and disgust, that his appetite was rather voracious than delicate.
He cared little what he ate, provided there was enough of it; and he
looked to nutrition rather than niceness. A succulent joint with him
had more merit than the most singular of dishes, the invention of which
had perhaps caused three nights of wakefulness to its author. But the
aristocracy, the law, and finance, maintained tables which ought to
have been the pride of Versailles. Late dinners, or gorgeous suppers,
were indulged in to such a degree by the moneyed classes, that it
was familiarly said, that of an evening the chimneys of the Faubourg
Saint Honoré made fragrant with their incense the entire capital. It
was reckoned that, at this period, twenty thousand men had no other
profession than that of “diner-out,” which they carried on, like the
parasites of old, by retailing anecdotes and news in return for the
repast. It was a time when “Monseigneur” thought nothing of dispatching
his cook to London to procure a turtle; which, after all, was less
extravagant than the process of Cambacères, who had his Périgord
pies sent to him through the post, “On His Majesty’s Service.” The
Languedocien cooks in France were paid the quadruple of the salary of
the family tutor, good eating being so much more essential to life
than mere instruction; and, besides, could the family tutor have
accomplished any thing that could equal the achievement of the family
cook who could bring to table _entire_ a “_sanglier à la crapaudine_?”
The cooks of the age of Louis XVI. invented the “_bouillie_” and the
“_consommé_,” because mastication was considered by them a vulgar
process; and the royal cooks, during Passion Week, manipulated the
vegetables placed before the King into the forms of ocean-dwelling
fish, and gave to the semblance the taste of the reality for which it
passed to the eye.
The glory of gastronomy was again rising when it was suddenly quenched
by the revolutionary torrent, and the nation was put on a three years’
meagre dietary by the Jacobins and the Directory. But the Revolution,
which affected to hate cooks as aristocratic appendages that ought to
be suppressed, sometimes made, where it hoped to mar. The case of Ude
is one in point.
Monsieur Ude, like Prince Eugene, was originally intended for the
Church. At the breaking out of the French Revolution, he was residing,
for instruction, with an Abbé, and master and pupil had to fly before
the popular indignation, which, for a time, assailed the Church, and
all therewith connected. Ude’s life was in peril in the public streets,
and he just saved it, by rushing into the shop of a pastrycook, where
he found a permanent asylum. The “house of Ude,” like other great
houses, nearly perished in the great political shipwreck of the day,
and this particular scion thereof took to the study of practical
gastronomy, and became chief supreme in various great kitchens, from
that of royalty down to that of Crockford.
When the sluices of the French Revolution were opened, how diverse were
the fortunes of those who fled from before it! It was the same with
the gentlemen who had followed the fortunes of Napoleon. They were
scattered, like the Generals of Alexander, without being able, like
them, to retire upon independent sovereignties, and rear dynasties of
barbaric splendour. Some went to Greece to crush despotism, some went
to Lahore to aid it. A few, like Latour d’Auvergne, took to the Church;
but, saving that portly person himself, none had the good luck to reach
the archiepiscopate. Those who failed to procure employment in foreign
armies, and yet could not lay aside their propensity for killing, went
to the East, and prescribed as Physicians. Such of the rest as were
absolutely fit for nothing, and willing to do it, inundated England,
and undertook the light and irresponsible office of Private Tutors!
But it was the earlier Revolution that afforded examples of the
greatest contrasts. Many young men, intended for the Church, changed
their profession, and became popular, useful, and rich, in the
households of European royalty, as civilizers of the kitchen, who
raised cookery from its barbarous condition to a matter of science
and taste. Perhaps the most curious of the waifs and strays of the
Revolution flung upon our shores, was the Chevalier D’Aubigné, who
contrived to live, as so many French gentlemen of that time did, in
bitter poverty, without a sacrifice of dignity. He had one day been
invited by an English friend to dine with the latter at a tavern.
In the course of the repast, he took upon himself to mix the salad;
and the way in which he did this, attracted the notice of all the
other guests in the room. Previous to the period of which I am
speaking, lettuces were commonly eaten, by tavern frequenters at
least, _au naturel_, with no more dressing than Nebuchadnezzar had
to his grass when he dieted daily among the beasts. Consequently,
when D’Aubigné handled the preparation for which he had asked, like
a chymist concocting elixir in his laboratory, the guests were lost
in admiration; for the refreshing aroma of a _Mayonnaise_ was warrant
to their senses, that the French Knight had discovered for them a
new pleasure. One of them approached the foreign magician, and said,
“Sir, it is universally known that your nation excels all others in
the making a salad. Would it be too great a liberty to ask you to do
us the favour to mix one for the party at my table?” The courteous
Frenchman smiled, was flattered, performed the office asked of him,
and put four gentlemen in a state of uncontrollable ecstasy. He had
talked cheerfully, as he mixed gracefully and scientifically, and, in
the few minutes required by him to complete his work of enchantment,
he contrived to explain his position as emigrant, and his dependence
on the pecuniary aid afforded by the English Government. The guests
did not let the poor Chevalier depart without slipping into his hand
a golden fee, which he received with as little embarrassment, and as
much dignity, as though he had been the Physician De Portal taking an
_honorarium_ from the hands of the Cardinal de Rohan.
He had communicated his address, and he, perhaps, was not very much
surprised when, a few days after, he received a letter in which he
was politely requested to repair to a house in Grosvenor Square, for
the purpose of mixing a salad for a dinner party there to be given.
D’Aubigné obeyed the summons; and, after performing his mission,
returned home richer by a five-pound note than when he went out.
Henceforth he became the recognised “fashionable salad-maker;” and
ladies “died” for his salads, as they do now for Constantine’s
simulative bouquets. The preparer was soon enabled to proceed to his
responsible duties in a carriage; and a servant attended him, carrying
a mahogany case, containing the necessary ingredients for concocting
various salads, according to the respective tastes of his employers.
At a later period, he sold, by hundreds, similar mahogany cases, which
he had caused to be made, and which were furnished with all matters
necessary for the making an irreproachable salad, and with directions
how to administer them. The Chevalier, too, was, like old Carré,--whose
will was so cleverly made by the very disinterested friends who had
never before spoken to him,--a prudent and a saving man; and by the
period which re-opened France to the _émigrés_, he had realized some
eighty thousand francs, upon which he enjoyed a dignified retirement in
a provincial town. He invested sixty thousand francs in the Funds; with
the other twenty thousand he purchased a little estate in the Limousin,
and, if he lacked a “legend” to his device, I would have helped him to
one in “_Sal adfert_.”
A Knight over a salad-bowl is not a chivalrous picture; but the stern
necessity of the case gave it dignity, and the resulting profits
quieted the scruples of the gentleman. When Booth pounced upon Captain
Bath, sitting in a dirty flannel gown, and warming his sister’s posset
at the fire, the noble and gaunt Captain was taken something aback, and
said, in a little confusion, “I did not expect, Sir, to be seen by you
in this situation.” Booth told him “he thought it impossible he could
appear in a situation more becoming his character.” The compliment
was equivocal; but the Captain said, “You do not? By G-- I am very
much obliged to you for that opinion; but I believe, Sir, however my
weakness may prevail on me to descend from it, no man can be more
conscious of his own dignity than myself.” The apology of good Captain
Bath in Fielding’s “Amelia,” would have served the Chevalier who made
salads, had he needed one.
If a salad made the fortune of a Chevalier, it on one occasion made
that of a female cook, with whose dexterity in this respect a learned
English Judge was so enchanted, that he raised the lucky maiden to
the quality of wife. If we discuss the traits of life at table, we
have nothing to do with the secrets of household; but an incident,
illustrative of the consequences of this match, may be mentioned. The
Judge ever after was famous for protracting the sittings in court
beyond all precedent and patience; and when weary Barristers were
aghast at hearing a new cause called on, when the night was half spent,
and fairly remonstrated against the judicial cruelty, the learned
husband of his cook would remark with a sigh, “Gentlemen, we _must_ be
somewhere; we cannot be better any where than where we now are,”--the
half of which assertion was stoutly denied by his hearers.
Our aristocracy are not quite so famous for their invention of dishes
as that of France; but their love for good dinners, and their knowledge
of what they ought to be, are not inferior to the affection and science
of our neighbours. When Lord Marcus Hill officiated as whipper-in
to the Whig Government, it was part of his office to order the fish
dinner at which Ministers regale themselves when sessional cares no
longer molest them. The fish dinners of Lord Marcus are remembered with
satisfaction and gratitude; for they were first-rate in their way. The
reputation of the Carlton _cuisine_ and cellar is said to be chiefly
owing to Sir Alexander Grant, of whom a gastronomic critic says, “No
living Amphitryon has given better dinners in his time; and few can
boast of having entertained more distinguished guests.” His name, as a
patron, reminds me of that of Carême, as a practitioner.
PEN AND INK SKETCH OF CARÈME.
It would be as easy to compile a Dictionary of Cooks, as of Musicians
or Painters; but it would not be so amusing or so edifying, except
perhaps to those who think more of their stomach than of their mind.
But it _would_ then be attractive and useful to the majority of
readers; for the sages themselves are not unmindful of their stomachs,
and, according to a sage, they would be unworthy of the name if they
neglected that vital matter. Johnson, you know, lived in an age when
things were called by their real names. “_J’appelle un chat un chat_,”
was the device of the plain-spoken, when not only men, but ladies, bold
as the Thalestris of Young’s pungent satire, loudly dared to name what
nature dared to give. Dr. Johnson, then, says, “Some people have a
foolish way of not minding, or pretending not to mind, what they eat.
For my part, I mind my _belly_ very studiously; for I look upon it that
he who does not mind his _belly_, will hardly mind any thing else!”
To the world, then, even a Biographical Dictionary of Cooks might be
captivating; but as my present mission is not to write an Encyclopædia,
but rather deferentially to offer my little sketches to gentle, and not
too critical, readers, with leisure half-hours at their command, so do
I offer them a sketch of Carême, as the knowledge of the individual may
stand for that of the class.
He was illustrious by descent; for one of his ancestors had served in
the household of a Pope, who himself made more sauces than saints, Leo
X. But Carême was one of so poor and so numerous a family, that when
he came into the world, he was no more welcome than Oliver Goldsmith
was: the respective parents of the little-cared-for babes did not know
what future great men lay in naked helplessness before them. One wrote
immortal poetry, and starved: the other made delicious pastry, and
rode in a chariot! We know how much Oliver received for his “Vicar;”
while Anthony Carême used to receive twice as much for merely writing
out a recipe to make a “_pâté_.” Nay, Carême’s untouched patties,
when they left royal tables, were bought up at a cost which would
have supported Goldsmith for a month; and a cold sugared _entremets_,
at the making of which Carême had presided, readily fetched a higher
price than the public now pay for the “Complete Works” of the poet of
Green-Arbour-court!
Carême studied under various great masters, but he perfected his
studies under Boucher, _chef des services_ of the Prince Talleyrand.
The glory of Carême was co-eval with that of Napoleon: those two
individuals were great men at the same period; but the glory of one
will, perhaps, be a little more enduring than that of the other. I will
not say _whose_ glory will thus last the longer; for as was remarked
courteously by the Oxford candidate for honours, who was more courteous
than “crammed,” and who was asked which were the minor Prophets, “I am
not willing to draw invidious distinctions!”
In the days of the Empire,--the era of the greatness, of the
achievements, and of the reflections of Carême,--the possession of him
was as eagerly contested by the rich as that of a nymph by the satyrs.
He was alternately the glory of Talleyrand, the boast of Lavalette,
and the pride of the Saxon Ambassador. In their houses, too, his
hand was as often on his pen as on the handle of his _casserole_;
and inspiration never visited his brain without the call being
duly registered in his note-book, with reflections thereon highly
philosophical and gastronomic.
But Carême was capricious. It was not that he was unfaithful, but he
was _volage_; and he passed from kitchen to kitchen, as the bee wings
from flower to flower. The Emperor Alexander dined with Talleyrand,
and forthwith he seduced Carême: the seduction-money was only £100
sterling per month, and the culinary expenses. Carême did not yield
without much coyness. He urged his love for study, his desire to refine
the race of which he made himself the model, his love for his country;
and he even accompanied, for a brief moment, “Lord Stewart” to Vienna;
but it was more in the way of policy than pastry: for Count Orloff was
sent after him on a mission, and Carême, after flying, with the full
intention of being followed, to London and Paris, yielded to the golden
solicitation, and did the Emperor Alexander the honour of becoming the
head of the imperial kitchen in whatever palace His Majesty presided.
But the delicate susceptibility of Carême was wounded by discovering
that his book of expenses was subjected to supervision. He flung up
his appointment in disgust, and hastened across Europe to England.
The jealous winds wished to detain him for France, and they blew him
back on the coast between Calais and Boulogne, exactly as they did
another gentleman, who may not be so widely known as Carême, but who
has been heard of in England under the name of William Wordsworth.
Carême accepted the omen, repaired to Paris, entered the service of
the Princess Bagration, and served the table of that capricious lady,
_en maître d’hôtel_. As the guests uttered ecstatic praises of the
fare, the Princess would smile upon him as he stood before her, and
exclaim, “He is the pearl of cooks!” Is it a matter of surprise that
he was vain? Fancy being called a “pearl” by a Princess! On reading it
we think of the days when Lady Mary Wortley Montague put nasty footmen
into eclogues, and deified the dirty passions of Mrs. Mahony’s lacquey.
The Princess, however, ate herself into a permanent indigestion, and
Carême transferred his services to the English Ambassador at the Court
of Vienna. There, every morning, seated in his magnificent kitchen,
Carême received the visit of “Milor Stewart,” who seldom left him
without presents and encouragements. Indeed, these rained upon the
immortal artist. The Emperor Alexander had consented to have Carême’s
projects in culinary architecture dedicated to him, and, with notice of
consent, sent him a diamond ring. When Prince Walkouski placed it on
his finger, the cook forgot his dignity, and burst into tears. So did
all the other cooks in the Austrian capital,--out of sheer jealousy.
Carême, two years before George IV. was King, had been for a short
period a member of the Regent’s household. He left Vienna to be present
at the Coronation; but he arrived too late; and he does not scruple to
say, very ungenerously, that the banquet was spoiled for want of his
presence, nor to insinuate that the colleagues with whom he would have
been associated were unworthy of such association,--an insinuation
at once base and baseless. After being the object of a species of
semi-worship, and yielding to every new offer, yet affecting to despise
them all, Carême ultimately tabernacled with Baron Rothschild in Paris;
and the super-human excellency of his dinners, is it not written in the
“Book without a Name” of Lady Morgan? And was not his residence there
the object of envy, and cause of much melancholy, and opportunity for
much eulogy, on the part of George IV.? Well, Anthony Carême would have
us believe as much with respect to himself and the King; but we do
not believe a word of it; for the royal table was never better cared
for by the royal officers, whose duty lay in such care, than at this
very period. George IV. is said to have tempted him by offering triple
salaries; but all in vain; for London was too _triste_ an abiding
place for a man whose whole soul, out of kitchen hours, was given to
study. And so Carême remained with his Jewish patron until infirmity
overtook his noble nature, and he retired to dictate his immortal works
(like Milton, very!) to his accomplished daughter. _Les beaux restes_
of Carême were eagerly sought after; but he would not heed what was
no longer a temptation; for he was realizing twenty thousand francs a
year from the booksellers, besides the interest of the money he had
saved. Think of it, shade of Milton! Eight hundred pounds sterling
_yearly_, for writing on kitchen-stuff! Who would compose epics
after that? But Carême’s books were epics after their sort, and they
are highly creditable to the scribe who wrote them from his notes.
Finally, even Antony Carême died, like cooks of less degree; but he
had been the imperial despot of European kitchens, had been “beringed”
by Monarchs, and been smiled on by Princesses; he had received Lords
in his kitchen, and had encountered ladies who gave him a great deal
for a very little knowledge in return; and finally, as Fulke Greville
had inscribed on his tomb that he had been the friend of Sir Philip
Sidney, so the crowning joy of Carême’s life might have been chiselled
on his monument, indicating that he had been the friend of one whom
he would have accounted a greater man than the knightly hero in
question,--namely, _il Maestro Rossini_! Carême’s cup was thereat full;
and he died, perfectly convinced that paradise itself would be glad at
his coming.
The celebrated Damvers was _chef_ to the as celebrated financier
Grimaud de la Reynière, in the last century. Grimaud died a martyr to
his epicurean tastes. He was dining on a _pâté de foies gras_, when he
allowed his appetite to overpower his digestion, and he died of the
excess. Barthe, the author of “_Les Fausses Infidélités_,” also fell on
the field of the dining-room. He was extremely short-sighted, and ate
of every thing on the table. He did not consult his appetite, but his
servant, asking him, “Have I eaten of that?” “Have I had any of this?”
It was after partaking too freely, both of “this” _and_ “that,” that
poor M. Barthe let his temper get the better of him in an argument, and
a stroke of apoplexy sent him under the table. His cook deplored in him
the loss of a man of taste.
The cook of the Count de Tessé, Master of the Horse to Marie
Antoinette, was famous for dressing artichokes. The great Morillian
surpassed him, however; but this feat did not save the artist from
ending his days in poverty. The elder Robert was, perhaps, equal to
either of them, in this or in any other respect connected with his
art. The great Carême, ignorant of every thing else, was at least an
accomplished cook. There is, as I have said, a tradition that his
_petits pâtés_, when they left the Regent’s table, were sold, like
the second-hand pies from the royal table at Versailles, for fabulous
prices. As I have before intimated, it was for Leo X. that Carême the
First invented those succulent, but orthodox, dishes, which pleased
the pontifical palate at a season when gratification by gravy would
have been scandalous! It was in the Baron Rothschild’s household that
Carême the Second invented his famous _sauce piquante_, the result of
his studies under Richaut, Asne, and the elder Robert. It was in and
for France that Carême published the learned and curious work of which
he is the reputed author, and which he may have dictated, but which
he could not have written. It is marked by philosophical inquiry,
instruction, and pleasant trifling; and neither book nor reputed author
has been excelled by any artist, or any sample of kitchen literature,
that has appeared since that period.
Before the age of Carême, the popular kitchen in France was not very
superior to our own; and the patrons of _tavernes_ and _traiteurs_ were
as coarsely fed as our frequenters of ordinaries. But as royalty fell,
the _restaurateurs_ rose; and when, in 1786, the cooks of Louis XVI.
began to augur badly of their prospects, three provincial brothers,
Barthélemy, Mannielles, and Simon, opened their famous _restaurant_,
“_Les Trois Frères Provençaux_,” in the Palais Royal, and constituted
themselves the cooks of another King,--the sovereign people. The new
establishment created an era in the history of cookery, and men of
all shades of politics, and Generals of all grades of reputation,
resorted to the tables of the Brothers. General Bonaparte and Barras
were to be seen there daily, before they took their cheap pleasure at
the theatre of Mlle. Montansier. During the wars of the Empire it was
the chosen stage for the farewell banquets of brethren in arms, and at
this period the receipts amounted to not less than £500 sterling daily.
The triumvirate of proprietors endured longer than any such union in
the political world; and it was not till the reign of Louis Philippe
that the establishment of “_Les Trois Frères_” descended, under a new
proprietary, into a more unpretending position than that which it
had proudly sustained during half a century. The _casseroles_ of the
savoury Brothers had remained unshaken, while Kings and constitutions
had fallen around them.
The fortune of the Provincial Brothers tempted another country cook
from his obscurity; and some four years after the former had set up
their tables in the Palais Royal, the immortal Véry thrust his feet
into wooden clogs, and trudged from a village on the Meuse up to the
capital, to give it a taste of his quality. He enchanted Marshal Duroc
with some of his _plats_, and henceforth his fortune was secure.
He married a beautiful woman, whose pen kept his books, whose face
attracted customers, and whose heart was devoted to her husband. A
quarter of a century sufficed to enable Véry to die immensely rich,
after working excessively hard, and to be magnificently entombed in the
_Cimetière Montmartre_, under a marble column, which bore the engraved
assurance that “his whole life was devoted to the useful arts.”
Beauvilliers appeared in Paris about the same time as “the Three
Brothers;” he made and unmade his fortune three or four times, and died
poor, three years after Véry died so rich. Beauvilliers was the author
of “_L’Art du Cuisinier_,” a book almost as interesting as “The Art of
Dining;” and one cannot name either without standing mentally _chapeau
bas!_ before the author.