extremely painstaking in compounding his _liaisons_. Indeed, the
conscientiousness manifest throughout the pages of his manual easily
enables one to foresee how his chagrin at the absence of the roast at
two of the tables and his not having received the fish at the fête
of Condé so preyed upon his mind as to lead him, during a moment
of despair, to fall upon his own sword.[10] With his sense of the
proprieties so highly keyed, one can also fancy how he must have been
shocked on hearing of the prince's awkwardness at a tavern where Condé,
after proclaiming his ability as a cook before a number of companions,
ignominiously overturned an omelette into the fire, and was compelled
to return the spider to the more skilful hands of the hostess. A
similar gaucherie is related of Napoleon I when, one day at the
Tuileries, insisting on taking the place of the Empress Marie-Louise,
who was making an omelette herself in her own apartments, he awkwardly
flipped it on the floor, and was obliged to confess his inaptitude and
allow the empress to proceed with her cooking.
During the regency of Philippe d'Orléans, attention became directed to
the chemistry of cooking, the dinners of the regent being celebrated
for their combination of refinement and art--"for splendidly larded
viands, matelotes of the most tempting quality, and turkeys superbly
stuffed."
Louis XV, who was himself a practitioner of remarkable skill,
continued, with the aid of his cooks--Moustier and Vincent de la
Chapelle--to foster the development which his predecessors had
promoted. "Who could enumerate," says Mercier, "all the dishes of
the new cuisine? It is an absolutely new idiom. I have tasted viands
prepared in so many ways and fashioned with such art that I could not
imagine what they were." "Louis XV ate astoundingly," says Barbier;
"although his stomach was extremely elastic, he forced it to such an
extent that his indigestions were of great frequency, and called for
constant medication. Already at an early age he became a great drinker
of champagne, and set the mode for cold pâtés of larks. The table was
the only serious occupation of his life." On hunting-days it was a
frequent practice of the king to give a dinner for his courtiers at
which each was called upon to prepare a dish. De la Gorse mentions
a dinner given at St. Hubert where all the dishes were prepared by
the Prince de Beaufremont, the Marquis de Polignac, and the Ducs de
Gontaut, d'Ayen, de Coigny, and de la Vallière, the king on his part
contributing the _poulets au basilic_.
At this period there appeared, among innumerable cook-books, a work of
four volumes entitled, "Suppers of the Court," a treatise which has
been pronounced one of the best and most complete of its kind.[11]
To Louis XV belongs the invention of _tables volantes_, or, to speak
more truly, the revival of tables à la Trimalchio--like those devised
during the times of the old Romans--which descended after each course
through the floor, to appear reladen with new surprises. It was to
this monarch, who insisted that women could not rise to the sublime
heights of the cuisine, that Madame du Barry gave the successful supper
from which, it was said, originated the order of the _cordon bleu_ for
accomplished artisans of her sex. This was the menu, as elaborated
by the best cuisinière that the reigning favourite could procure:
_Coulis de faisan_, _petites croustades de foie de lottes_, _salmis de
bécassines_, _pain de volaille à la suprème_, _poularde au cresson_,
_écrevisses au vin de sauterne_, _biscuits de pêches au noyau_, _crême
de cerneaux_, and _fraises au marasquin_. Lady Morgan asserts, however,
that this title was first given to Marie, a celebrated cuisinière
of the tax-gatherer who built the palace of l'Elysée Bourbon. Still
another explanation of the term is that it originated with Madame de
Maintenon, who established a school at St. Cyr for the education of
the orphan daughters of ennobled officers. The pupils were carefully
instructed in the culinary art, and to those who excelled a blue ribbon
was presented as a badge of reward.
Again, if we accept a reference of Albert Glatigny in one of his two
airy poems on old Versailles, the term would appear to concern the
Marquise de Montespan, who, as has already been stated, was a cook of
no little merit:
"Parfois le soir, au bras d'un militaire
Vêtu d'azur, arrogant comme un paon,
Un cordon-bleu passait avec mystère,
Et l'on disait, 'Louis et Montespan!'"
(Sometimes at eve, on arm of cavalier
Bedight in blue, like some proud peacock's van,
A cordon-bleu pass'd by with mystic air,
The while one said, "Louis and Montespan!")
In order to captivate the affections of her royal master more readily,
the Duchesse de Châteauroux secured the most versatile kitchener who
was to be found; and the wily and beautiful Marquise de Pompadour,
thinking that the surest way to a man's heart is through his stomach,
created _filets de volaille à la bellevue_, _palais de bœuf à la
Pompadour_, and _tendrons d'aigneau à la soleil_. But the Louis were
proverbially fickle--there were fillettes as well as filets; and while
these culinary novelties appealed to the jaded royal palate for the
time, they failed to retain the royal affections or wrest the monarch
from his life of dissipation.
The refinements of the science were lost upon Louis XVI, whose robust
appetite needed only to be appeased by "pieces of resistance"--the
art, nevertheless, continuing to flourish under the nobility, the
wealthy financiers, and the ecclesiastics. New discoveries continued
to be made, and the relation of cookery to man's psychical nature--the
affinity of the spirit with the stomach--became more and more apparent.
Thus it was observed by the Maréchal de Mouchy, who so valiantly
defended the king when the palace was attacked by a mob, that the flesh
of the pigeon possesses especial sedative or consoling virtues. It was
accordingly his wont, whenever he had lost a relative or a friend, to
say to his cook:
"You will serve me with two roast pigeons for dinner; I have noticed
that after eating a brace of pigeons I arise from the table feeling
much more resigned."
During the Revolution, when the court had ceased to exist and private
establishments were no longer maintained, cookery necessarily
languished for a period--to blossom anew in that familiar feature of
the French capital, the restaurant. Internal dissension, in closing
the hôtels of the wealthy, was thus the means of throwing numbers of
master-cooks out of employment, who subsequently turned restaurateurs,
and not a few of whom became millionaires. With the restaurants, the
dealers in delicacies and provisions increased proportionately, and
dining and good living advanced apace.
A striking example of a gastronomer philanthropist is that of the
Vicomte de Barras, surnamed _le beau_, who flourished during the
Directory, and who was celebrated for his dinners, his prodigality,
and his gallantry. During his later years he continued to entertain
sumptuously, although obliged to confine himself to a single dish--a
large plate of rusk moistened with the juice of an underdone leg of
mutton. At his banquets a lackey was always stationed back of the
chair of each guest to see that he was never obliged to wait. Among
the countless menus of his entertainments, the following, signed by
himself and accompanied by a note in his own handwriting, will show the
excellence of his dinners and his solicitude for his guests. It will be
noted that, apart from the lavish provision made for the gentler sex in
the dessert, the menu was one of quality as opposed to mere quantity:
Carte Dinatoire
Pour La Table Du Citoyen Directeur et Général
Barras, Le Décadi 30 Floréal.
Douze personnes.
1 potage. 2 plats de rôt.
1 relevé. 6 entremets.
6 entrées. 1 salade.
24 plats de dessert.
Le potage aux petits oignons à la ci-devant minime.
Le relevé, un troncon d'esturgeon à la broche.
Les Six Entrées:
1 d'un sauté de filets de turbot à l'homme de confiance, ci-devant
maître-d'hôtel.
1 d'anguilles à la tartare.
1 de concombres farcis à la moelle.
1 vol-au-vent de blanc de volaille à la Béchamel.
1 d'un ci-devant St. Pierre sauce aux câpres.
1 de filets de perdrix en anneaux.
Les Deux Plats de Rôt:
1 de goujons du département.
1 d'une carpe au court-bouillon.
Les Six Entremets:
1 d'œufs à la neige.
1 betteraves blanches sautés au jambon.
1 d'une gelée au vin de Madère.
1 de beignets de crême à la fleur d'oranger.
1 de lentilles à la ci-devant reine à la crême au blond de veau.
1 de culs d'artichauts à la ravigote.
1 salade céleri en rémoulade.
Beneath the bill of fare were these remarks, signed "Barras":
"There is too much fish. Leave out the gudgeons; the rest is
all right. Do not forget to place cushions on the chairs of
the _citoyennes_ Tallien, Talma, Beauharnais, Hainguerlot, and
Mirande. And for five o'clock precisely. Have the ices sent
from Veloni's; I don't want any others."
The first restaurant is generally said to have been established in
Paris about the middle of the eighteenth century (1765) by a cook
named Boulanger, in the rue des Poulies, with this device to herald
its purpose: _Venite omnes qui stomacho laboratis, et ego restaurato
vos_--"Come all ye that labour with the stomach, and I will restore
you." Grimod de la Reynière, however, mentions a certain Champ d'Oiseau
as the first of his calling, his establishment being in the rue des
Poulies and dating from 1770. The Marquis de Cussy, in turn, who is
also a good authority, has credited the signboard of the first Parisian
restaurant to a man named Lamy.
The motto and signboard were a conspicuous part of the olden tavern,
restaurant, and inn, as well as other shops devoted to retail trade,
and one views with regret, both on the Continent and in Great Britain,
the increasing disappearance of this picturesque feature. At one time
the signboard was obligatory on every landlord and vender of wines
and liquors, and scarce a century ago few public places that provided
for the entertainment of man and beast were without their illuminated
indices.
Among the most common in France was that of _La Truie qui file_, or the
Spinning Pig, in vogue among merchants of provisions. _A la Marmite
de Gargantua_ and _Aux Moutons de Panurge_ were favourite signs of
restaurants. The frequent _Lion d'Or_ of hotels and taverns often
represented a traveller asleep--_au lit on dort_. _Au Cheval blanc_, a
very popular title, was usually accompanied by the traditional phrase,
_Ici on loge à pied et à cheval_. The traveller who has visited the
smaller towns of France and who remembers his dinners will associate
many an excellent table d'hôte with the shield of the white charger.
_Au bon Coign_ was a sign in favour with wine-shops situated at a
corner of a street, while _Au Saint Jean-Baptiste_ was a common device
of linen-merchants. A wine-merchant opposite Père-Lachaise had these
words printed on his ensign, _Ici on est mieux qu'en face_. A not
unfrequent Parisian signboard was that of an ox dressed with bonnet,
veil, and shawl, to signify _bœuf à la mode_. A pastry-cook's
manifesto depicted a little girl climbing up to reach some cakes in
a pantry, with the title, _A la petite Gourmande_. A corset-maker's
sign was accompanied by a large corsage, with this explanation of its
office, _Je soutiens les faibles, je comprime les forts, je ramène
les égarés_. The emblem of a stocking-maker represented a grisette
trying on a new pair of hose and exhibiting her nether charms to an
admirer--with the motto, _A la belle occasion_. Among the wittiest of
old enseignes was that of a Paris boot-maker named Nicque, who had for
his device a splendid bouquet of flowers, with the inscription _Aux
Amateurs de la Botte à Nicque_. Representations of the sun and the moon
were among the oldest and most common signs both on the Continent and
in England, the sixteenth-century French poet Désiré Arthus writing in
his "Loyaulté Consciencieuse des Taverniers":
"Sur les chemins des grands villes et champs,
Ne trouverez de douze maisons l'une,
Qui n'ait enseigne d'un soleil, d'une lune.
Tous vendant vin, chascun à son quartier."
(On roads that wind through town and field,
Not one in twelve but flaunts the shield
Of sun or moon, whose beams benign
Proclaim an inn dispensing wine.)
Early in 1800 the rue Vivienne was celebrated for its numerous
artistic signs, some of which were suspended from the lintels, and
others painted on the door-posts and window-frames. These, with the
picturesque street-criers and the olden sun-dials, have gradually
become more and more a thing of the past in the French capital,
though they still add to the charm and quaintness of some of the old
provincial towns, where modern ways have been more slow to intrude.
How, of a gusty day or on the rising of the wind, the old signs creak
on their rusty hinges in the dark vaulted streets, telling of the
roysterings that have been held within--of the flashing of rapiers and
clash of swords, the draining of bumpers and clink of louis d'or!
[Illustration: THE CRIES OF PARIS: "OLD CLOTHES, OLD LACES!"
Facsimile of an old French plate]
Previous to the restaurants, the kitchens of the inns, which were
usually poor, and the tables d'hôte of some of the hotels had meagrely
provided for the wants of those who were unable to provide for
themselves in houses of their own. Towards the end of the century
the restaurant of Beauvilliers and others were flourishing, that
of Beauvilliers closing in 1793 to be reopened with less success
at the termination of the Revolution. Robert, former chef of a
_fermier-général_, the distinguished Méot and his scholars Véry, Riche,
Hardy, and Roze, were among notable masters of the time. The "Manuel
des Amphitryons" (1808) pronounced Robert the elder "the greatest cook
of the present age."
About the beginning of the century the table of the great Cambacères
was the most renowned in Paris, and M. d'Aigrefeuille was considered
the most eminent epicure. The Prince de Talleyrand was also a most
distinguished amateur, having been termed "the first fork of his
time." At the advanced age of eighty, it was his custom to spend nearly
an hour every morning with his cook, discussing the dishes which were
to compose the dinner, his only repast. It had long been one of his
tenets that a careful and healthful cuisine, presided over by the best
artist he could procure, would tend to preserve his health and forefend
serious maladies far better than a staff of physicians. For a period of
twelve years Carême was his culinary director, with carte blanche to
exercise his subtlest skill. Two things, Talleyrand used to say, are
essential in life--to give good dinners and keep well with women, a
precept he always followed. An axiom of diplomatists and statesmen goes
still farther--that poor dinners are conducive to poor diplomacy, and
bad ministerial dinners are equivalent to bad laws and bad negotiations.
The first volume of the "Almanach des Gourmands" (1804) is dedicated
to M. d'Aigrefeuille, whom the author adjudged most worthy of such
pre-eminence--"a connoisseur who is the most erudite arbiter of refined
alimentary combinations, and who understands most thoroughly the
difficult and little known art of extracting the greatest possible
part from an excellent repast." Besides referring to him as setting
daily the finest table in Paris, he is extolled as "the guest best
adapted to honour an opulent table by his delightful manners, his
profound knowledge of the world, and the constantly varied charm of his
inexhaustible appetite and conversation."
Beauvilliers, once chef of Monsieur, brother of the king, was also
the author of a cook-book which achieved marked success,[12] the
writer carrying out in cookery the precept that Délille had applied to
gardening:
"Mais ce grand art exige un artiste qui pense,
Prodigue de génie et non pas de dépense."
(But this grand art demands an artist of taste--
Prodigal of genius and devoid of all waste.)
In his fluent dedication to the Marquis de Voppalière, the writer says:
"I have not been unmindful of economy, either in the
manipulation or the preservation of foods.... I have sought
to teach how, with little outlay, one may have exquisite
viands, and at the same time derive both health and pleasure.
Good living is at once the luxury which costs the least; and
perhaps of all pleasures it is the most innocent.... You
have always held, monsieur, that Wisdom itself should strew
flowers in the midst of the thorns that are inseparable from
existence. Often at a banquet Wisdom may renew its moral
forces. The bonds of society become narrowed, and rivals or
enemies are merged into friends or guests. Persons who are
entire strangers to each other share in the intimacy of the
family, differences of rank become obliterated, weakness is
united to power, manners are polished, and the mind takes a
fresh flight (_l'esprit électrisé prend un nouvel essor_).
It is perchance in the midst of banquets in the best society
of Paris and Versailles that you have acquired that urbanity
which characterises you, that familiarity with the _grand
monde_ which is enabled to pronounce on everything at a
glance."
Every great cook should be able to say with him, "I have inaugurated
reforms, improvements, in order to advance from what is good to what is
better." Already, "l'Art du Cuisinier" draws attention to the fact that
"new dishes," to a large extent, are not new dishes--a chef supplies
some new decoration to a _plat_, adds to or leaves off some ingredient,
and christens it with a different name.
The treatise of Beauvilliers has been pronounced by authorities one of
the best on the subject. The style is direct, his menu varied and yet
not over-ornate, and his formularies, founded on long experience, even
yet denote a superior hand. There can be comparatively little trouble
in following many of his recipes, they are so precise--save some of
his sauces and certain grand dishes, these calling for preparatory
_Espagnoles_, _veloutés_, _Béchamels_, and _Allemandes_, and a larder
beyond the reach of the ordinary cook. There are numerous dishes, of
course, that one may not procure at home, however deft the presiding
genius. One cannot have a constant stock of elaborate preparatory
sauces, truffles, cockscombs, Chablis, or champagne to draw from for a
single dish, when desired, without very considerable outlay or waste. A
grand sauce, a salmon _à la Chambord_, or an elaborate entrée requires
the appurtenances of a restaurant or a club where cookery is conducted
on an extensive scale by a professional, though this by no means
implies that a dinner beyond criticism may not be served at one's own
home.
Early in the nineteenth century Berchoux published his "Gastronomie,"
and Grimod de la Reynière appeared as the versatile author of the
"Almanach des Gourmands." By this time cookery was fully able to take
care of itself, irrespective of royalty or titled patrons, and the
"Almanach" became its greatest oracle and promoter.
Before referring to the "Almanach," which claims a chapter by itself, a
word should be said of Berchoux's poetical treatise, the first edition
of which appeared in 1801. Recalling Gentil Bernard's "l'Art d'Aimer"
in its scope and spirit, this tribute to the tenth muse has been termed
one of the most ingenious productions of light French poetry. Free from
the grossness that characterises so many French works on the subject,
it touches lightly, comprehensively, and entertainingly upon the
theme. It was soon translated into numerous languages, and many of its
precepts have become proverbial. The advice throughout is excellent,
but, as it was observed to the author at the time, "You are all alike,
messieurs the poets, you say admirable things; but it is impossible to
carry them out."
After passing in review the table of the ancients, and censuring their
intemperance and gluttony, the author advises the reader who would live
contentedly to choose his residence in Auvergne or La Bresse, under
whose favourable skies he may procure everything that ministers to the
pleasures of the table:
"Voulez-vous réussir dans l'art que je professe?
Ayez un bon château dans l'Auvergne ou La Bresse,
Ou près des lieux charmants d'où Lyon voit passer
Deux fleuves amoureux tout prêts à s'embrasser.
Vous vous procurerez, sous ce ciel favorable,
Tout ce qui peut servir aux douceurs de la table."
A good cook at once becomes the great desideratum--an artist whom
one may bless after having partaken of the courses he has served, an
officer who will cause one's table to be envied by all who have shared
its good cheer, a seneschal of grave mien and imposing presence,
conscientious in his work, prolific in resources, and proud of his
art,--
"... qui d'un air important,
Auprès de son fourneau que la flamme illumine,
Donne avec dignité des lois dans sa cuisine."
The interior of the kitchen while the dinner is being prepared is next
portrayed with the skill of an Ostade. The charcoal glows, the spits
turn merrily, the lustrous copper of the saucepans and kettles catches
the ruddy light of the flames. The gravies simmer, and the fowls take
on a golden hue. All is excitement, but an excitement tempered by
perfect order and harmony. In the midst, surrounded by his subalterns,
to whom he issues his commands, stands the chef--impassible, majestic,
serene--like a general on the eve of a decisive battle:
"Tel on voit, au moment d'une sanglante affaire,
Un prudent général mesurer la carrière.
Son courage tranquille et sa noble fierté
Commandent l'espérance et la sécurité.
La foule l'environne et presse son armure,
D'un trouble involontaire il entend le murmure;
Peut-être un peu d'effroi s'est glissé dans son sein,
Mais son visage est calme, et son front serein."
The pictures he has drawn of the dinner and its service, and his
counsels regarding moderation and sobriety, are equally felicitous.
Though he himself was no Sybarite, but, like Savarin, was only a
gourmand when he had his pen in hand, he is none the less severe on the
dietarians:
"En se privant de tout, ils pensent se guérir,
Et se donnent la mort par la peur de mourir."
Nor has he failed to extol the virtues of exercise, that most potent
abettor of health and aid to enjoyment:
"D'un noble appétit munissez-vous d'avance,
Sans lui vous gémirez au sein de l'abondance;
II est un moyen sûr d'acquérir ce tresor:
L'exercise, messieurs, et l'exercise encore:
Allez tous les matins sur les pas de Diane,
Armés d'un long fusil ou d'une sarbacane,
Epier le canard au bord de vos marais;
Allez lancer la biche au milieu des forêts;
Poursuivez le chevreuil s'élançant dans la plaine;
Suivez vos chiens ardents que leur courage entraîne.
Partagez sans rougir de champêtres travaux,
Et ne dédaignez pas ou la bêche ou la faux."
It were in vain to look for a better dining-room motto than his precept:
"Rien ne doit déranger l'honnête homme qui dîne;"[13]
or his hygienic maxim:
"Jouissez lentement, et que rien ne vous presse."
Like good wine, his canto has not lost its fragrance through age, and
those who read it will almost be inclined to doubt the truth of the
concluding line:
"Un poème ne valut jamais un dîner--"
unless it be a _dîner sans façon_, which he has not failed to condemn.
Of other tributes in verse to gastronomy, Colnet's "l'Art de Dîner
en Ville"[14] is the next important, but this is by no means to be
compared with the canto of Berchoux. And though the language abounds in
minor poems on the subject, few of these may be considered seriously,
while nearly all offend by their grossness or their halting measures.
Napoleon Bonaparte was not an epicure, though he enjoined upon all
the great functionaries of the empire to set a good table. He was in
constant dread of growing obese as he became old, was proverbially
irregular in his hours of eating, and rushed his food as he would a
battalion on the battle-field. His repasts concerned him little so
long as they were served the instant his appetite craved, and were
accompanied by his favourite Chambertin.