Henri. Boiled in champagne.
Annette. Of course. All this must be done a couple of hours before dinner, so that the salad may get thoroughly cold before serving it.
Henri. You could put the salad-bowl on ice.
Annette. No, no. It must not be assaulted with ice. It is very delicate, and the different flavours must combine peacefully. Did you like the salad you had to-day?
Henri. Delicious!
Annette. Well, follow my recipe and you will make it equally well.
A few years ago Mr. Charles Brookfield mixed an admirable salad on the stage of the Haymarket in the course of his clever monologue “Nearly Seven.” On 31 January, 1831, “La salade d’oranges, ou les étrennes dans la mansarde,” by M. M. Varin and Desvergers, was played at the Palais Royal. The first-named author was a sort of gastronomic playwright, for he wrote plays called “Le cuisinier politique,” “J’ai mangé mon ami,” and others.
In the Bohemian quarter of Paris, not so very many years ago, the students of the plein air school, the Paysagistes, used to sing this song at their convivial meetings:—
Ah! que j’aime avec de la salade,
Un gros morçeau de jambon!