A GREAT CHEF
"Le roi ordonnait le matin petit souper ou tres petit souper;
mais ce dernier etait abondant et de trois services sans le
fruit."--Saint-Simon.
In the month of February 1918, Aurelle was ordered by the French
mission at British G.H.Q. to report at the _sous-prefecture_ at
Abbeville and to hold himself for one day at the disposal of M.
Lucas, who would call for him in due course.
Aurelle waited for some time for M. Lucas, who eventually appeared
escorted by an English chauffeur. He was a rather stout, clean-shaven
little man, and wore a well-made blue suit and a yachting cap. With
his hands in his pockets, his curt speech and the authority of his
demeanour, he looked every inch a man accustomed to command.
"You are the interpreter from G.H.Q.?" he asked. "Have you a written
order?"
Aurelle was obliged to admit he had only received an order by
telephone.
"I can't understand it!" said M. Lucas. "The most necessary
precautions are neglected. Have you at least been told who I am? No?
Well, listen to me, my friend, and kindly hold your tongue for a
minute."
He went and shut the door of the _sous-prefet's_ office, and came
back to the interpreter. "I am----" he began.
He looked nervously about him, closed a window, and whispered very
softly, "I am His Majesty the King of England's chef."
"Chef?" Aurelle repeated, not grasping his meaning.
"His Majesty the King of England's chef," the great man deigned to
repeat, smiling kindly at the astonishment the young man showed at
this revelation.
"You must know, my friend, that to-morrow the President of the
Republic is to be His Majesty's guest in this town. The activity of
the German airmen obliges us to keep the programme secret till the
last moment. However, I have been sent out in advance with Sir
Charles to inspect the British Officers' Club, where the lunch is to
take place. You are to accompany me there."
So they set off for the former Chateau de Vauclere, now transformed
by British genius for comfort into an officers' club, Aurelle
escorting the royal cook and the equerry, who was an old English
gentleman with a pink face, white whiskers and grey spats. Above
their heads circled the squadron of aeroplanes which had been ordered
to protect the favoured city.
During the drive, M. Lucas condescended to say a few words of
explanation.
"Our lunch is to be quite informal; the menu very simple--ever since
the beginning of the war His Majesty has expressed a wish to be
rationed like his people--river trout, _tournedos aux pommes,_ some
fruit, and cider to drink."
"But, Monsieur Lucas," interrupted Sir Charles timidly, "you know Her
Majesty prefers to drink milk."
"The Queen will drink cider like every one else," replied the chef
curtly.
Sir Charles was charmed with the paved courtyard of the chateau, the
brick and stone facade with its carved escutcheons, the simple
curves of the dining-room panelling, and the picture over the door,
which he attributed, not without reason, to Nattier.
"It's very, very small," murmured M. Lucas pensively. "However, as
it's war-time----"
Then he inquired about the kitchen. It was a vast and well-lighted
place; the red and white tiles on the polished floor shone brightly
in the sunshine; magnificent but useless copper saucepans hung upon
the walls.
In front of the oven a cook in a white cap was at work with a few
assistants. Surprised by the noise, he turned round, and, suddenly
recognizing the man in the blue suit, went as white as his cap, and
dropped the pan he was holding in his hand.
"You?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, my friend," replied the august visitor quite simply. "What a
surprise to find you here! What a pleasure also," he added kindly.
"Ah, now I feel relieved! An alfresco meal, a strange kitchen like
this, made me very anxious, I must confess. But with such a
lieutenant as you, my dear friend, the battle is already half won."
"Yes," he continued, turning towards Aurelle, who was gazing with
emotion upon the encounter and thinking of Napoleon entrusting his
cavalry to Ney on the eve of Waterloo, "it is a curious coincidence
to find Jean Paillard here. At the age of fifteen we made our
_debut_ together under the great Escoffier. When I was appointed
chef to the Ritz, Paillard took charge of the Carlton; when I took
Westminster, he accepted Norfolk."
Having thus unconsciously delivered himself of this romantic
couplet--which goes to prove once again that poetry is the ancient
and natural expression of all true feeling--M. Lucas paused for a
moment, and, lowering his gaze, added in an infinitely expressive
undertone:
"And here I am now with the King. What about you?"
"I?" replied the other with a touch of shame. "It's only two months
since I was released; till then I was in the trenches."
"What!" exclaimed M. Lucas, scandalized. "In the trenches? A chef
like you!"
"Yes," answered Jean Paillard with dignity. "I was cook at G.H.Q."
With a shrug of resignation the two artists deplored the waste of
talent for which armed democracies are responsible; and M. Lucas
began in resolute tones to announce his plan of campaign. He had the
curt precision which all great captains possess.
"Since the war broke out, His Majesty has expressed a wish to be
rationed like his people. Therefore the menu is to be very simple:
_truite a la Bellevue, tournedos aux pommes_, some fruit.--Of course
there will have to be an entree and some dessert for the Staff. The
drink will be cider."
"May I remind you, Monsieur Lucas," Sir Charles put in anxiously,
"that Her Majesty prefers to drink milk?"
"I have already told you," said the chef, annoyed, "that the Queen
will drink cider like everybody else.... Nevertheless, Paillard, you
will kindly show me the contents of your cellar; there will, of
course, have to be wine for the Staff. The _tournedos_, I need hardly
say, are to be grilled over a charcoal fire, and larded, of course.
As to salad--seasoning, tomatoes and walnuts----"
As he gave his orders, he illustrated their execution with gestures
of the utmost solemnity, and his hands moved busily amongst imaginary
saucepans.
"The menu is short," he said, "but it must be perfect. The great cook
is better recognized by the perfection of a piece of beef--or let me
say rather by the seasoning of a salad--than by the richness of his
sweets. One of the finest successes in my career--the one I enjoy
recalling above all others--is that of having initiated the English
aristocracy into the mysteries of Camembert. The choice of fruit--now
I come to think of it, Paillard, have you any peaches?"
"I should think we had!" said the latter, breaking open the lid of a
crate which revealed a number of delicately shaded ripe peaches
glowing in their beds of straw and cotton-wool.
The chef took one and stroked it gently.
"Paillard, Paillard," he said sadly, "do you call _these_ peaches? I
can see you have been a soldier, poor fellow. Never mind, I can send
the car to Montreuil."
He remained a few minutes longer in meditation; then, satisfied at
last, he decided to leave the chateau. In the street, he took
Aurelle's arm very kindly.
"My friend," he said, "I think that will do, thank you. And if you
ever have the opportunity of seeing Their Majesties, don't let it
slip by. In France, you have very wrong ideas, I assure you; since
the Revolution, you have a prejudice against Royal Families. It is
childish; you can take my word for it. I have been living with this
one for more than five years, and I assure you they are quite
respectable people."