conversation may be constantly general.
"Let them be so chosen that their occupations are various,
their tastes analogous, and with such points of contact
that one need not have recourse to that odious formality of
introductions.
"Let the dining-room be brilliantly lighted, the cloth as
white as snow, and the temperature of the room from sixty to
sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit.
"Let the men be witty and not pedantic, and the women amiable
without being too coquettish.
"Let the dishes be exquisitely choice, but small in number,
and the wines of the first quality, each in its degree.
"Let the dishes be served from the more substantial to the
lighter; and from the simpler wines to those of finer bouquet.
"Let the eating proceed slowly, the dinner being the last
business of the day, and let the guests look upon themselves
as travellers who journey together towards a common object.
"Let the coffee be hot and the liqueurs be specially chosen.
"Let the drawing-room to which the guests retire be large
enough to permit those who cannot do without it to have
a game of cards, while leaving, however, ample scope for
post-prandial conversation.
"Let the guests be detained by social attraction, and animated
with expectation that before the evening is over there will be
some further enjoyment.
"Let the tea not be too strong, the toast artistically
buttered, and the punch made with care.
"Let the signal for departure not be given before eleven
o'clock.
"Let every one be in bed at midnight.
"If any man has ever been a guest at a repast uniting all
these conditions, he can boast of having been present at
his own apotheosis; and he will have enjoyed it the less
in proportion as these conditions have been forgotten or
neglected."
Exception perhaps may be taken to the temperature of the dining-room
as given in the above injunctions, 70° to 73° Fahrenheit being a more
comfortable atmospheric medium of dining where it is possible. The tea
and toast and the punch may also be dispensed with to advantage, and
in their stead a liqueur glass of _Curaçoa sec_ be prescribed, one
of the best, as it is one of the most agreeable, digestives after a
substantial repast.
Game has been pronounced a delight of the table by Savarin--a food
healthful, warming, savoury, and easy of digestion to young stomachs.
Of small game or birds, he accords the highest place to the fig-pecker,
saying that if this bird were as large as a pheasant it would be worth
an acre of land. Savarin was a true sportsman, who knew his game and
its proper preparation, and among the breeziest of his chapters are
those relating to field sports, wherein due regard is paid to the
luncheon. A portion of the fifteenth Meditation will be sufficient to
show the counsellor in his hunting costume at the halt of a shooting
party; he is in his happiest vein, his theme being "The Ladies." The
morning has been fine, and the birds abundant. Appetite is not wanting,
and at a prearranged hour a party of ladies arrive, laden with the
treasures of Périgord, the triumphs of Strassburg, and the bubbles
of Epernay, to assist in the repast. It is at the close of this that
the chancellor becomes most eloquent and pronounces one of his most
characteristic monologues:
"I have been out shooting in the centre of France and the most
remote provinces, and seen arrive at the halt charming women,
girls redolent with freshness, some arriving in cabriolets,
others in simple country carts. I have seen them the first in
laughing at the inconveniences of their conveyance. I have
seen them display upon the turf the turkey in clear jelly, the
household pie, the salad all ready for mixing. I have seen
them with light foot dancing round the bivouac fire lighted on
this occasion. I have taken part in the games and merriment
that accompany such a gipsy feast, and I feel thoroughly
convinced that, with less luxury, there is quite as much that
is charming, gay, and delightful.
"Why when they take their leave should not some kisses be
interchanged with the best sportsman, who is in his glory;
with the worst shot because he is most unlucky: with the
others so as not to make them jealous? All are about to
separate, custom has authorized it; and it is permissible, and
even commanded, to take advantage of such an opportunity.
"Fellow-sportsmen, ye who are prudent and look after solid
things, fire straight, and bag as much as you can before the
ladies arrive, for experience teaches us that after their
departure sportsmen seem very rarely in luck...."[27]
As the lordly Asian pheasant is thriving and multiplying with us, it
will be pertinent to present Savarin's famous and somewhat inaccessible
formula of preparing him _à la Sainte-Alliance_ for all such as may
wish to try so elaborate a _plat de luxe_, it being well understood
that the pheasant, above all birds, requires to be very fully matured
by hanging:
"The bird is first to be carefully larded with the best and
firmest lard. Then bone two woodcocks, put their flesh aside,
and keep the livers and trails of the two birds separate.
Take this meat and mince it, add some beef marrow, steamed,
a little scraped bacon, pepper, salt, herbs, and enough
good truffles to stuff the inner cavity of the pheasant. Be
careful not to let the stuffing spread to the outside, which
is sometimes a little difficult when the bird is rather high.
Nevertheless, it can be done in various ways, and amongst
others by fastening a crust of bread with a piece of thread
on the stomach, which prevents its bursting. Cut a slice of
bread longer and wider by two inches than the whole pheasant
is; then take the livers and trails of the woodcocks, and
pound them with two large truffles, one anchovy, a little
scraped bacon, and a goodly lump of the best fresh butter.
Spread this paste on the slice of bread, and put it under the
pheasant stuffed as above, so that it may receive all the
gravy dripping from it while roasting. When the pheasant is
cooked, serve it up lying gracefully on its toast, put some
bitter oranges round it, and await the result without any
uneasiness. This high-flavoured dish ought to be washed down,
in preference, with some of the best wine of Upper Burgundy.
Treated according to the preceding prescription, the pheasant,
already distinguished itself, is permeated from its outside
with the savoury fat of the bacon which is browned and in
its inside it is impregnated with the odoriferous gases from
the woodcocks and the truffles. The toast, already so richly
prepared, receives again the gravies of the triple combination
which flow from the bird while roasting."
Has gastronomy progressed since the time of Brillat-Savarin? Replying
to this question, Charles Monselet, writing in 1879, states that he
"looks in vain for the tables that are praised or the hosts that are
renowned. Where are the great cooks? What names have we now to oppose
to those of Carême and Robert? Shall I speak of official cookery, of
ministerial dinners? These are not the dinners to which people go to
eat. There especially the cook is more proud of a Chinese kiosk on a
rock in coloured and spun sugar, which no person dare touch, than of
a carp _à la Chambord_ treated in a masterly way. Since the days of
Cambacérès official cookery has ceased to exist." The similarity of
dinners complained of by Walker and Thackeray during a previous era
he refers to as existing in Paris: "That which you eat yesterday in
the Faubourg Saint-Germain, you will eat to-morrow in the Faubourg
Saint-Honoré. At the end of the week you recognise that you have merely
changed your knife and fork. This poverty of imagination, this absence
of research are unworthy of a country such as ours."
Apart from his neglect to mention the labours of his distinguished
gastronomical predecessor, Savarin is also open to censure for failing
to thank the Italians for their admirable lessons in the science
of cookery, including that of frying in oil, which he particularly
specifies as so desirable with trout "caught in running brooks that
murmur far from the capital." To this day the Italian remains a great
confectioner and pastry-cook, while an Italian maestro is a delight
of the _haute cuisine_, his methods possessing much originality
and holding nothing in common with the greasy dishes and their
superabundance of garlic which one meets in the average inn and in many
of the restaurants of the land beyond the Alps.
Upon one subject, it is to be regretted, we have not been advised by
the philosophic and analytic mayor of Belley, who is silent concerning
the physiology of the cocktail, or any form of beverage composed of
spirits, taken before dinner. During La Reynière's era, on the occasion
of a grand dinner the rule was the so-called _coup d'avant_, the _coup
du milieu_, and the _coup d'après_--the three spirituous graces, as
it were, of an elaborate repast. Here was a lost opportunity for the
"Physiology," which might have formulated a hygienic chapter apart from
the Meditations on thirst and drinks. Unquestionably, there are reasons
for and against the use of a liquid stimulant before the principal
meal. The true gastronomer, and all those who are careful of their
health, without which the best dinner may not be enjoyed, will at any
rate eschew all strong alcoholic beverages until evening. The question
of a stimulant before the dinner will then be one for individual
consideration. Its daily use may scarcely be commended, particularly
if it be followed by wine: one who is in possession of good health
should not require a fictitious goad to appetite. Where a carefully
planned dinner is in question, however, the dry cocktail--one, and one
only--taken ten minutes before the moment of sitting down at table, is
undoubtedly a stimulus to appetite and provocative of good-fellowship.
It pitches the company in a pleasant key at the onset, and imparts a
zest and an _allégresse_ to the first part of the repast that were
otherwise lacking. Then, if the sparkling wine be not postponed too
long, and the dinner itself be meritorious, the host and hostess may
rest secure, without a shadow of solicitude regarding its success.
Impelled by its own geniality, the company will take abundant care of
itself, and the stream of conversation and ripple of anecdote flow
freely along, unimpeded by the boulders of formality or the aridity
engendered by a dearth of joyous fluids.
Turning the leaves of the "Physiology," the reader will be impressed
with the fecundity of an author who treats with equal fluency of
foods and drinks, appetite and digestion, sport and old age, women
and abbés, and all that appertains to the physiology of gastronomy.
His portrait of a pretty gourmande under arms is a genre painting
worthy of Gérard Douw or Van Mieris, while his Meditation on the end
of the world might have been composed by a doctor of the Sorbonne. The
chapter on digestion is full of practical advice, and from this his
disquisitions on repose, on dreams, and on the influence of diet are
a natural succession. In the chapter on dreams we are told that all
foods which are slightly exciting cause people to dream--such as brown
meat, pigeons, ducks, game, and, above all, hare--the same property
being also recognised in asparagus, celery, truffles, sweetmeats, and
particularly vanilla. Equally suggestive are the essays on corpulence,
leanness, and fasting, and the many racy anecdotes of the "Variétés,"
while his aphorisms must always occupy a place in epicurean literature.
Did Savarin feel a premonition of immediate death when he penned the
verses which he entitled "The Agony--A Physiological Romance," and
which conclude the work that has rendered his name a synonym for all
that appertains to the table and its pleasures?
"I feel through all my senses life's sad end,
My dim eye sees the last few grains of sand
Falling, Louisa weeps, my tender friend,
And places on my breast her trembling hand.
The band of morning-callers troops apace,
Not to return, they bid a last good-bye,
The doctor leaves, the pastor takes his place,
For I must die!
"I fain would pray, my memory is gone;
I fain would speak, my lips can frame no sound;
I hear, though all is still, a singing tone,
And a dull shadow seems to hover round;
All is now cold and dark, my panting breast
Exhausts itself in heaving one poor sigh,
To wander round my lips in frozen rest,
For I must die!"
Numerous translations of the "Physiology" have appeared in various
languages. Of these the most familiar one in English, entitled
"Gastronomy as a Fine Art," is well interpreted as far as it goes.
But many piquant passages are condensed, and portions of chapters
and at least one half of the "Variétés" are omitted altogether. The
most complete rendition is the large octavo volume, with its rather
unsatisfactory illustrations by Lalauze, termed "A Handbook of
Gastronomy," wherein the English reader may commune with the French
writer almost at first hand, and not be obliged to forgo "The Pullet
of Bresse," "The Dish of Eels," "A Day with the Bernardines," and "The
Pheasant"--_à la Sainte-Alliance_.
[Illustration: ALEXANDRE DUMAS
From the etching by Rajon]
[Illustration]
FROM CARÊME TO DUMAS
"Les écrivains-cuisiniers sont aussi nécessaires que les
autres littérateurs: il vous faut connaître la théorie du plus
ancien des arts."--CHARLES GERARD.
Among the great professional cooks who were not alone notable
practitioners, but who have written understandingly on the art, the
names of Beauvilliers, Carême, Ude, Francatelli, Soyer, Urbain-Dubois,
and Gouffé are preëminent. We have already considered the important
rôle enacted by Beauvilliers as chef, restaurateur, and author. The
unctuous name of Carême, however, is more often uttered with reverence,
and even yet evokes visions of all that is most delectable in sauces
and _entremêts de douceur_.
Indeed, were one to wish that he might turn an Aladdin's ring and
summon some genius of the range who would be most gladly welcomed,
surely on Carême the choice would fall. As for the dinner one might
wish to command, what better than the feast at the Château de Boulogne,
so eloquently described by Lady Morgan, when he presided at the
Baron Rothschild's villa--that dinner of an estival eventide when
the landscape lay sweltering in the heat, without, but where all was
deliciously cool within the vast pavilion which stood apart from the
mansion in the midst of orange trees: "where distillations of the most
delicate viands, extracted in silver dews, with chemical precision,
"'On tepid clouds of rising steam,'
formed the base of all; where every meat presented its own natural
aroma, and every vegetable its own shade of verdure; where the
mayonnaise was fried in ice (like Ninon's description of Sévigné's
heart); and the tempered chill of the _plombière_ anticipated the
stronger shock, and broke it, of the exquisite _avalanche_, which, with
the hue and odour of fresh gathered nectarines, satisfied every sense
and dissipated every coarser flavour."
The age of Carême was the era of quintessences--of the _cuisine
classique_, when chemistry contributed new resources, and fish, meats,
and fowls were distilled, in order to add a heightened flavour to the
sauces and viands that their etherealised essences were to accentuate.
One thinks of Lucullus and Apicius, and of the "exceeding odoriferous
and aromaticall vapour" of the ovens of the artist mentioned by
Montaigne.
That success in any walk of life is the result not only of natural
aptitude but of persevering application, Carême's history affords
abundant proof, if such were required. Left to shift for himself
when but seven years old, at fifteen he had already served his
apprenticeship as a cook, to advance with rapid strides in his chosen
profession. Constant sobriety, which called for much self-sacrifice on
his part, and an iron constitution enabled him to carry out the most
arduous labours. "My ambition was serious," he states in his memoirs,
"and at an early age I became desirous of elevating my profession to an
art."
The better to perfect himself in its various branches, he studied for
ten years under the most distinguished masters, including Robert and
Laguipière. For years, also, he was a daily student at the Imperial
Library and Cabinet of Engravings, perfecting himself in drawing and
in the literature of his profession. He likewise made an exhaustive
study of old Roman cookery, only to arrive at the conclusion that it
was intrinsically bad and abominably heavy (_foncièrement mauvaise et
atrocement lourde_)--an opinion confirmed by the Marquis de Cussy, who
declared that he would rather dine at a Parisian restaurant for twenty
francs than with Lucullus in the saloon of Apollo. It was Carême's
habit to take notes nightly of his progress and the modifications he
had made in his work during the day, thereby fixing those ideas and
combinations that otherwise would have escaped his memory.
Amid the luxurious kitchens of the Empire he reigned supreme--the
king of pastry-cooks and marvellous in his sauces, galantines, and
inventions. Crowned heads soon became his suitors, and princes implored
his services. It was Talleyrand, one of the wittiest and most epicurean
princes of the Empire, who inspired him perhaps with his greatest
enthusiasm, and of whom he says, "M. de Talleyrand understands the
genius of a cook, he respects it, he is the most competent judge of
delicate progress, and _his expenditures are wise and great at the same
time_." Of Laguipière, the chief cook of Murat, to whose talents he
ascribes the elegance and éclat of the culinary art of the nineteenth
century, he is unstinted in his praises. Of Beauvilliers he has little
to say, and although a volume appeared bearing the combined names of
Beauvilliers and Carême, one fancies that the proverbial jealousy of
cooks was not wanting in their case.
Carême has modified the adage _on se fait cuisinier, mais on est né
rôtisseur_, claiming that to become a perfect cook one must first be
a distinguished pastry-maker, and citing as instances his favourite
teacher Laguipière, with Robert, Lasne, Riquette, and numerous other
celebrities. He speaks of the "lightness," the "grace," and the
"colour" of pastry; of the "order, perspicuity, and intelligence"
required in its preparation. "It is easier," he says, "to cook pastry
than to make it.... There are ovens and ovens (_fours_). There is the
_four chaud_; there is the _four gai_; there is the _four chaleur
modérée_. The best oven is that which is often heated and which retains
its heat. If there is too much loft and too little floor, or much floor
and little loft, only meagre results may be expected." When one orders
a _vol-au-vent à la financière_ or a _pâté d'écrevisses_ (that triumph
of Orléans) at a restaurant, therefore, it will be perceived it becomes
a question of the oven as well as the capacity of the artist directing
it that counts in the success, and which the conscientious diner should
take into consideration ere finding fault with the _addition_.
Again, the analogy between cookery and painting becomes apparent. Thus
the conditions noted by Carême find a parallel in the artist endowed
with a vivid imagination, but possessed of only mediocre technique;
or a painter whose feeling may be admirable, but whose execution is
deficient. The _four gai_--how it suggests a landscape of Cuyp steeped
in the splendours of the setting sun--to say nothing of a nicely gilded
omelette or a soufflé of apricots! To _glacer à la flamme_, as Carême
expressed it, calls for a _four d'enfer_, and one has in mind a _crême
gelée d'Alaska_, with the fire managed by a Mephistopheles.
Let the cook and the painter continue to lay on the colours gaily--the
one with his _braise_ and the other with his brush. Art is art always,
and finds its sure reward in whatever sphere talent, conscientiousness,
and application are united.
In the autobiographic preface of the "Cuisinier Parisien" an instance
is cited of the care and variety which the author claims every
industrious cook should bring to bear in his work, in order to excite
the appetite of the amphitryon:
"One day the Prince-Regent of England, whom I served, said
to me, 'Carême, you will make me die of indigestion; I am
fond of everything you give me, and you tempt me too much.'
'Monseigneur,' I replied, 'my principal office is to challenge
your appetite by the variety of my service; but it is not my
affair to regulate it.' The prince smiled, saying that I was
right, and I continued to supply him with the best."
"The charcoal shortens our lives," said Carême; "but what matter?--we
lose in years and gain in glory." A born epicure, he never risked
his health by over-indulgence of his epicurean taste. "I have been
prudent," he states, "not by inclination, but through a profound sense
of my duty." To his culinary accomplishments he joined those of a
master director and maître-d'hôtel. Witness his remarks concerning the
functions of a chief steward:
"The _maître-d'hôtel cuisinier_ should possess that
unification of qualities which is seldom bestowed, even in
an isolated form. He will be a cook, above all--able, alert,
productive; he will be cut out for active command and be
animated by an invincible ardour for work; he will be a man
of parts, an enthusiast, vigilant even to minuteness. He will
see all, and know all. The maître-d'hôtel is never ill. He
presides over everything, his impetus dominates all; he alone
has the right to raise his voice, and all must obey. He must
be sufficiently learned to write out, when occasion calls
for it, without the aid of books, the principal part of his
bills of fare. These are his book of resources, the journal of
his fatigues and his victories. Alas! that which he may not
preserve in these copies are the spontaneous fire and ready
tact he has displayed in connection with his ranges--these are
things of the moment that die at their birth."
Many anecdotes of the famous gastronomers and great personages of
his time have been recounted by Carême. To Cambacérès he refers at
length, disputing his claim to a distinguished place among epicures.
The cuisine of the arch-chancellor, he states decisively, never
merited its great reputation. This was through no fault of his chef,
M. Grand'Manche, an excellent practitioner, but was due solely to the
excessive parsimony of his employer, who at each service was in the
habit of noting the entrées that were untouched or scarcely touched,
and of forming his _carte_ for the morrow with their remains.
"What a dinner, merciful heavens! I would not say that the
dessert may not be utilised, but that it may not supply a
dinner for a prince and an eminent gastronomer. This is a
delicate question; the master has nothing to say, nothing to
see; the skill and probity of the cook alone should enter
into the facts. The dessert should only be employed with
precaution, skill, and especially in silence.
"The arch-chancellor received from the departments innumerable
gifts of provisions and the finest of poultry. All such were
forthwith engulfed in a vast larder of which he retained the
key. He kept tally of the provisions, the dates of their
arrival, and he alone gave orders for their utilisation.
Frequently, when he issued his orders the provisions were
spoiled.
"Cambacérès was never a gourmand in the scientific acceptance
of the word; he was naturally a great and even voracious
eater. Can one believe that he preferred, above all dishes,
the _pâté chaud_ with forcemeat balls?--a heavy, unsavoury,
and vulgar dish. As a _hors-d'œuvre_ he had frequently a
crust of pâté reheated on the grill, and had brought to table
the _combien_ of a ham that had done duty for the week. And
his skilful cook who never had the grand fundamental sauces!
neither his under-cooks or aids nor his bottle of Bordeaux!
What parsimony! what a pity! what an establishment!