During the first course nothing particular occurred to disturb their harmony; but it so happened that the rôti, which is, as you know, in France always served last, was burnt. Then there arose a general burst of indignation.
"Send the cook!" exclaimed they all to the waiters.
"Order up the cook! Here, cook! cook!" was the universal cry.
But the chef was not forthcoming.
Alfonse, the president, then said, "Must I go myself and fetch him?"
This menace had its effect: the pauvre chef, pale as death, and all cotton cap in hand, crawled into the room. He was greeted with deafening shouts.
"Come here!" said Alfonse. "Do you take us for the officers? What do you mean by serving us in this manner,—eh?"
The man of the spit stammered out an apology. Alfonse looked at him askance.
"If I served you right," said he, "I should make you eat this detestable rôti of yours; but, as it is the first time of happening, my chastisement shall be a paternal one. Hold out your cotton cap."
The chef obeyed, and Alfonse turned out of a dish into it an enormous clouted cream (omelet soufflé), and said,