There was, for instance, a certain petit abbé, le père Douillet, to whom much honour is done in those four delightful volumes of cook-lore entitled “Les Soupers de la Cour.” They were published in 1755, and were written or compiled by one Manon, a literary cook of the period to whom reference has already been made. The abbé appears to have been much appreciated by the author, for his books contain delectable recipes for Poulets, Brochet, Merlans, Cailles, and Champignons, all au Père Douillet, not, it will be noticed, à la (manière de) Père Douillet, but just au Père Douillet, a rare and great distinction.
The best-known official cooks of Louis XV were Moustier and Vincent de la Chapelle. The latter is responsible for a very serious and noteworthy cookery book which has never lacked honour in its own and other countries. De la Gorse mentions a dinner given by the King, at St. Hubert, where all the dishes were prepared by the distinguished guests, such as the Prince de Beaufremont, the Marquis de Polignac, the Duke de Goutant, the Duke d’Ayen, the Duke de Coigny, and the Duke de la Vallière; the King himself contributed a Poularde au Basilic.
Such a famous gourmet as Richelieu naturally has left his mark in culinary literature. We have the Chartreuse à la Cardinal, Boudin de poulet à la Richelieu, Gigot à la Richelieu, and many more. The rather famous potage à la Camerani, a most excellent concoction, is called after a notability of that name, to whom Grimod de la Reynière dedicated volume one of his immortal “Almanach des Gourmands,” as “one of the most erudite epicures of France.”
King Stanislas Leszcnyski of Poland invented the Baba to make amends for the harshness of his own name, which the French tongue found hard to pronounce. Its original ingredients were German yeast, flour, butter, eggs, cream, sugar, saffron, candied peel, raisins, currants, and Madeira, Malaga, or rum. According to Brillat-Savarin, the Baba is especially beloved by women; “it renders her more plastic, and man more expansive—only to look at it the eyes laugh and the heart sings.”
Who thinks nowadays of the battle when he degustates Poulet à la Marengo? And yet nothing is more authentic than its inception on that memorable occasion. The battle occurred, it may be remembered, on 14 June, 1800. Napoleon had, naturally, a somewhat hurried meal. There was no butter in camp, but plenty of sound olive oil. So the casserole was bottomed with oil, to which was added the garlic and the mignonette. The fowl was then moistened with white wine and garnished with sippets of toast, mushrooms, and morels, in default of truffles. The result was pronounced to be exquisite. Nowadays we omit the mignonette and substitute a bay leaf, thyme, and parsley; garlic is thought to be too strong, so we use shalot; the mushrooms are still permitted, but we ignore the morels. And so we have the Poulet à la Marengo.
Literature has been honoured by Carême in his Soupe à la Lamartine, history in Potage à la Dumesnil, philosophy in Purée Buffon, and just before the death of the great artist he invented a vegetable soup which he christened Soupe à la Victor Hugo. This same cook paid the doctor who cured him of indigestion by dedicating to him his Perche à la Gaubert. In rather later years we find a Poularde à la George Sand invented by Azèma, formerly chef at Prince’s. It is stewed in white wine, flavoured with crayfish, butter and tails, truffles and olives, with a garnishing of feuilletage.
The stage is ever prominent in gastronomic annals; it must suffice to mention Filets de Sole à la Belle Otèro, Pêche Melba, Croustades à la Coquelin, Salade Rachel, and Consommé Sarah Bernhardt, all of which are nowadays fairly standard dishes.
Although no man was ever more susceptible to flattery and adulation than Alexandre Dumas (père), yet there were marked degrees in the way in which he accepted such complimentary tribute and homage, varying from the mere merci, mon cher, in reply to congratulations on a recently published book, to a cordial embrace and the swearing of an everlasting friendship to the man who praised his cooking.
Dumas’s partiality for travelling and hunting developed his culinary instincts, and he has related in his “Journey through Spain” how dire necessity suggested to him the excellence of salad mixed without oil or vinegar. References to cookery are scattered here and there all through his works, particularly in his “Impressions de Voyage,” and again in his “Propos d’Art et de Cuisine,” wherein occurs the famous “Causerie Culinaire,” embodying the recipe for “macaroncello” and the delightful address to his readers, “Je prie Dieu qu’il vous tienne en bon appétit, vous conserve en bon estomac, et vous garde de faire de la littérature.”
The author of “An Englishman in Paris” describes how he watched Dumas cook a whole dinner, consisting of “soupe aux choux,” a wonderful carp, “ragout de mouton à la hongroise,” “rôti de faisans,” and a “salade japonaise.” He adds: “I never dined like that before or after—not even a week later, when Dr. Véron and Sophie made the amende honorable in the Rue Taitbout.”