"No,—at Monsieur Dumas'."
"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas' cook and get the recipe."
"That's of no use," objected her master. "Monsieur Dumas prepared the dish himself."
"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas himself and ask him to give me the recipe."
Sophie was as good as her word, and at once betook herself to the Chaussée d'Antin. The great novelist felt flattered, and gave her every possible information, but somehow the dish was not like that her master had so much enjoyed at his friend's. Then Sophie grew morose, and began to throw out hints about the great man's borrowing other people's feathers in his culinary pursuits, just as he did in his literary ones. "It is with his carp as with his novels—others write them, and he merely adds his name," she said one day. "I have seen him; he is a grand diable de vaniteux."
Influenced by his cook's remarks and the failure of the dish, and forgetting that surroundings often add much to flavour, Véron, on his part, felt inclined to think that Dumas had a clever chef in the background, upon whose victories he plumed himself. A few days afterwards, meeting Véron at the Café de Paris, Dumas inquired after the result of Sophie's efforts. The doctor was reticent at first, not caring to acknowledge Sophie's failure. When one of the company at last mentioned the suspicions attached to the carp, Dumas became furious. Then, after a pause, he said, "There is but one reply to such a charge: you will all dine with me to-morrow, and you will choose a delegate who will come to my house at three to see me prepare the dinner."
"I was the youngest," says the author of "An Englishman in Paris," who relates the story, "and the choice fell upon me. That is how my lifelong friendship with Dumas began. At three o'clock next day I was at the Chaussée d'Antin, and was taken by the servant into the kitchen, where the great novelist stood surrounded by his utensils, some of silver, and all of them glistening like silver. With the exception of a soupe aux choux, at which, by his own confession, he had been at work since the morning, all the ingredients for the dinner were in their natural state—of course, washed and peeled, but nothing more. He was assisted by his own cook and a kitchen-maid, but he himself, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a large apron round his waist, and bare chest, conducted the operations. I do not think I have ever seen anything more entertaining, and I came to the conclusion that when writers insisted upon the culinary challenges of Carême, Dugléré, and Casimir they were not indulging in mere metaphor.
"At half-past six the guests began to arrive; at a quarter to seven Dumas retired to his dressing-room; at seven punctually the servant announced that 'monsieur était servi.' The dinner consisted of the aforenamed soupe aux choux, the carp that had led to the invitation, a ragoût de mouton à la Hongroise, rôti de faisans, and a salade Japonaise. The sweets and ices had been sent by the pâtissier. 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."
As a sample of Dumas' abilities in the petite cuisine, his potage aux choux may be cited,—his mode of preparing Sauerkraut, like that of all French cooks, is not to be commended: