioned by Montaigne.

That success in any walk of life is the result not only of natural aptitude but of persevering application, CarÊme's history affords abundant proof, if such were required. Left to shift for himself when but seven years old, at fifteen he had already served his apprenticeship as a cook, to advance with rapid strides in his chosen profession. Constant sobriety, which called for much self-sacrifice on his part, and an iron constitution enabled him to carry out the most arduous labours. "My ambition was serious," he states in his memoirs, "and at an early age I became desirous of elevating my profession to an art."

The better to perfect himself in its various branches, he studied for ten years under the most distinguished masters, including Robert and LaguipiÈre. For years, also, he was a daily student at the Imperial Library and Cabinet of Engravings, perfecting himself in drawing and in the literature of his profession. He likewise made an exhaustive study of old Roman cookery, only to arrive at the conclusion that it was intrinsically bad and abominably heavy (fonciÈrement mauvaise et atrocement lourde)—an opinion confirmed by the Marquis de Cussy, who declared that he would rather dine at a Parisian restaurant for twenty francs than with Lucullus in the saloon of Apollo. It was CarÊme's habit to take notes nightly of his progress and the modifications he had made in his work during the day, thereby fixing those ideas and combinations that otherwise would have escaped his memory.

Amid the luxurious kitchens of the Empire he reigned supreme—the king of pastry-cooks and marvellous in his sauces, galantines, and inventions. Crowned heads soon became his suitors, and princes implored his services. It was Talleyrand, one of the wittiest and most epicurean princes of the Empire, who inspired him perhaps with his greatest enthusiasm, and of whom he says, "M. de Talleyrand understands the genius of a cook, he respects it, he is the most competent judge of delicate progress, and his expenditures are wise and great at the same time." Of LaguipiÈre, the chief cook of Murat, to whose talents he ascribes the elegance and Éclat of the culinary art of the nineteenth century, he is unstinted in his praises. Of Beauvilliers he has little to say, and although a volume appeared bearing the combined names of Beauvilliers and CarÊme, one fancies that the proverbial jealousy of cooks was not wanting in their case.

CarÊme has modified the adage on se fait cuisinier, mais on est nÉ rÔtisseur, claiming that to become a perfect cook one must first be a distinguished pastry-maker, and citing as instances his favourite teacher LaguipiÈre, with Robert, Lasne, Riquette, and numerous other celebrities. He speaks of the "lightness," the "grace," and the "colour" of pastry; of the "order, perspicuity, and intelligence" required in its preparation. "It is easier," he says, "to cook pastry than to make it.... There are ovens and ovens (fours). There is the four chaud; there is the four gai; there is the four chaleur modÉrÉe. The best oven is that which is often heated and which retains its heat. If there is too much loft and too little floor, or much floor and little loft, only meagre results may be expected." When one orders a vol-au-vent À la financiÈre or a pÂtÉ d'Écrevisses (that triumph of OrlÉans) at a restaurant, therefore, it will be perceived it becomes a question of the oven as well as the capacity of the artist directing it that counts in the success, and which the conscientious diner should take into consideration ere finding fault with the addition.

Again, the analogy between cookery and painting becomes apparent. Thus the conditions noted by CarÊme find a parallel in the artist endowed with a vivid imagination, but possessed of only mediocre technique; or a painter whose feeling may be admirable, but whose execution is deficient. The four gai—how it suggests a landscape of Cuyp steeped in the splendours of the setting sun—to say nothing of a nicely gilded omelette or a soufflÉ of apricots! To glacer À la flamme, as CarÊme expressed it, calls for a four d'enfer, and one has in mind a crÊme gelÉe d'Alaska, with the fire managed by a Mephistopheles.

Let the cook and the painter continue to lay on the colours gaily—the one with his braise and the other with his brush. Art is art always, and finds its sure reward in whatever sphere talent, conscientiousness, and application are united.

In the autobiographic preface of the "Cuisinier Parisien" an instance is cited of the care and variety which the author claims every industrious cook should bring to bear in his work, in order to excite the appetite of the amphitryon:

"One day the Prince-Regent of England, whom I served, said to me, 'CarÊme, you will make me die of indigestion; I am fond of everything you give me, and you tempt me too much.' 'Monseigneur,' I replied, 'my principal office is to challenge your appetite by the variety of my service; but it is not my affair to regulate it.' The prince smiled, saying that I was right, and I continued to supply him with the best."

"The charcoal shortens our lives," said CarÊme; "but what matter?—we lose in years and gain in glory." A born epicure, he never risked his health by over-indulgence of his epicurean taste. "I have been prudent," he states, "not by inclination, but through a profound sense of my duty." To his culinary accomplishments he joined those of a master director and maÎtre-d'hÔtel. Witness his remarks concerning the functions of a chief steward:

"The maÎtre-d'hÔtel cuisinier should possess that unification of qualities which is seldom bestowed, even in an isolated form. He will be a cook, above all—able, alert, productive; he will be cut out for active command and be animated by an invincible ardour for work; he will be a man of parts, an enthusiast, vigilant even to minuteness. He will see all, and know all. The maÎtre-d'hÔtel is never ill. He presides over everything, his impetus dominates all; he alone has the right to raise his voice, and all must obey. He must be sufficiently learned to write out, when occasion calls for it, without the aid of books, the principal part of his bills of fare. These are his book of resources, the journal of his fatigues and his victories. Alas! that which he may not preserve in these copies are the spontaneous fire and ready tact he has displayed in connection with his ranges—these are things of the moment that die at their birth."

Many anecdotes of the famous gastronomers and great personages of his time have been recounted by CarÊme. To CambacÉrÈs he refers at length, disputing his claim to a distinguished place among epicures. The cuisine of the arch-chancellor, he states decisively, never merited its great reputation. This was through no fault of his chef, M. Grand'Manche, an excellent practitioner, but was due solely to the excessive parsimony of his employer, who at each service was in the habit of noting the entrÉes that were untouched or scarcely touched, and of forming his carte for the morrow with their remains.

"What a dinner, merciful heavens! I would not say that the dessert may not be utilised, but that it may not supply a dinner for a prince and an eminent gastronomer. This is a delicate question; the master has nothing to say, nothing to see; the skill and probity of the cook alone should enter into the facts. The dessert should only be employed with precaution, skill, and especially in silence.

"The arch-chancellor received from the departments innumerable gifts of provisions and the finest of poultry. All such were forthwith engulfed in a vast larder of which he retained the key. He kept tally of the provisions, the dates of their arrival, and he alone gave orders for their utilisation. Frequently, when he issued his orders the provisions were spoiled.

"CambacÉrÈs was never a gourmand in the scientific acceptance of the word; he was naturally a great and even voracious eater. Can one believe that he preferred, above all dishes, the pÂtÉ chaud with forcemeat balls?—a heavy, unsavoury, and vulgar dish. As a hors-d'oeuvre he had frequently a crust of pÂtÉ reheated on the grill, and had brought to table the combien of a ham that had done duty for the week. And his skilful cook who never had the grand fundamental sauces! neither his under-cooks or aids nor his bottle of Bordeaux! What parsimony! what a pity! what an establishment!

"Neither M. CambacÉrÈs nor M. Brillat-Savarin knew how to eat. Both were fond of strong and vulgar things, and simply filled their stomachs. This is literally true. M. de Savarin was a large eater, and talked little and without facility, it seemed to me; he had a heavy air and resembled a parson. At the end of a repast his digestion absorbed him, and I have seen him go to sleep."

Charles Monselet has termed Savarin a mere seltzer drinker, while Dumas says he was neither a gastronomer nor a gourmet, but simply a vigorous eater. "His large size, his heavy carriage, his common appearance, with his costume ten or twelve years behind the times, caused him to be termed the drum-major of the Court of Cassation. All at once, and a dozen years after his death, we have inherited one of the most charming books of gastronomy that it is possible to imagine—the 'Physiologie du GoÛt.'"

"My work is a manual to be ceaselessly consulted," CarÊme remarked with reference to his "MaÎtre-d'HÔtel FranÇais." The truth of this assertion becomes manifest at once on reading the exquisitely careful directions which characterise all his treatises. The published works of the versatile author-chef include "Le MaÎtre-d'HÔtel FranÇais," "Le Cuisinier Parisien," "Le PÂtissier Royal Parisien," "Le PÂtissier Pittoresque," and "L'Art de la Cuisine FranÇaise au Dix-neuviÈme SiÈcle," in several of which the copious illustrations reveal his skill as a draughtsman. His death occurred while giving a lesson in his art. The day of his decease one of his scholars gave him some quenelles of sole to taste. "The quenelles are good," he remarked, "only they were prepared too hastily; you must shake the saucepan lightly." In so saying he indicated by a slight motion the movement he desired to communicate. But after two or three motions his once facile hand refused to respond to his will, and the great artist was no more.

"The asparagus plumps out at the name of CarÊme!" exclaimed one of his admirers; "the hare that roams the forest utters his name to the stag who passes by; the stag repeats it to the pheasant; the lark sings it in his flight to the sun."

Louis Eustache Ude, once chef of Louis XVI, and founder of the modern French school in England, exerted considerable influence upon the better cookery of his day. His "French Cook" appeared in 1822, and a few years afterwards he became chef of Crockford's Club, the year during which his former employer, the Duke of York, died. The story is told that, on hearing of the duke's illness, Ude exclaimed, "Ah! mon pauvre Duc, how greatly you will miss me where you are gone!" Of the finesse that appertains to cookery, of the difficulty to become perfect in the art, Ude wrote as follows:

"What science demands more study? Every man is not born with the qualifications necessary to constitute a good cook. Music, dancing, fencing, painting, and mechanics in general possess professors under twenty years of age, whereas in the first line of cooking preËminence never occurs under thirty. We see daily at concerts and academies young men and women who display the greatest abilities, but in our line nothing but the most consummate experience can elevate a man to the rank of chief professor. Cookery is an art appreciated by only a very few individuals, and which requires, in addition to most diligent and studious application, no small share of intellect and the strictest sobriety and punctuality; there are cooks and cooks—the difficulty lies in finding the perfect one."

Ude was succeeded in England by Charles ElmÉ Francatelli, a distinguished pupil of CarÊme, who presided as chef at Chesterfield House and various clubs until he became officier de bouche to the queen. His "Modern Cook" is still a superior treatise, and although little adapted to the average household, it will well repay careful study on the part of the expert amateur. "The palate is as capable and nearly as worthy of education as the eye and the ear," says Francatelli—a statement which his volume abundantly bears out.

A scholar of CarÊme, Francatelli was quick to note that si l'habit fait l'homme, il fait aussi l'entrÉe—that the sense of sight has its delight as well as the taste, and one sees, accordingly, an ornate observance of decoration in his grand army of side-dishes. These are excellent throughout, but generally very elaborate, while his sauces and recipes for pastry are especially good. The same may be said of his quenelles and timbales. A competent hand will find his work a valuable guide from which to obtain ideas; it is not a practical book for the majority. One should always remember, among numerous other things, his delicious sauces, numbers sixty-five and sixty-six, for venison, which may also be used with a saddle of mutton, and his recipes for trout au gratin and soup À la reine. The venison sauce especially should not be forgotten:

"Bruise one stick of cinnamon and twelve cloves, and put them into a small stewpan with two ounces of sugar and the peel of one lemon pared off very thin and perfectly free from any portion of white pulp; moisten with three glasses of port wine, and set the whole to simmer gently on the fire for a quarter of an hour; then strain it through a sieve into a small stewpan containing a pot of red-currant jelly. Just before sending the sauce to table, set it on the fire to boil, in order to melt the currant jelly, so that it may mix with the essence of spice, etc."

The second sauce is made in the same manner, except that black-currant jelly is substituted for the red. Good Bordeaux may be employed in place of port to advantage, rendering the sauce less cloying, and half the prescribed quantity of cloves will be found amply sufficient.

After Francatelli, Alexis Soyer did his part towards the improvement of the higher classes of England. As an author he was ambitious, if not distinguished, his published works numbering four, viz.: "The Gastronomic Regenerator," "The Modern Housewife, or MÉnagÈre," "The Panthropheon or History of Food," and "A Shilling Cookery for the People." From the fact that the last-named volume reached its two hundred and forty-eighth thousand, it may be concluded it was not a distinguished work, and was written to attract the multitude who do not appreciate. The warm reception given to his "MÉnagÈre," according to a reviewer in "Fraser's Magazine," indicated, "with a statistical accuracy very superior to the census, the lamentably small number of educated palates and self-comprehending stomachs which this country possesses." Like CarÊme, Soyer had studied the cuisine of the ancients attentively, and in this respect his "History of Food" becomes a valuable addition to the student's library. But his execution is said to have been far below his conception, and his soups much inferior to his soup-kitchens. He refrains from giving a certain recipe for crawfish À la Sampayo, which appeared in one of his bills of fare, on account of an agreement between himself and M. Sampayo, adding that the reason of the enormous expense of the dish was that "two large bottles of PÉrigord truffles, which do not cost less than four guineas, are stewed with them in champagne." But inasmuch as the virtues of the truffle are sadly dissipated in its preserved state, and chefs generally use an ordinary Chablis or other wine in place of champagne, one need not be seriously concerned with the loss of the crawfish.

As the quotation of recipes would call for considerable space, it may be wise to dispense with any further illustrations in the instance of the above-mentioned artists, and pass at once to the French author of the never-failing grace whose grand "Dictionary of Cookery" is marked by that felicity of expression and fecundity of invention so characteristic of all his works. From the somewhat stilted style of Soyer it becomes doubly pleasing to turn to the laughing pages of Dumas, at once suggestive and inspiring, pointed in paragraph and scintillant with anecdote.[28]

The author of "Monte Cristo" and "The Three Musketeers" has also left an illustrious name as a cook, a host, and an epicure. And if, of all celebrated artists, it might be CarÊme whom one would wish to prepare the dinner, who more delightful than Dumas as a vis-À-vis at the repast? But his expansive smile and his bonhomie are reflected in his writings, and his "intuition of all" is no less apparent when dealing with cookery than when detailing the intrigues of cardinals and courtiers. A Chartreuse becomes as important as the missing necklace of a queen, and the theory of frying no less momentous than the fate of the prisoner of the ChÂteau d'If. As Octave Lacroix has phrased it, "Assuredly it is a great attainment to be a romancist, but it is by no means a mediocre glory to be a cook.... Romancist or cook, Alexandre Dumas is a chef, and the two vocations appear in him to go hand in hand, or rather to be joined in one."

The two introductory epistles, an anecdotal review of the art, are among the most felicitous in the language. Nor should we forget the many references to the table in the "Impressions de Voyage" and numerous other volumes. The Marquis de Cussy, Jules Janin, Charles Monselet, and others have treated the same subject at more or less length, but none of them so comprehensively. "I wish to conclude," Dumas often said, "my literary work of five hundred volumes by a work on cookery." This was his great ambition, and to it he devoted his most zealous efforts. "I see with pleasure," he remarks in one of his volumes, "that my culinary reputation is increasing, and soon promises to efface my literary reputation.... I therefore make the announcement that as soon as I am freed from the claims of certain editors I will show you a book of practical cookery by which the most ignorant in matters gastronomical will be able to prepare, as easily as my honourable friend Vuillemot, an espagnole or a mirepoix."[29]

With Dumas to promise was to fulfil, and in due time his book—the last volume from his pen—appeared, a tall folio of over a thousand pages, with the spirited etching of the author by Rajon. While this is more especially devoted to the French kitchen, it contains a large number of recipes from foreign countries where the author had travelled. It thus becomes a compendium of many different schools, offering a wide range for selection. Written, moreover, by an amateur, it is also an easier guide than many of the professional manuals of the haute cuisine. In the "Dictionary" everything is passed under review—from snails À la provenÇale to the feet of elephants, from filets of kangaroo to lambs' tails glacÉes À la chicorÉe, the list of fishes including an account of the origin of the term "Poisson d'Avril" (April fool).

Even the babiroussa, or wild Asian hog, is not forgotten, the author pronouncing its flesh very delicate, and presenting this additional information concerning its character:

"'Ah! mon Dieu,' asked a lady of her husband, as they were looking at a babiroussa at the Jardin des Plantes, 'what kind of an animal is that, my dear, who instead of two horns has four?'

"'Madame,' said some one who was passing by, 'that is a widower who has remarried.'"

There are recipes from Beauvilliers, CarÊme, the Marquis de Cussy, and the cook of King Stanislas; from the manuals of the times of Louis XIV and XV; from the cafÉs Anglais, Verdier, BrÉbant, Magny, Grignon, VÉfour, and VÉry; from ElzÉar-Blaze, La ReyniÈre, the Provincial Brothers, and Vuillemot, proprietor of the TÊte Noire at St. Cloud. One's mouth waters as he reads the vast alphabet of dishes. There are, for example, thirty-one modes presented for preparing the carp, and fifty-six for dressing the egg, apart from the omelet, with sixteen recipes for artichokes and a dozen for asparagus. There is the Java formula for cooking halcyons' nests, and that of the cook of Richelieu for godiveau, a dissertation on the hocco, and a prescription for bustards À la daube. No wonder that Dumas has defined the dinner as a daily and capital action that can be worthily accomplished only by gens d'esprit.

This is well illustrated by an anecdote in the dedicatory epistle to Jules Janin, which shows the characteristic hand of Dumas to advantage:

"The Viscount de Vieil-Castel, brother of Count Horace de Vieil-Castel, one of the finest epicures of France, made this proposition at a gathering of friends:

"'A single person can eat a dinner costing five hundred francs.'

"'Impossible!' was the simultaneous exclamation.

"'It is well understood,' resumed the Viscount, 'that by the term eating is included drinking as well.'

"'Parbleu!' replied his friends.

"'Very well; I say that a man, and by a man I do not mean a carter but an epicure—a pupil of Montron or of Courchamps—can eat a dinner of five hundred francs.'

"'You, for example?'

"'I, or any one else.'

"'Can you?'

"'Certainly.'

"'I hold the five hundred francs,' said one of the bystanders; 'name your conditions.'

"'That is a simple matter. I will dine at the CafÉ de Paris, make up my bill of fare, and eat my five-hundred-franc dinner.'

"'Without leaving anything on the dishes or plates?'

"'No, indeed; I will leave the bones.'

"'And when will the wager take place?'

"'To-morrow, if you say so.'

"'Then you will not breakfast?' asked one of the bystanders.

"'I will breakfast as usual.'

"'Be it so. To-morrow at seven, at the CafÉ de Paris.'

"The same evening the Viscount dined as usual at the restaurant; then, after dinner, in order not to be influenced by stomachic cravings, he set about preparing his carte for the following day.

"The maÎtre-d'hÔtel was summoned. It was midwinter; the Viscount suggested numerous fruits and early vegetables. The hunting season was closed; he wanted some game.

"A week's grace was asked by the maÎtre-d'hÔtel.

"The dinner was postponed for a week.

"On the right and left of the table the judges were to dine.

"The Viscount had two hours in which to dine—from seven to nine.

"He could talk or not, as he chose.

"At the appointed hour the Viscount appeared, saluted the judges, and turned towards the table.

"The bill of fare was to remain a mystery to his adversaries; they were to have the pleasure of a surprise.

"The Viscount sat down. He was served with twelve dozen Ostende oysters, with a half-bottle of Johannisberger.

"The Viscount was in excellent appetite; he asked for another twelve dozen oysters, and another half-bottle of the same growth.

"Then came a soup of swallows' nests, which the Viscount poured in a bowl and drank as a bouillon.

"'Really, gentlemen,' said he, 'I am in fine trim to-day, and I have a notion to gratify a whim.'

"'Go on, pardieu, you are the doctor.'

"'I adore beefsteak and potatoes.'

"'Gentlemen, no advice, if you please,' said a voice.

"'Pooh! waiter,' said the Viscount, 'a beefsteak and potatoes.'

"The waiter, astonished, looked at the Viscount.

"'Don't you understand me?' said the latter.

"'But I thought that Monsieur le Vicomte had made up his bill of fare?'

"'That is true, but this is an extra; I will pay for it separately.'

"The judges looked at each other. The beefsteak and potatoes were brought on, and were promptly despatched.

"'Now for the fish!'

"The fish was brought on.

"'Gentlemen,' said the Viscount, 'it is a trout from Lake Geneva. I saw it this morning while I was breakfasting; it was still alive; it was brought from Geneva to Paris in the waters of the lake. I can recommend this fish to you—it is delicious.'

"Five minutes later only the bones remained.

"'The pheasant, waiter!' said the Viscount.

"A truffled pheasant was brought on.

"'Another bottle of Bordeaux of the same growth.'

"The second bottle was brought.

"In ten minutes the pheasant was disposed of.

"'Monsieur,' said the waiter, 'I think you have made a mistake in calling for the truffled pheasant before the salmis of ortolans.'

"'Ah! that is so. Fortunately it is not stated in what order the ortolans are to be eaten; otherwise I should have lost. The salmis of ortolans, waiter!'

"The salmis of ortolans was brought on.

"There were twelve ortolans—twelve mouthfuls for the Viscount.

"'Gentlemen,' said the Viscount, 'my bill of fare is very simple. Now for some asparagus, green peas, a banana, and strawberries. As for wine, a half-bottle of Constance and a half-bottle of sherry that has made the voyage to India. Then, of course, some coffee and liqueurs.'

"Everything appeared in its turn—vegetables and fruit were conscientiously eaten, and the wines and liqueurs were drunk to the last drop.

"The Viscount was an hour and fourteen minutes in dining.

"'Gentlemen,' said he, 'has everything gone right?'

"The judges acquiesced.

"'Waiter, the carte!'

"At this epoch the term addition was not used.

"The Viscount ran his eye over the total, and passed the carte to the judges.

"This was the carte:

	fr.	c.
Ostende oysters, 24 dozen	30	"
Soup of swallows' nests	150	"
Beefsteak and potatoes	2	"
Trout from Lake Geneva	40	"
Truffled pheasant	40	"
Salmis of ortolans	50	"
Asparagus	15	"
Bananas	24	"
Strawberries	20	"
Green peas	12	"
Wines.
Johannisberg, one bottle	24	"
Bordeaux, grand crÛ, two bottles	50	"
Constance, a half-bottle	40	"
Sherry, retour de l'Inde, a half-bottle	50	"
Coffee, liqueurs	1	50
Total	548	50

"The sum total was verified and the carte was taken to the adversary of the Viscount, who was dining in an adjoining room.

"In five minutes he appeared, saluted the Viscount, took six bills of a thousand francs from his pocket, and presented them to him.

"It was the amount of the wager.

"'Oh, Monsieur,' said the Viscount, 'there was no hurry; besides, perhaps you would have liked your revenge.'

"'You would have granted it to me?'

"'Surely!'

"'When?'

"'Immediately.'"

But the reputation of the Viscount as a belle fourchette was exceeded by that of a Swiss guard in the employ of the MarÉchal de Villars, an account of whose prowess is related by the "Journal des DÉfenseurs":

"One day the guard was sent for by the MarÉchal, who had heard of his enormous appetite.

"'How many sirloins of beef can you eat?' he tentatively asked.

"'Ah! Monseigneur, for me I don't require many, five or six at the most.'

"'And how many legs of mutton?'

"'Legs of mutton? not many—seven to eight.'

"'And of fat pullets?'

"'Oh! as to pullets, only a few—a dozen.'

"'And of pigeons?'

"'As to pigeons, Monseigneur, not many—forty, perhaps fifty.'

"'And larks?'

"'Larks, Monseigneur?—always!'"

Another example of marvellous capacity is furnished by the French army, a captain wagering one day that a drummer of his company could eat a whole calf. The drummer, proud of his distinction, promised to do honour to the captain's compliment. Accordingly, a calf was prepared in various appetising ways, and was being promptly disposed of by the drummer. When he had finally consumed about three quarters of the repast, he paused for another draught of wine, and, placing his knife and fork on his plate, said to his superior officer:

"You had better have the calf brought on, had you not? for all these little kickshaws will end in taking up room."

The CafÉ de Paris, first opened in 1822 on the Boulevard des Italiens in the large suite of apartments formerly occupied by Prince Demidoff, was the best restaurant in Europe during the forties and in Dumas' time—a position it probably occupies to-day, since the closing of Bignon's. Alfred de Musset was accustomed to say that "one could not open its door for less than fifteen francs." But if its charges were high, its cuisine and service were unsurpassed. Those who dance must pay for the piping, and the cotillion of the casseroles is no exception to the rule. Every one who honoured the establishment, it is said, was considered by the personnel a grand seigneur for whom nothing could be too good. When Balzac one day announced the arrival of a distinguished Russian friend, he asked the proprietor to put his best foot forward. "Assuredly, Monsieur, we will do so," was the answer, "because it is simply what we are in the habit of doing every day." Balzac's favourite dish was veau À la casserole, a specialty of the CafÉ de Paris in the forties.

Rossini, a contemporary and friend of Balzac and Dumas, was not alone a famous musician,—composer of "Tell" and the "Stabat Mater,"—but was also a distinguished fourchette and a cook of ability. One of his most celebrated compositions—that of a certain manner of preparing macaroni which is said to have vied in seductiveness with the sweetest strains of the "Barbier de Seville"—is unfortunately lost to the world through a prejudice of Dumas.

One day the great romancist, who never ate macaroni in any form, asked the noted composer for his recipe, being anxious to add it to his culinary repertoire. "Come and eat some with me to-morrow at dinner, and you shall have it," was the answer. But the host, perceiving that his guest would not touch a dish on which he had bestowed so much pains, refused to give him the formula, whereupon Dumas circulated the report that it was his cook, not Rossini, who was master of the secret, and forthwith presented at length a recipe given him by the famous Mme. Ristori as "the true, the only, the unique manner of preparing macaroni À la nÉapolitaine."

Already in 1830 the excessive charges of the fashionable restaurants were loudly complained of. On this subject the "Nouvel Almanach des Gourmands" of that date says:

"The Boulevard Italien is the privileged seat of the cafÉs-restaurants: there one may dine excellently, but it must be confessed one is cruelly plucked. From this fact has arisen the proverb, 'One must be very hardy to dine at the CafÉ Riche, and very rich to dine at the CafÉ Hardi.' May it not be added that one needs to be an English peer to dine at the CafÉ Anglais, and a millionaire Parisian to try the CafÉ de Paris? One may dine well at VÉry's, but one will ruin himself; while the fish which is excellent at the Rocher de Cancale is scarcely exchanged for its weight in five-franc pieces."

Often in the midst of a dinner, on tasting of some novel dish at his favourite restaurant, the CafÉ de Paris, Dumas would lay down his fork—"I must get the recipe of this dish." The proprietor was then sent for to authorise the novelist to descend to the kitchens and hold a consultation with his chefs. He was the only one of the habituÉs to whom this privilege was ever allowed; these excursions were usually followed by an invitation to dine with Dumas a few days later, when his newly acquired knowledge would be put into practice.

There were those, nevertheless, that previous to the advent of the "Dictionary" were sceptical as to Dumas' culinary accomplishments. Among such was Dr. VÉron, author of the "MÉmoires" and founder of the "Revue de Paris," who, with several other notabilities, had been invited by the novelist to partake of a carp of his own preparation. For days and days VÉron, who was extremely fond of fish, talked of nothing else to his cordon-bleu.

"Where did you taste it?" said Sophie, becoming somewhat jealous of this praise of others,—"at the CafÉ de Paris?"

"No,—at Monsieur Dumas'."

"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas' cook and get the recipe."

"That's of no use," objected her master. "Monsieur Dumas prepared the dish himself."

"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas himself and ask him to give me the recipe."

Sophie was as good as her word, and at once betook herself to the ChaussÉe d'Antin. The great novelist felt flattered, and gave her every possible information, but somehow the dish was not like that her master had so much enjoyed at his friend's. Then Sophie grew morose, and began to throw out hints about the great man's borrowing other people's feathers in his culinary pursuits, just as he did in his literary ones. "It is with his carp as with his novels—others write them, and he merely adds his name," she said one day. "I have seen him; he is a grand diable de vaniteux."

Influenced by his cook's remarks and the failure of the dish, and forgetting that surroundings often add much to flavour, VÉron, on his part, felt inclined to think that Dumas had a clever chef in the background, upon whose victories he plumed himself. A few days afterwards, meeting VÉron at the CafÉ de Paris, Dumas inquired after the result of Sophie's efforts. The doctor was reticent at first, not caring to acknowledge Sophie's failure. When one of the company at last mentioned the suspicions attached to the carp, Dumas became furious. Then, after a pause, he said, "There is but one reply to such a charge: you will all dine with me to-morrow, and you will choose a delegate who will come to my house at three to see me prepare the dinner."

"I was the youngest," says the author of "An Englishman in Paris," who relates the story, "and the choice fell upon me. That is how my lifelong friendship with Dumas began. At three o'clock next day I was at the ChaussÉe d'Antin, and was taken by the servant into the kitchen, where the great novelist stood surrounded by his utensils, some of silver, and all of them glistening like silver. With the exception of a soupe aux choux, at which, by his own confession, he had been at work since the morning, all the ingredients for the dinner were in their natural state—of course, washed and peeled, but nothing more. He was assisted by his own cook and a kitchen-maid, but he himself, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a large apron round his waist, and bare chest, conducted the operations. I do not think I have ever seen anything more entertaining, and I came to the conclusion that when writers insisted upon the culinary challenges of CarÊme, DuglÉrÉ, and Casimir they were not indulging in mere metaphor.

"At half-past six the guests began to arrive; at a quarter to seven Dumas retired to his dressing-room; at seven punctually the servant announced that 'monsieur Était servi.' The dinner consisted of the aforenamed soupe aux choux, the carp that had led to the invitation, a ragoÛt de mouton À la Hongroise, rÔti de faisans, and a salade Japonaise. The sweets and ices had been sent by the pÂtissier. I never dined like that before or after—not even a week later, when Dr. VÉron and Sophie made the amende honorable in the Rue Taitbout."

As a sample of Dumas' abilities in the petite cuisine, his potage aux choux may be cited,—his mode of preparing Sauerkraut, like that of all French cooks, is not to be commended:

"Take a sound fresh cabbage, hash up all the remains of fowl and game that may be on hand, and have a good yesterday's bouillon, which pour in place of ordinary water on the beef intended for the day's bouillon. Then cover the bottom of the stewpan with a slice of fine ham, remove the leaves of the cabbage, and introduce the forcemeat, tying up the leaves afterwards so it will not be perceptible. Boil two hours, filling with the bouillon of the pot-au-feu as the bouillon of the boiling diminishes. After removing the bouillon from the fire, let the bouillon, cabbage, forcemeat, and ham simmer together for three quarters of an hour in the stewpan, give a last turn to the bouillon, serve your cabbage in the soup-tureen, allow it to cool a minute, and serve. Then you may have the choice of eating your cabbage in the soup, or of soaking some bread in the bouillon and making of your cabbage a relevÉ of the soup. Cooked in this manner, the cabbage, the bouillon, and the meat, each lending a part of its properties to the other, attain the greatest sapidity it is possible for them to attain."

This is the potage aux choux. The soupe aux choux is another matter that sounds equally appetising and has the advantage to the eye of puffing up the cabbage to far larger dimensions.

The extended remarks on the pot-au-feu itself are well worth the careful attention of the housewife; the author declaring that the French cuisine owes its superiority to that of other nations to the excellence of its bouillon. Seven hours of slow and continuous boiling, he maintains, are necessary for it to acquire all the requisite qualities, i. e., to faire sourire the soup. The term, "smile," is happily chosen. Every piece of bread in a good croÛte-au-pot wears a smile, and every dancing globule that remains after the skimmer has performed its office is a dimple on its face.

Of the basting of meats—and herein the average cook stands in need of constant advice and still more constant watching—he has this to say (he is speaking of a truffled turkey after the recipe of the Marquis de Cussy, which he suggests might be called Dinde des Artistes): "Above all, never moisten your roasts, of whatever nature they may be, except with butter mixed with salt and pepper. A cook who allows a single drop of bouillon in the dripping-pan should be instantly discharged and banished from France."

One of the brightest chapters of the volume is an essay which appears in the appendix—a eulogium of a certain mustard, in which Dumas out-ReyniÈres ReyniÈre. But one may overlook the subtle puffery that sheds a halo over the product of "M. Bornibus," in view of the vast erudition the writer displays and the grace with which the topic is invested. The essay first appeared in Monselet's entertaining "Almanach Gourmand" of 1869, the etymology of the word having been the subject of a wager between the writer and some of his friends. Of Dumas it may be said, as it has been said of the truffle, he "embellishes everything he touches"; or, to paraphrase Savarin's definition, "Qui dit Dumas, prononce un grand mot."

Among the most distinguished of modern professional cooks was Jules GouffÉ, former officier de bouche of the Jockey Club of Paris, whose "Livre de Cuisine" and "Livre de PÂtisserie" are unexcelled as guides to the greatest triumphs of the art of which they treat. The "Livre de Cuisine," which first appeared in 1865, is not a manual that can be utilised in the ordinary establishment, however; but a volume on a grand scale, written by a great chef for chefs. Francatelli, though very elaborate, is much more simple. At any rate, it is possible to simplify his recipes, or to derive many new ideas from them, even where his formulas may not be executed in the average household. But to follow GouffÉ calls for the very highest professional skill and the most lavish expenditure,—the hand of a master, a larder of cockscombs, crawfish, truffles, plover and pheasants' eggs, not to mention a cellar of ChÂteau Margaux, champagne, and Chablis Moutonne. His recipe for quails À la financiÈre, one of his nine elaborate ways of preparing the bird, will serve as well as any for illustration:

"Truss eight quails as for braising, put them in a stewpan, cover them with thin slices of fat bacon, pour in one gill of Madeira and one half pint of mirepoix, and let simmer until the quails are cooked. Fill a plain border-mould one and a quarter inches high with chicken forcemeat, poach it au bain-marie, and turn the border out of the mould into a dish and fill the centre with a financiÈre ragoÛt made of foies gras, truffles, cockscombs, cocks'-kernels, and chicken forcemeat quenelles mixed in financiÈre sauce. Drain the quails, untie them, and place them half on the border, half on the ragoÛt, the leg towards the centre, put a cockscomb between each quail, and a large truffle in the centre; glaze the border, the quails, and truffle with a brush dipped in glaze, and serve with financiÈre sauce."

With Jules GouffÉ, Urbain-Dubois, a chef of the highest order, and author of six important works on cookery, will be known to posterity as one of the greatest masters of the range of the second half of the nineteenth century.

In marked contrast to those of GouffÉ and Dubois are the numerous culinary works of Ildefonse-LÉon Brisse, more familiarly known as Baron Brisse, and who was sometimes termed the Baron Falstaff. Two of his manuals, moulded on somewhat similar lines, are excellent mentors for the modest household—"The 366 Menus" (1868) and "La Petite Cuisine" (1870), of which many editions have appeared. In these a large number of good, uncommon, and simple dishes are presented, and both works may be comprehended by all who have a fair practical knowledge of cookery at command. According to ThÉodore de Banville, Baron Brisse was "at once an accomplished cook, a fine and delicate gourmet, and a gourmand always tormented with an insatiable hunger." It may therefore be assumed that all his recipes have been personally tested, and that those he particularly recommends are well worthy of trial, bearing out the sentiment he expresses in the preface to "La Petite Cuisine,"—"This book is a good action for which I will be duly credited in this world or the other." Besides his numerous volumes on cookery, he founded and contributed to several culinary journals. He laughed and ate. He was of enormous stature, and always was obliged to secure two places in the diligence between Paris and his home at Fontenay-aux-Roses, where he resided previous to his death in 1876. With Jules GouffÉ he instituted a series of dinners where the guests were expected to dine in white frocks and round white caps, like the fat old cooks that Roland has painted—dinners presided over by the baron, whose bonhomie was proverbial, and executed under the directions of GouffÉ himself. But apart from his excellent cookery-books, Baron Brisse should be held in abiding reverence by all entertainers that are worthy of the name, if only for his splendid axiom,—"The host whose guest has been obliged to ask him for anything is a dishonoured man!"

DAY'S CLOSING HOUR

From the etching by Charles Jacque