Let the soup be at once tribute and farewell to spring that has gone. Regret will be luxuriously expressed in purée de petits pois; spinach added to the fresh peas to lend flavour and colour, a dash of sugar for sweetness' sake, a pinch of paprika to counteract it, a suspicion of onion to strengthen it. Arrowroot, in discreet measure, will answer for thickening, and impart more becoming consistency even than flour. Pleasure in the eating will be tempered by sorrow in the prospect of parting, and therefore intensified a hundredfold. Where the joy in possession but for the ever-present fear of loss?
With the second course, banish regret. Forget yesterday; be indifferent to to-morrow; revel riotously in to-day. Hure de saumon à la Cambacérès will point out the way to supreme surrender. Close to the head, the delicate silver-rose of the fish must be cut in lavish proportions; braised gently, its removal to the dish that is waiting is signal to surround it with truffles and mushrooms and stoned olives—garland beyond compare; a sauce of drawn butter, seasoned with paprika and lemon juice and parsley, is essential accompaniment. And now the present truly has conquered!
The third course must not betray the second's promise. Gay and fantastic, it must be well able to stand the dread test of comparison. Rognons d'agneau à l'éþicurienne enters nobly into the breach; the lamb's dainty kidneys are split and grilled with decorum, their fragrant centres are adorned with sympathetic sauce Tartare, golden potatoes à la Parisienne insist upon serving as garniture, and Mr Senn demands, as finishing touch, the stimulating seduction of sauce Poivrade. Who now will say that August is barren of delicious devices?
To follow: poulet sauté à l'Hongroise, the clash of the Czardas captured and imprisoned in a stew-pan. With the Racoczy's wild drumming stirring memory into frenzy, stew the fowl, already cut into six willing pieces, with butter, a well-minced onion, pepper—paprika by choice—and salt; ten minutes will suffice—how, indeed, endure the strain a second longer? Then to the notes of the cymbal, moisten with Béchamel sauce and fair quantity of cream, and rejoice in the fine Romany rapture for just twenty minutes more. Decorate with croûtons, and send fancy, without fetters, wandering across the plains and over the mountains of song-bound Magyarland. To play the gypsy, free as the deer in the forest, as the bird in the air, is not this as it should be in the month, more than all others, pledged to pleinairisme? Insipid, as life without love, is the dinner without imagination.
Vegetables have no special place in the scheme of August's dinner. But a salad will not come amiss. Remember, the feast is ordered in sheer voluptuousness of spirit. The fifth course calls for the scarlet splendour of tomatoes; and the presiding dahlias, in bowl of Delft, clamour for the gold of mayonnaise sauce to carry out the exulting trumpeting harmony. A hint, here, to the earnest, ambitious gourmand; if cream be worked, deftly and slowly, into the thickening sauce, sublime will be the results.
A sweet, at this juncture, would err if over-chaste in conception. Picture to yourself the absurd figure cut by tapioca pudding or apple dumpling on conscientiously voluptuous menu? A macédoine méringuée would have more legitimate claim to close the banquet with distinction. August supplies fruit without stint: plums and greengages and apricots and nectarines and peaches and pears and grapes and bananas; all join together to sweet purpose, with ecstatic intent; a large wineglass of Claret, a generous sprinkling of Cognac will guard against puerility. The protecting méringue should be crisp and pale golden brown; and later it will need the reinforcement of thick luscious cream.
A sweet fails to delight, unless a savoury comes speedily after. Caviar de Russie en crêpes is worthy successor of macédoine méringue. Mingle cream with the caviar, and none who eats will have cause to complain. It reconciles to the barbarous, even where Tolstoi and Marie Bashkirtseff may have failed.
To dally with fruit is graceful excuse to linger longer over wine. Plums and greengages, their bloom still fresh, their plump roundness never yet submitted to trial by fire, figs—pale northern ghosts, alas!—peaches, grapes, make exquisite interlude—between dinner and coffee. Refrain not: abstinence, of all follies created by man, is the most wicked, the most unpardonable.
Drink Chambertin, that the song in your heart may be fervent and firm. Drink, that your courage may be strong for the feasting. Shake off the shackles of timidity. Be fearless and brave, turning a deaf ear to the temptations of the temperate. To be moderate at midsummer is to disregard the imperative commands of immoderate nature.
Coffee, made as the Turks make it, will bring languorous, irresistible message from the sensuous East. Fine Champagne will add the energy of the fiery West. Adorable combination! Oh, East is East, and West is West; but the twain the day of the August dinner shall meet.