ON FLAVORS AND FINANCE

Next evening we met at Theodore's restaurant and sat down to a dinner, which reminded me of the best I had ever tasted in Paris.

Theodore himself was a type. Rather short in stature and stout, he had a large head off which was combed thick hair, treated very much as a sculptor would treat hair in a monument. For Theodore took himself very seriously. He believed gastronomy to be one of the fine arts, and that he was its high priest. He would never allow any one to joke about it, and admitted to his restaurant only those who behaved toward him with the respect to which he felt entitled.

He received us at the door with a napkin over his arm, for of this napkin he was as proud as a British peer of his robes; it was the emblem of his art, and as such he bore it proudly. Ariston greeted him and introduced us to him each by name. He bowed at every introduction.

"And now," said Ariston, turning to us, "you have before you the greatest culinary artist in the world."

Theodore smiled sadly—as indeed he might—for possessed of the finest palate in New York, he had for years been confined, by an ungovernable indigestion, to a milk diet.

Theodore showed us to a private room, and explained that he meant to open the ceremonies with a pot au feu garbure, and that the cheese used on the toast had just arrived from France. He left us to seat ourselves, and very soon after we were settled, the door was thrown open by his son and Theodore appeared, with an air of almost stern solemnity, holding a silver soup tureen in both hands, the inevitable napkin on his arm. He placed the soup tureen on a side table, lifted off the lid, and with religious care ladled the soup into plates, carefully providing that each had his share of the preciously prepared toast.

A chorus of approval from us brought the sad smile back into his face again, and as we sat he told us that he had "created" a new dish for us. He was very particular about the use of this word "created." He kept a list of his special dishes, and Ariston told us afterwards that he had once asked Theodore for this list, describing it as the list of his inventions. Theodore had offendedly corrected him. "Creations, you mean." The dish he had created for us that day was a pheasant stuffed with ortolans, all cooked in their own juice—braisÉ—over a slow fire during six hours. He explained that it was a great mistake to roast pheasants. For those who insisted on his roasting them he provided himself with vine twigs (sarments), the fire made with them imparting a subtle flavor to the meat. But the meat of a pheasant though delicious was dry, and the method he had adopted was altogether the best for bringing out the full meaning of the bird. The same was true of ortolans.

Theodore did not appear more than twice: at the opening ceremony of the soup and at the climax—the newly created combination. While we were partaking of this last, he told us of a great discussion that was about to be settled as to the respective flavor of three kinds of mutton. He had been enlisted on the side of the Long Island breed, and had that day selected the sheep which was to have the honor of representing Long Island interests. He explained that much depended on the choice of the animal. In his selection he had picked out one upon whose hind legs were the tooth marks of the shepherd dog, for these marks showed him to be so keen on sweet pasture that it took an actual bite to drive him from it.

Theodore was a determined individualist and warm supporter of Chairo's. It was insufferable, he said, that an artist like himself—and bowing condescendingly to Anna, he added—"and our young lady, too"—should have to work half the day for the state, when under individualistic conditions thousands of rich men would have been delighted to cover him with gold in recognition of his services. I could not help thinking of a distinguished cook I had known in Paris once who, under these very individualistic conditions, had struggled with debt all his life and never escaped from it.

After Theodore had served the birds he withdrew. We were enjoying the dish when Anna surprised us by saying, as though she had just made the discovery:

"This is really quite nice!"

"Why, my dear child," said her father, "it is a chef d'oeuvre! What have you been thinking about all this time?"

"I have been looking at Theodore; do you know, he has a good head to sculpt."

We all laughed at this view of Theodore, and Harmes said:

"This kind of thing is rather a jump from what we have at the colony."

"Is the food bad there?" asked I.

"No, not bad; but nothing nice until we can afford to pay for it with the wages we earn."

This led to a long account by Harmes of how the colony was managed and the system—often proposed in my day—for slowly restoring the inmates of a reformatory to social life.

Harmes spoke so freely of the whole subject that I ventured to ask him:

"And Neaera—was it her fault or yours?"

Harmes' eye flashed a moment, and then looking around the table, and finally at Ariston, asked:

"Can I speak freely?"

"Certainly," said Ariston. "Our friend here knows, perhaps, more about Neaera than you do."

"Am I to condole with you, then?" asked Harmes.

"No," I answered. "I had the advantage over you of age and experience."

"She is a little devil," said Harmes. "And the devil of it is that if I were to see her to-morrow I believe I should want to make love to her again."

"Harmes!" exclaimed his mother protestingly.

"Oh, I have learned my lesson! I won't make love to her again; but the amazing thing is that after all she has cost me I cannot make up my mind to dislike her as I ought."

"You needn't dislike her," said Ariston, "any more than you need dislike a stone that breaks your leg."

"I cannot but think, however," said Campbell, "that the punishment was out of proportion to the offense."

"No," said Ann, to my great surprise. "You must not say that. No one has suffered more from Harmes' confinement in the colony than I, and yet I am bound to say that violence is to my mind—and to the mind of all of us women—so dangerous a thing that I prefer my son should be an innocent victim than that it should go unpunished."

We had a delicious bottle of California Burgundy with our birds, and I asked whether this was provided by the state.

"Fortunately," said Campbell, "the state has never taken the vineyards out of the hands of those who owned them at the time of the new constitution. It monopolizes the distillation of liquor, but all wines not containing more than six per cent alcohol are produced by individual enterprise. The owners have to contribute a stipulated quota to the state, as in the case of all agricultural products. The surplus belongs to them; but as the money they get from the state has no value two years after issue, we find in this very class the best customers for our bank."

We had by this time finished our dinner; the coffee and cigars were before us, and the company settled themselves for a long talk on the working of their system, all of which was of great interest to me, a traveller from the past.

The minutes passed rapidly in this interesting exchange of experiences until Anna and Ann, who had long shown signs of ennui, arose to depart, and Ariston, noting their desire to leave, paid the bill and we left.