"Madame is very polite; she has no doubt been in France?"
"Yes," answered I in her native language, "I resided there many years, and perceive I have the pleasure of addressing a Frenchwoman."
"I was born in England, madame; but at eight years of age went with my father to Honfleur, where I married, and continued to reside until four years ago, when my poor husband followed the remains of his last remaining child to the grave, and in less than a fortnight after died of the grippe himself. I had no means of living then, being too old to go out as a femme de journée, my only means of gaining a livelihood; so I returned to the place where I was born, and my mother's youngest brother allows me thirty-five pounds a year, upon condition that I am never more than a month out of England again."
We soon became great friends, and by degrees I learned her history. This uncle of hers was a year younger than herself—a thorough John Bull, who hated the French, and ridiculed every thing that was foreign. His heart, however, was kind and generous, and he no sooner heard of the destitute condition in which his aunt was left, than he hastened across the channel for her, bought in her clothes and furniture, which she was forced to sell to enable her to satisfy her creditors, and then made her a present of them all again, offering to convey her to her native country, and settle upon her enough to enable her to live there decently; which allowance, however, was to cease if she was ever known to be more than a month out of England. "Time enough for her to pray over her French friends' graves, poor benighted Catholic that she be! but I won't have more of my money spent among them foreign frog-eaters nor I can help." The poor woman had no other choice; but it was several years before she reconciled herself to habits so different from those to which she had been so long accustomed; and to the last she preserved the French mode in dressing, eating, and manner. At the topmost story of a high house she took two unfurnished rooms; the largest contained her bed, secrétaire, commode, pendule, prie-dieu, and whatever was best and gayest of her possessions. The room behind was consacrée, as she called it, to pots and pans, basins and baskets, her night-quilt and pillow, and whatever else was not "convenable" to display to "le monde;" but the front apartment was where she lived, slept, cooked, ate, and prayed; and a nice, clean, cheerful, well-furnished room it was, and many a pleasant hour have I spent in it with the old lady, conversing upon cookery and politeness—two requisites she found the English quite deficient in, she said. I confess I am somewhat inclined to agree with her, especially as to the former; and those who agree with me in opinion will perhaps be glad to have her recipes for the inexpensive French dishes which fine cooks despise too much to print in cookery-books.
We shall begin with the pot au feu, in Madame Miau's own words:—"Get from the butcher a nice, smooth, pretty piece of beef, with as little skin, fat, strings, and bones, as possible: one pound does for me, but for a family we shall say three pounds. Put this into—not an iron pot, not a brass pot, not a tin pot—but an earthen pan with a close-fitting lid, and three quarts of filtered water, and some salt. This you must put, not on the fire, but on the top of the oven, which is heated from the fire, and which will do just the same as a hot hearth: let it boil up; skim and deprive it of all grease. When this is accomplished, take three large carrots, cut in three pieces—three, remember!—one large parsnip cut in two, two turnips, as many leeks as possible—you can't have too many; two cloves ground, and the least little idea of pepper, and onions if you like—I only put a burnt one to color. Now cover up, and let it stay, going tic-tic-tic!
for seven hours; not to boil, pray. When I hear my bouillon bubble, the tears are in my eyes, for I know it is a plat manqué. When ready, put the beef—what we country people call bouillie—which word, they say, is vulgar—never mind!—put it on a dish, and with tasteful elegance dispose around the carrots, parsnip, and turnip. Then on slices of bread at the bottom of a bowl pour your soup, and thank God for your good dinner.
"I sometimes tie the white part of my leeks in bundles, like asparagus, and serve on roasted (she never would say toasted) bread. Next day I warm the soup again, introducing rue, vermicelli, or fresh carrots cut in shapes, as my fancy may lead me, and eat the beef cold with tarragon vinegar. Madame Fouache, my sister-in-law, puts in celery, parsley, and a hundred other things; but that is modern—mine is the old, respectable pot au feu; and I never have nonplus, what all the Fouaches are so fond of, which is properly a Spanish, not a French dish, called olla podrida—very extravagant. Not only have they beef, but a fowl, a ham, or piece of one; a Bologna or Spanish sausage; all the vegetables named above; pois chiches (large hard peas), which must be soaked a night; a cabbage, a hard pear, and whatever they can gather, in the usual proportion of a small quart to a large pound of meat; and not liking oil, as the Spaniards do, Madame Fouache adds butter and flour to some of the soup, to make sauce. The fowl is browned before the fire, and served with pear, peas, celery, and the ham with the cabbage, the beef with the carrots, leeks, and parsnips, the sausage by itself; and the soup in a tureen over a croûton. This takes nine hours of slow cooking; but mine, the veritable pot au feu Français, is much better, as well as simpler and cheaper."
"Thank you, Madame Miau," said I; "here it is all written down. Is that batter-pudding you have arranged for frying?"
"No, madame; it is sarrasin. It was my dinner yesterday, en bouillie; to-day I fry it, and with a gurnet besides, am well dined."
"How do you cook it?"