We have just mentioned the exquisite table which was kept by the inimitable Scarron. The time came, however, when his resources dwindled and the dishes laid before his distinguished guests were less numerous and less varied. The conversation of Scarron’s vivacious wife, however, the future Mme. de Maintenon, did much to atone for a poor menu. On one occasion, whilst dinner was proceeding, Scarron received a secret message from his cook—who had to prepare the meal with very spare materials—to the effect that a certain dish, usually regarded as essential, was wanting. Turning his head aside from the guests, Scarron {376} whispered to his wife: “My dear, give them another of those charming little stories. There is no roast.”
So much for the ingenuity of a French host. The ingenuity of a French cook was perhaps never better exemplified than under the following circumstances. A rich financier was once dining at an aristocratic table where one of the courses consisted of some preparation of veal, highly gratifying to the palate. Whilst this course was being eaten one of the guests happened to say to the host: “Your epigrams, you know, are excellent.” When the financier got home he summoned his cook, told him he had just dined at a house where a ravishing dish of veal, mysteriously prepared, had been served, and directed the cuisinier to manufacture something like it, adding that he could not describe the precise nature of the dish, but that he knew it was called an “epigram.” For a moment the cook was staggered. Then a sudden inspiration came upon him, and he declared that he clearly perceived how epigrams should be prepared. Next day he invented an exquisite dish, which was destined to become famous—to his own and his master’s glory—as the “Epigramme de veau á la financière.”
It was a maxim of Brillat-Savarin’s that “the discovery of a new dish is more precious for the universe than the discovery of a new star”; and there have been plenty of illustrious diners and cooks in Paris who lived up to this lofty idea. The greatest chef who ever turned a spit was doubtless the immortal Carême, who commenced his career as maître d’hôtel to the Prince de Talleyrand. Having broken with his first master on some question of politics, he was successively employed by the Prince Regent of England, whom he quitted because George IV. did not sufficently understand the refinements of the culinary art; by the Emperor Alexander I. of Russia, whose dominions he found too cold; by Prince Bagration, who was a fine connoisseur but whose stomach was out of order; by the Prince of Wurtemberg, who had vulgar culinary tastes; and finally by an English lord, said to have been a glutton, and who was in any case choked to death with a bone. Carême was a friend of the illustrious Villeroux, famed partly as Mirabeau’s cook, but chiefly for his courage and adventures. Having sailed to the Indies, he fell into the midst of a savage race with strong gastronomic instincts, and prepared for them such delicious sauces and ragouts that they enthusiastically proclaimed him king. For several years, with a frying pan in his hand and the crown on his head, he played the dual part of cook and king. When he died he left his subjects a very precious legacy, a recipe, that is to say, for a bacon-omelette.
| Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: |
|---|
| boulevard Saint-Denis=> Boulevard Saint-Denis {pg 95} |
| It vain will despotism dread=> In vain will despotism dread {pg 188} |
| THE PALMIER FOUNTAIN, PLACE DU CHÀTELET=> THE PALMIER FOUNTAIN, PLACE DU CHÂTELET {pg 298} |
| The Boheman consoles himself=> The Bohemian consoles himself {pg 367} |