In Paris as in New York one can make a gastronomic tour of the world.
While the French, in return for all the culinary terms they have lent
their neighbors seem to have adopted only one Teutonic word ("Bock,"
for beer), they amiably tolerate the presence within their walls of
German and Austrian restaurants, some of which are excellent, though
thoroughly exotic from the French point of view. In one of them
the host is so much of an epicure himself that in his delight with
the Viennese menu he sketches for you, he will blow a kiss at the
enjoyments it calls up in his imagination.
Most Germans and Austrians, however, are glad to frequent the French
restaurants while in Paris, and the same, as Col. Newnham-Davis informs
us, is true of the English visitor, though if he desires a chop or a
steak, he can have one made to order in one of the many grill rooms in
foreign style that have come into existence, and in one of which the
joints of beef and mutton are wheeled to the tables and carved there
to order, as in some London eating houses. The Italians are more apt
to cling to their own style of cookery, and they have plenty of places
adorned with Chianti bottles where they can have their spaghetti, their
risotto, their fritto misto, and their other excellent fries. The
Spanish also have places where they can indulge their appetite for home
dishes; and so have many other nations, including Greeks, as well as
the Turks and other Orientals.
Of all the foreigners only two, the Russians and the Americans, have
had a definite influence on the French cuisine and menu--and not to
their advantage, it must be confessed.
From the Russians the Paris restaurateurs borrowed the custom of
beginning a meal with hors d'œuvres, or appetizers. I remember
the time when the hors d'œuvres in France simply meant radishes,
butter, and a few thin slices of sausage which were placed on the
table at once and against indulging in which the guide books warned
tourists unless they were prepared to face a substantial addition to
their bill. To-day, the price of the appetizers is usually noted on
the bill of fare, and it is not at all high, even at the aristocratic
restaurants. Cold smoked salmon, tunny fish, sardines, baby artichokes
in oil, various vegetable, fish, and lobster salads, cold eggs, sliced
sausages, and sundry other delicacies are offered, with bread and
butter.
These things undoubtedly are good, and they are appetizers; but they
are also appetite destroyers--quite too substantial to preface an
elaborate dinner. In Russia and Scandinavia, where the extreme cold
creates a ravenous appetite and a great capacity for stowing away
things, they may be all right; but in temperate climes, and for
dwellers in cities who get little exercise, they are too heavy. When I
see one of these displays of cold dishes I always think what a tempting
lunch they would make all by themselves; but if I eat them before
dinner I certainly cannot enjoy what follows as much as I would without
them; and that, I believe, is the experience of most diners who are not
neighbors of the Eskimos.
It is different with caviare and oysters. These are merely appetizers,
containing little nourishment; but caviare is not for everybody, and as
for oysters, since they must be served ice-cold, it is unwise to chill
the stomach by beginning with them. Let them follow the soup, which
is, because of its warmth and its stimulating effect on the digestive
glands, the best thing to begin a meal with. Muskmelons and grapefruit
may be allowed to precede it if served without ice, which certainly
impairs their flavor.
While adopting the Russian hors d'œuvre habit, the Parisians have
had too much taste and moderation to indulge in its Gargantuan
extremes. The performances of Russians and Swedes border on the
miraculous.
If Russians in Paris cannot everywhere indulge in the riotous profusion
of hors d'œuvre they have at home, they can do so at La Rue's,
which has a full line of them and also of diverse other "mets Russes
nationaux."
Americans who wish to eat ham and eggs, or hash, or corn muffins,
griddle cakes, breakfast cereals and that sort of thing, may find them
in hotels and in not a few of the restaurants. American lobsters, at
Eiffel Tower prices, are on every menu, and there are places where
oysters from across the Atlantic, as well as native, can be ordered
raw, scalloped, fried, broiled, or in diverse stews, _tout comme chez
nous_. The numerous grill rooms are also accommodating, though they do
not open early enough to offer an American breakfast, while the hotels
seldom venture on anything beyond bacon and eggs before lunch time.
It would be well if the Parisians ate an American breakfast and
followed it up with a lighter lunch; but it would require another
revolution to bring about such a reform.
Paris has become considerably Americanized. One can hardly wonder at
having our cotton seed oil served instead of the noble juice of the
olive at the cheap restaurants; but when I found that it was used
unblushingly at some of the more expensive places I was shocked at
this sign of decadence--or effrontery--and visions of cold storage
poultry, salted butter, and doughy bread with inedible crust--but no!
such things no one would _ever_ dare to place before Parisians!
The fact that their own olive oil is not as a rule equal to the best
Italian may have made them for the moment tolerant of the American
invader. The health authorities speak of diverse other substitutions
and adulterants as being in use; but these are not necessarily
American, though we lead the world in our tolerance of them.
What the Parisians chiefly complain about in reference to American
influence is that it has introduced our national vice of hurry into the
kitchen and the dining-room. When so many of the wealthiest patrons of
the restaurants expect to get dishes served at a moment's notice, to
be gulped down and hastily followed by others, the very strongholds of
gastronomic France--slow cooking and leisurely eating--are assailed.
The chief danger to the French cuisine lies in the fact that, as Mr.
Paderewski put it in a talk I had with him on this subject, "it is so
much easier to prepare a meal the American way."
South Americans, though they have little to boast of at home in the
way of pleasures of the table, adapt themselves more easily to French
ways, and as they are rapidly increasing in numbers in Paris and spend
even more money than the North Americans, their influence will perhaps
counteract that of the impatient visitors from the United States, who
usually know so much more about making dollars than about spending them
rationally.
Every American has attended banquets at which there was more to feast
the eyes than the palate. In the _Figaro_ Marcel Prévost complained
(1910) that this sort of thing was gaining in Paris. "Mangeront-ils?"
he asked--will Parisians of the future eat? Judging by the present
tendency, they will not, he answers--they will feed. They will take
nourishment, but gastronomy, the art of dining with intelligence and
pleasure, will have ceased to exist. In the house the cause of this
change is what Prévost calls the "progrès de la coquetterie féminine."
Women, to be sure, were never the greatest of the culinary artists,
but they used to pay some attention to food and its preparation,
whereas at present their chief thought is of the appearance of the
dining-room and the table. The linen, the porcelain, the glassware,
must be of the finest, the flowers of the costliest, but the food and
wine are provided by a paid caterer, who seldom knows his business.
As for eating in restaurants or hotels, that is no better. The famous
"maisons" have disappeared, to be replaced by huge palaces, in which
everything is showy and sumptuous but the food everywhere the same,
without distinction or individuality. What is worse, the younger
generation does not seem to regret this. French youth even drink
American cocktails and are not ashamed!
While there is no doubt some truth in these allegations they are
absurdly exaggerated. Complaints as to the decadence of French cookery
have been made at regular intervals--like the complaints about the
disappearance of great singers. I once amused myself by writing an
article covering three centuries, in which I quoted the laments of
each generation over the decline of the art of song as compared with
the brilliant achievements of the preceding generation of singers.
Were it worth while I might compile equally amusing evidence on the
subject of the French cuisine. Thackeray complained of a similarity
of dinners. Charles Monselet in 1879, looked "in vain for the tables
that are praised or the hosts that are renowned." In 1866 Nestor
Roqueplan complained that the French "no longer find places devoted to
the Flemish kitchen, others to the Normandy, Lyonnaise, Toulousian,
Bordelaise, or Provençal kitchens." But he had the good sense to add
that "France nevertheless is still the country where eating is found at
its best."
So it is at the present day, and is likely to be for years to come.
No matter how many of the best chefs are taken away by American
millionaires or Russian Grand Dukes, Paris remains the world's high
school of culinary art.