Theodore smiled sadly—as indeed he might—for possessed of the finest palate in New York, he had for years been confined, by an ungovernable indigestion, to a milk diet.
Theodore showed us to a private room, and explained that he meant to open the ceremonies with a pot au feu garbure, and that the cheese used on the toast had just arrived from France. He left us to seat ourselves, and very soon after we were settled, the door was thrown open by his son and Theodore appeared, with an air of almost stern solemnity, holding a silver soup tureen in both hands, the inevitable napkin on his arm. He placed the soup tureen on a side table, lifted off the lid, and with religious care ladled the soup into plates, carefully providing that each had his share of the preciously prepared toast.
A chorus of approval from us brought the sad smile back into his face again, and as we sat he told us that he had "created" a new dish for us. He was very particular about the use of this word "created." He kept a list of his special dishes, and Ariston told us afterwards that he had once asked Theodore for this list, describing it as the list of his inventions. Theodore had offendedly corrected him. "Creations, you mean." The dish he had created for us that day was a pheasant stuffed with ortolans, all cooked in their own juice—braisé—over a slow fire during six hours. He explained that it was a great mistake to roast pheasants. For those who insisted on his roasting them he provided himself with vine twigs (sarments), the fire made with them imparting a subtle flavor to the meat. But the meat of a pheasant though delicious was dry, and the method he had adopted was altogether the best for bringing out the full meaning of the bird. The same was true of ortolans.
Theodore did not appear more than twice: at the opening ceremony of the soup and at the climax—the newly created combination. While we were partaking of this last, he told us of a great discussion that was about to be settled as to the respective flavor of three kinds of mutton. He had been enlisted on the side of the Long Island breed, and had that day selected the sheep which was to have the honor of representing Long Island interests. He explained that much depended on the choice of the animal. In his selection he had picked out one upon whose hind legs were the tooth marks of the shepherd dog, for these marks showed him to be so keen on sweet pasture that it took an actual bite to drive him from it.
Theodore was a determined individualist and warm supporter of Chairo's. It was insufferable, he said, that an artist like himself—and bowing condescendingly to Anna, he added—"and our young lady, too"—should have to work half the day for the state, when under individualistic conditions thousands of rich men would have been delighted to cover him with gold in recognition of his services. I could not help thinking of a distinguished cook I had known in Paris once who, under these very individualistic conditions, had struggled with debt all his life and never escaped from it.
After Theodore had served the birds he withdrew. We were enjoying the dish when Anna surprised us by saying, as though she had just made the discovery:
"This is really quite nice!"
"Why, my dear child," said her father, "it is a chef d'œuvre! What have you been thinking about all this time?"
"I have been looking at Theodore; do you know, he has a good head to sculpt."
We all laughed at this view of Theodore, and Harmes said: