The petits soupers of the Regent Duke of Orleans were famous, and conferred a celebrity on the scene of them sufficient to justify the reply of the Frenchman who, on being asked by a stranger in a remote part of Europe if he could tell him the direction of Paris, made answer: “Monsieur, ce chemin-là vous conduira au Palais Royal.” There is a vague tradition that the chef of the Regent was pre-eminent in a dinde aux truffes.
The Revolution in France bade fair to seriously check the progress of the culinary art, and “the destruction of the pre-existing races of Amphitryons and diners-out was actually and most efficiently accomplished by it.” But eventually the upstart chiefs of the Republic and the plundering marshals and parvenu nobles of Napoleon proved, as far as gastronomy was concerned, no bad substitutes for the old feudal nobility. When Napoleon was in good humour at the result of a diplomatic conference, he was in the habit of taking leave of the plenipotentiaries with, “Go and dine with Cambacérès,” who was second consul under the Republic and arch-chancellor under the Empire—a man who never allowed the cares of government to distract his attention from what he conceived to be the great object of life. His table was, in fact, an important state-engine, as appears from the anecdote of the Genevese trout sent to him by the municipality of Geneva, and charged 300 francs in their accounts. The imperial Cour des Comptes, having disallowed the item, was interdicted from meddling with municipal affairs in future. Among the many stories told of Cambacérès, it is said that on one occasion, being detained in consultation with Napoleon beyond the appointed hour of dinner, when the fate of the Duc d’Enghien was the topic under discussion, he was observed to grow restless and impatient. At last he wrote a note, the contents of which Napoleon suspecting, nodded to an aide-de-camp to intercept the despatch, which he found to be a note to the cook, conveying this message: “Gardez les entremets—les rôtis sont perdus.”
Napoleon himself was a very fast eater, and at a grand couvert at the Tuileries, from the moment he and his guests sat down till coffee was served, not more than forty-three minutes elapsed. They were then bowed out. It was a rule, too, with Napoleon that the moment appetite was felt, it should be satisfied; and his establishment was so arranged that at all hours chicken, cutlets, and coffee might be forthcoming at a word. But this habit of eating fast and carelessly is commonly supposed to have paralysed him “on two of the most critical occasions of his life—the battles of Borodino and Leipsic, which he might have converted into decisive victories by pushing his advantages as he was wont. On each of these occasions he is known to have been suffering from indigestion.” On the third day of Dresden, too, the German novelist, Hoffman, who was present in the town, asserts that the Emperor would have done much more than he did, but for the effects of a shoulder of mutton stuffed with onions.
The general order to his household was to have cutlets and roast chicken ready at all hours, night and day, a rule which was carefully observed by his maître d’hôtel, Dunand, who had been a celebrated cook. One day when Napoleon returned from the Conseil d’Etat in one of his worst tempers, a déjeuner à la fourchette, comprising his favourite dishes, was served up, and Napoleon, who had fasted since daybreak, took his seat. But he had scarcely partaken of a mouthful when “apparently some inopportune thought or recollection stung his brain to madness,” and, receding from the table without rising from his chair, he uplifted his foot—dash! went the table, crash! went the déjeuner, and the Emperor springing up paced the room with rapid strides. Dunand looked on, and quick as thought the wreck was cleared away, an exact duplicate of the déjeuner appeared as if by magic, and its presence was quietly announced by the customary, “Sa Majesté est servie.” Napoleon felt the delicacy, and “Merci bien, mon cher Dunand,” with one of his inimitable smiles, showed that the hurricane had blown over.
Prince Henry of Condé, in addition to his many other faults, was accused of being too fond of his ease, and when he was reproached with his immoderate taste for the pleasures of the table, he was wont to say, in a dull way, “They affirm that I am always at eating-houses since I left Paris; I have been there only twice.”
Another epicure of a high order was Frederick the Great, who was extremely fond of highly seasoned meats and French or Italian made dishes. Every morning, and sometimes the evening before, the bill of fare was presented to him, which he often altered himself; and during dinner he would make pencil marks against the different items of the bill of fare, which he discussed afterwards with the maître d’hôtel. In a kitchen account of the year 1784, it was stated that the extra consumption amounted to 25 dollars, 10 groschen, 1⅕ pfennig; but Frederick wrote under it: “Robbery, for there were about one hundred oysters on the table, price 4 dollars; cakes, 2 dollars; liver, 1 dollar; fish, 2 dollars; Russian cakes, 2 dollars—total, 11 dollars. As there has been an extra dish to-day, herrings and peas, which may cost 1 dollar, everything beyond 12 dollars is barefaced robbery.”[27]
The King kept at all times a sharp look out, and one day he remarked to his Minister of State, Von Herder, after reprimanding a servant who had put a bottle of wine in his pocket: “Have I not every reason to knock these ragamuffins on the head? Don’t you see that if I let them have their own rascally way I should soon not have a penny left to assist my distressed subjects.” His table was generally served with eight dishes—four French, two Italian, and two prepared according to his peculiar fancy, and from his own receipts. And it was one of his favourite maxims that “he who is not content with eight dishes will not be satisfied with eighty.” One of the last bills of fare—August 5, 1786—twelve days before his death, was as follows:—
August 5.—Dinner: His Majesty’s Table
| Name of the Cook. | |
| Henaunt | 1 Soupe aux choux à la Fouqué.+ |
| Pfund | 1 Du bœuf aux pandis et carottes.+ |
| Voigt | 1 Des poulets en cannelon au concombres farcis au blanc à l’Anglaise (was struck out; the King substituted, Des cotelettes dans du papier). |
| Dionisius | Petits patés à la Romaine. 1 Young pigeon, roasted. |
| Pfund | 1 Du saumon à la Dessau. |
| Blesson | 1 De filets de volaille à la Pompadour avec langue de bœuf et croquets. |
| Dionisius | Portuguese cake (struck out; Des gaufres put instead). |
| Pfund | Green peas.+ Fresh herrings.+ Pickled gherkins. |
| (The crosses indicated his Majesty’s approval of the dish.) | |
On the other hand, Frederick William I. was served in the plainest manner, partly with the coarsest food, such as bacon and peas, or ham and green kale—his favourite dish. His two special fish were lobsters and oysters. There is still the draught of a bill of fare in existence which Frederick William gave as an example to the Crown Prince, when the latter was at Cüstrin:—