“‘Entremets.—Asperges: haricots à la Française: mayonnaise d’homard: gelée Macédoine: aspic d’œufs de pluvier: Charlotte Russe: gelée au Marasquin: crême marbre: corbeille de pâtisserie: vol-au-vent de rhubarb: tourte d’abricots: corbeille de meringues: dressed crab: salade à la gélantine.—Champignons aux fines herbes.
“‘Relévés.—Soufflée à la vanille: Nesselrode pudding: Adelaide sandwiches: fondus. Pièces montées, etc., etc.’
“The reader will not fail to observe how well the English dishes—turtle, white-bait, and venison—relieve the French in this dinner; and what a breadth, depth, solidity, and dignity they add to it. Green goose, also, may rank as English, the goose being held in little honour, with the exception of its liver, by the French; but we think Comte d’Orsay did quite right in inserting it.… The moderation of the price must strike everyone.”
The Clarendon Hotel was situated in Bond Street and Albemarle Street, and with Mivart’s in Brook Street shared the reputation of being the best hotel in town, holding the premier place for dining in luxury and elegance.
In the later Gore House days D’Orsay must have been sorely vexed, though he showed it not openly, at a mishap at a dinner given by Lady Blessington and himself. It is best told in the words of one who was present:—
“I well remember a dinner at Lady Blessington’s, when an event occurred that proved how ready the Cupidon déchainé, as Byron called him, was to extricate himself from any difficulty. The party consisted of ten, and out of them there were about six who enjoyed what is called a glass of wine, meaning a bottle. Before dinner the Count had alluded to some splendid Clicquot champagne and claret of celebrated vintage. While we were waiting to sit down, D’Orsay was more than once called out of the room, and a quick-sighted individual hinted to me that he feared some unpleasant visitors of the dun family were importunate for some ‘small account.’ Still, there was nothing on the light-hearted Frenchman’s face to show that he was at all put out. Dinner was announced, and all promised to go well, as the soup and the fish were unexceptionable, when my quick-sighted friend, who was a great gourmet, remarked that he saw no champagne. ‘Perhaps,’ I replied, sotto voce, ‘it is being kept in ice outside.’ The sherry was handed round, and repeated looks passed between the hostess and the Count, and between the same and the head servant. The entrées were handed round, and a thirsty soul, with rather bad tact, for he was too gentlemanlike to be deficient in taste, asked in an undertone for a glass of champagne. The servant looked confused; D’Orsay saw it, and exclaimed aloud: ‘No champagne to-day; my Lady and I have a treat for you—a royal treat. You know that the Queen has lately patronised what is called the Balmoral brose, and here is some.’ At this moment one of the servants entered with a large jug containing this Scotch delicacy, which, of course, following the example of our hostess, we all declared to be excellent. ‘Far better than wine,’ said the late Lord Pembroke, a sentiment, I need scarcely say, in which the rest did not agree. Balmoral brose did duty for champagne and claret, and the only wine upon that memorable occasion was sherry. Whether the butler was absent without leave, or the key of the cellar lost or mislaid, or, as was hinted by my neighbour at dinner, the wine merchant had been seized with a sudden fit of hard-heartedness, I know not. All I do know is, that a mixture of Highland whisky and honey was substituted for the foaming grape of eastern France.”
“Foaming grape” is good! Not good, however, is the taste left by this anecdote; a party of well-to-do men dining with D’Orsay and Lady Blessington, and cracking jokes behind their backs at their impecuniosity.
D’Orsay was once dining with his brother dandy Disraeli, and was grieved by the undoubted fact that the dishes were served up distinctly cool. But the climax was reached when tepid ices were brought forward.
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed D’Orsay, “at last we have got something hot!”
As a matter of course the circumstances in which he was so ostentatiously living and his general reputation kept D’Orsay outside the houses of those who did not open their doors to everybody, though most male folk were pleased enough to visit him and Lady Blessington at Seamore Place, where of womankind, however, none except relatives and exotics were to be met with. But even a dandy must find occasionally a crumpled rose-leaf in his bed. But what counted this exclusion against the having been spoken of by young Ben Dizzy as “the most delightful of men and best of friends,” and by Victor Prévost, Viscount d’Arlincourt, as “le roi de la grâce et du goût”?