"The solid part of the menu I have no record or memory of. All I know is that we ate pretty much everything that was in sight, and then had just enough and no more. The dinner concluded with four toasts and four speeches, the only one I recall being on the theme, 'The Four Homes'—not one of the four speakers having at the time set up a home of his own.
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever. We went upon the Latin maxim, In medio tutissimus ibis, and so we took the très joli dîner, which, with vins compris, cost us forty francs or eight dollars apiece. But the recollection of it has been worth at least two dollars a year since then: and as it is forty years ago last summer, and two times forty is eighty, I now count that I then paid only ten per cent. of its value."
It is needless to add that the sermons and addresses of the ecclesiast in question, which join to their fervour and scholarship an originality all their own (were they not inspired by the dinner at the "Trois Frères"?), are always listened to with marked attention by his large and appreciative audiences. It also goes without saying that he has distinguished himself in literature, and that his presence is invariably in demand either at a dinner or a debate of theologians.
Of dishes invented by the Roman Catholic priesthood, the omelette à la purée de pintade, devised by the Capuchin Chabot, is well known, although "The Curé's Omelette" for which Savarin stands sponsor is far more in evidence and is difficult to improve upon either for fat or meagre days. Should the recipe be already familiar, it will well bear repetition—one cannot dine too often with a broad-minded divine; if unknown, the reader should become acquainted with it—it is one of the most sprightly of the Variétés. The tunny prescribed is not obligatory, and for this and the carp-roes the resources of the American sea-coast will furnish abundant equivalents:
"Every one knows that for twenty years Madame R.[38] has occupied the throne of beauty unchallenged. It is also well known that she is extremely charitable, taking interest in most of those schemes whose object is to console and assist the wretched.
"Wishing to consult M. le Curé on something connected with that subject, she called upon him at five o'clock one afternoon, and was astonished to find him already at table. She thought everybody in Paris dined at six, not knowing that the ecclesiastics generally begin early because they take a light collation in the evening.
"Madame R. was about to retire, but the curé begged her to stay, either because the matter they were to talk about need not prevent him dining, or because a pretty woman is never a mar-feast for any man; or perhaps because he bethought himself that somebody to talk to was all that was wanted to convert his dining-room into a gastronomic Elysium.
"The table was laid with a neat white cloth, some old wine sparkled in a crystal decanter, the white porcelain was of the choicest quality, the plates had heaters of boiling water under them, and a servant, demure but neat, was in attendance.
"The repast was a happy mean between the frugal and the luxurious. Some crab soup had just been removed, and there was now on the table a salmon-trout, an omelette, and a salad.
"'My dinner shows you what perhaps you did not know,' said the pastor, with a smile, 'that according to the laws of the church meat is forbidden to-day.' The visitor bowed her assent, but at the same time, as a private note informs me, slightly blushed, which, however, by no means prevented the curé from eating.
"Operations were already begun upon the trout, its upper side being fully disposed of; the sauce gave proof of a skilful hand, and the pastor's features betokened inward satisfaction. That dish removed, he attacked the omelette, which was round, full-bellied, and cooked to a nicety. At the first stroke of the spoon, there ran out a thick juice, tempting both to sight and smell; the dish seemed full of it, and my dear cousin confessed that her mouth watered.
"Some signs of natural sympathy did not escape the curé, accustomed to watch the passions of men; and, as if in answer to a question which Madame R. took great care not to put, 'this is a tunny omelette,' said he. 'My cook has a wonderful knack at them. Nobody ever tastes them without complimenting me.' 'I am not at all astonished,' replied the lady visitor; 'for on our worldly tables there is never seen an omelette half so tempting.'
"This was followed by the salad—a finishing item which I recommend to the use of all who have faith in my teaching, for salad refreshes without fatiguing, and strengthens without irritating. I usually say it renews one's youth.
"The dinner did not interrupt their conversation. Besides the matter in hand, they spoke of the events of the time, the hopes of the church, and other topics. The dessert passed, consisting of some Septmoncel cheese, three apples, and some preserved fruit; and then the servant placed on a small table a cup of hot mocha, clear as amber, and filling the room with its aroma. Having sipped his coffee, the curé said grace. 'I never drink spirits,' he said as they rose; 'it is a superfluity I offer to my guests, but personally reserve as a resource for old age should it please God that I live so long.'
"In the meantime six o'clock had arrived, and Madame R., hurrying home, found herself late for dinner, and several friends waiting for her whom she had invited for that day. I was one of the party, and thus came to hear of the curé's omelette; for our hostess did nothing but speak of it during dinner, and everybody was certain it must have been excellent.
"Thus it is that as a propagator of truths I feel it my duty to make known the preparation; and I give it the more willingly to all lovers of the art that I have not been able to find it in any cookery book.
"Hash up together the roes of two carp, carefully bleached, a piece of fresh tunny, and a little minced shallot; when well mixed throw the whole into a saucepan with a lump of the best butter, and whip it up till the butter is melted. This constitutes the specialty of the omelette.
"Then in an oval dish mix separately a lump of butter with parsley and chives, and squeezing over it the juice of a lemon, place it over hot embers in readiness. Next complete the omelette by beating up twelve eggs, pouring in the roes and tunny, and stirring till all is well mixed; then, when properly finished, and of the right form and consistence, spread it out skilfully on the oval dish which you have ready to receive it, and serve up to be eaten at once.
"This dish should be reserved for breakfasts of refinement, for connoisseurs in gastronomic art—those who understand eating, and where all eat with judgment; but especially let it be washed down with some good old wine, and you will see wonders."
Among the dignitaries of the Roman Church, Richelieu was preëminent as an entertainer, his table being renowned for its excellence, and no one being more exacting with his cooks. A chartreuse à la Cardinal or a boudin of fowls à la Richelieu at once recalls his Eminence, and the brilliant reign during which he himself virtually wielded the sceptre. "I do not think very highly of that man," said the Comte de M. in speaking of a candidate who had just secured an important position: "he has never eaten boudin à la Richelieu, and is unacquainted with cutlets à la Soubise."
During the war of Hanover, when the surrounding country had been devastated by the French army, Maréchal Richelieu, grandnephew of the cardinal, wished to give a suitable dinner to a large number of distinguished captives before setting them free. He was informed by his cooks that the larder was empty.
"But it was only yesterday that I saw two horns passing by the window."
"That is true, Monseigneur, there is a beef and some few roots; but what would you do with them?"
"What would I do with them? Pardieu, I would have the best supper in the world!"