Part 15

The author of "Monte Cristo" and "The Three Musketeers" has also left an illustrious name as a cook, a host, and an epicure. And if, of all celebrated artists, it might be Carême whom one would wish to prepare the dinner, who more delightful than Dumas as a vis-à-vis at the repast? But his expansive smile and his _bonhomie_ are reflected in his writings, and his "intuition of all" is no less apparent when dealing with cookery than when detailing the intrigues of cardinals and courtiers. A Chartreuse becomes as important as the missing necklace of a queen, and the theory of frying no less momentous than the fate of the prisoner of the Château d'If. As Octave Lacroix has phrased it, "Assuredly it is a great attainment to be a romancist, but it is by no means a mediocre glory to be a cook.... Romancist or cook, Alexandre Dumas is a chef, and the two vocations appear in him to go hand in hand, or rather to be joined in one."

The two introductory epistles, an anecdotal review of the art, are among the most felicitous in the language. Nor should we forget the many references to the table in the "Impressions de Voyage" and numerous other volumes. The Marquis de Cussy, Jules Janin, Charles Monselet, and others have treated the same subject at more or less length, but none of them so comprehensively. "I wish to conclude," Dumas often said, "my literary work of five hundred volumes by a work on cookery." This was his great ambition, and to it he devoted his most zealous efforts. "I see with pleasure," he remarks in one of his volumes, "that my culinary reputation is increasing, and soon promises to efface my literary reputation.... I therefore make the announcement that as soon as I am freed from the claims of certain editors I will show you a book of practical cookery by which the most ignorant in matters gastronomical will be able to prepare, as easily as my honourable friend Vuillemot, an _espagnole_ or a _mirepoix_."[29]

With Dumas to promise was to fulfil, and in due time his book--the last volume from his pen--appeared, a tall folio of over a thousand pages, with the spirited etching of the author by Rajon. While this is more especially devoted to the French kitchen, it contains a large number of recipes from foreign countries where the author had travelled. It thus becomes a compendium of many different schools, offering a wide range for selection. Written, moreover, by an amateur, it is also an easier guide than many of the professional manuals of the _haute cuisine_. In the "Dictionary" everything is passed under review--from snails _à la provençale_ to the feet of elephants, from filets of kangaroo to lambs' tails _glacées à la chicorée_, the list of fishes including an account of the origin of the term "Poisson d'Avril" (April fool).

Even the babiroussa, or wild Asian hog, is not forgotten, the author pronouncing its flesh very delicate, and presenting this additional information concerning its character:

"'Ah! mon Dieu,' asked a lady of her husband, as they were looking at a babiroussa at the Jardin des Plantes, 'what kind of an animal is that, my dear, who instead of two horns has four?'

"'Madame,' said some one who was passing by, 'that is a widower who has remarried.'"

There are recipes from Beauvilliers, Carême, the Marquis de Cussy, and the cook of King Stanislas; from the manuals of the times of Louis XIV and XV; from the cafés Anglais, Verdier, Brébant, Magny, Grignon, Véfour, and Véry; from Elzéar-Blaze, La Reynière, the Provincial Brothers, and Vuillemot, proprietor of the Tête Noire at St. Cloud. One's mouth waters as he reads the vast alphabet of dishes. There are, for example, thirty-one modes presented for preparing the carp, and fifty-six for dressing the egg, apart from the omelet, with sixteen recipes for artichokes and a dozen for asparagus. There is the Java formula for cooking halcyons' nests, and that of the cook of Richelieu for _godiveau_, a dissertation on the hocco, and a prescription for bustards _à la daube_. No wonder that Dumas has defined the dinner as a daily and capital action that can be worthily accomplished only by _gens d'esprit_.

This is well illustrated by an anecdote in the dedicatory epistle to Jules Janin, which shows the characteristic hand of Dumas to advantage:

"The Viscount de Vieil-Castel, brother of Count Horace de Vieil-Castel, one of the finest epicures of France, made this proposition at a gathering of friends:

"'A single person can eat a dinner costing five hundred francs.'

"'Impossible!' was the simultaneous exclamation.

"'It is well understood,' resumed the Viscount, 'that by the term eating is included drinking as well.'

"'Parbleu!' replied his friends.

"'Very well; I say that a man, and by a man I do not mean a carter but an epicure--a pupil of Montron or of Courchamps--can eat a dinner of five hundred francs.'

"'You, for example?'

"'I, or any one else.'

"'Can you?'

"'Certainly.'

"'I hold the five hundred francs,' said one of the bystanders; 'name your conditions.'

"'That is a simple matter. I will dine at the Café de Paris, make up my bill of fare, and eat my five-hundred-franc dinner.'

"'Without leaving anything on the dishes or plates?'

"'No, indeed; I will leave the bones.'

"'And when will the wager take place?'

"'To-morrow, if you say so.'

"'Then you will not breakfast?' asked one of the bystanders.

"'I will breakfast as usual.'

"'Be it so. To-morrow at seven, at the Café de Paris.'

"The same evening the Viscount dined as usual at the restaurant; then, after dinner, in order not to be influenced by stomachic cravings, he set about preparing his carte for the following day.

"The maître-d'hôtel was summoned. It was midwinter; the Viscount suggested numerous fruits and early vegetables. The hunting season was closed; he wanted some game.

"A week's grace was asked by the maître-d'hôtel.

"The dinner was postponed for a week.

"On the right and left of the table the judges were to dine.

"The Viscount had two hours in which to dine--from seven to nine.

"He could talk or not, as he chose.

"At the appointed hour the Viscount appeared, saluted the judges, and turned towards the table.

"The bill of fare was to remain a mystery to his adversaries; they were to have the pleasure of a surprise.

"The Viscount sat down. He was served with twelve dozen Ostende oysters, with a half-bottle of Johannisberger.

"The Viscount was in excellent appetite; he asked for another twelve dozen oysters, and another half-bottle of the same growth.

"Then came a soup of swallows' nests, which the Viscount poured in a bowl and drank as a bouillon.

"'Really, gentlemen,' said he, 'I am in fine trim to-day, and I have a notion to gratify a whim.'

"'Go on, _pardieu_, you are the doctor.'

"'I adore beefsteak and potatoes.'

"'Gentlemen, no advice, if you please,' said a voice.

"'Pooh! waiter,' said the Viscount, 'a beefsteak and potatoes.'

"The waiter, astonished, looked at the Viscount.

"'Don't you understand me?' said the latter.

"'But I thought that Monsieur le Vicomte had made up his bill of fare?'

"'That is true, but this is an extra; I will pay for it separately.'

"The judges looked at each other. The beefsteak and potatoes were brought on, and were promptly despatched.

"'Now for the fish!'

"The fish was brought on.

"'Gentlemen,' said the Viscount, 'it is a trout from Lake Geneva. I saw it this morning while I was breakfasting; it was still alive; it was brought from Geneva to Paris in the waters of the lake. I can recommend this fish to you--it is delicious.'

"Five minutes later only the bones remained.

"'The pheasant, waiter!' said the Viscount.

"A truffled pheasant was brought on.

"'Another bottle of Bordeaux of the same growth.'

"The second bottle was brought.

"In ten minutes the pheasant was disposed of.

"'Monsieur,' said the waiter, 'I think you have made a mistake in calling for the truffled pheasant before the salmis of ortolans.'

"'Ah! that is so. Fortunately it is not stated in what order the ortolans are to be eaten; otherwise I should have lost. The salmis of ortolans, waiter!'

"The salmis of ortolans was brought on.

"There were twelve ortolans--twelve mouthfuls for the Viscount.

"'Gentlemen,' said the Viscount, 'my bill of fare is very simple. Now for some asparagus, green peas, a banana, and strawberries. As for wine, a half-bottle of Constance and a half-bottle of sherry that has made the voyage to India. Then, of course, some coffee and liqueurs.'

"Everything appeared in its turn--vegetables and fruit were conscientiously eaten, and the wines and liqueurs were drunk to the last drop.

"The Viscount was an hour and fourteen minutes in dining.

"'Gentlemen,' said he, 'has everything gone right?'

"The judges acquiesced.

"'Waiter, the carte!'

"At this epoch the term _addition_ was not used.

"The Viscount ran his eye over the total, and passed the carte to the judges.

"This was the carte:

_fr._ _c._

Ostende oysters, 24 dozen 30 " Soup of swallows' nests 150 " Beefsteak and potatoes 2 " Trout from Lake Geneva 40 " Truffled pheasant 40 " Salmis of ortolans 50 " Asparagus 15 " Bananas 24 " Strawberries 20 " Green peas 12 "

_Wines._ Johannisberg, one bottle 24 " Bordeaux, _grand crû_, two bottles 50 " Constance, a half-bottle 40 " Sherry, _retour de l'Inde_, a half-bottle 50 " Coffee, liqueurs 1 50 ______ Total 548 50

"The sum total was verified and the carte was taken to the adversary of the Viscount, who was dining in an adjoining room.

"In five minutes he appeared, saluted the Viscount, took six bills of a thousand francs from his pocket, and presented them to him.

"It was the amount of the wager.

"'Oh, Monsieur,' said the Viscount, 'there was no hurry; besides, perhaps you would have liked your revenge.'

"'You would have granted it to me?'

"'Surely!'

"'When?'

"'Immediately.'"

But the reputation of the Viscount as a _belle fourchette_ was exceeded by that of a Swiss guard in the employ of the Maréchal de Villars, an account of whose prowess is related by the "Journal des Défenseurs":

"One day the guard was sent for by the Maréchal, who had heard of his enormous appetite.

"'How many sirloins of beef can you eat?' he tentatively asked.

"'Ah! Monseigneur, for me I don't require many, five or six at the most.'

"'And how many legs of mutton?'

"'Legs of mutton? not many--seven to eight.'

"'And of fat pullets?'

"'Oh! as to pullets, only a few--a dozen.'

"'And of pigeons?'

"'As to pigeons, Monseigneur, not many--forty, perhaps fifty.'

"'And larks?'

"'Larks, Monseigneur?--always!'"

Another example of marvellous capacity is furnished by the French army, a captain wagering one day that a drummer of his company could eat a whole calf. The drummer, proud of his distinction, promised to do honour to the captain's compliment. Accordingly, a calf was prepared in various appetising ways, and was being promptly disposed of by the drummer. When he had finally consumed about three quarters of the repast, he paused for another draught of wine, and, placing his knife and fork on his plate, said to his superior officer:

"You had better have the calf brought on, had you not? for all these little kickshaws will end in taking up room."

The Café de Paris, first opened in 1822 on the Boulevard des Italiens in the large suite of apartments formerly occupied by Prince Demidoff, was the best restaurant in Europe during the forties and in Dumas' time--a position it probably occupies to-day, since the closing of Bignon's. Alfred de Musset was accustomed to say that "one could not open its door for less than fifteen francs." But if its charges were high, its cuisine and service were unsurpassed. Those who dance must pay for the piping, and the cotillion of the casseroles is no exception to the rule. Every one who honoured the establishment, it is said, was considered by the personnel a grand seigneur for whom nothing could be too good. When Balzac one day announced the arrival of a distinguished Russian friend, he asked the proprietor to put his best foot forward. "Assuredly, Monsieur, we will do so," was the answer, "because it is simply what we are in the habit of doing every day." Balzac's favourite dish was _veau à la casserole_, a specialty of the Café de Paris in the forties.

Rossini, a contemporary and friend of Balzac and Dumas, was not alone a famous musician,--composer of "Tell" and the "Stabat Mater,"--but was also a distinguished _fourchette_ and a cook of ability. One of his most celebrated compositions--that of a certain manner of preparing macaroni which is said to have vied in seductiveness with the sweetest strains of the "Barbier de Seville"--is unfortunately lost to the world through a prejudice of Dumas.

One day the great romancist, who never ate macaroni in any form, asked the noted composer for his recipe, being anxious to add it to his culinary repertoire. "Come and eat some with me to-morrow at dinner, and you shall have it," was the answer. But the host, perceiving that his guest would not touch a dish on which he had bestowed so much pains, refused to give him the formula, whereupon Dumas circulated the report that it was his cook, not Rossini, who was master of the secret, and forthwith presented at length a recipe given him by the famous Mme. Ristori as "the true, the only, the unique manner of preparing macaroni _à la néapolitaine_."

Already in 1830 the excessive charges of the fashionable restaurants were loudly complained of. On this subject the "Nouvel Almanach des Gourmands" of that date says:

"The Boulevard Italien is the privileged seat of the cafés-restaurants: there one may dine excellently, but it must be confessed one is cruelly plucked. From this fact has arisen the proverb, 'One must be very hardy to dine at the Café Riche, and very rich to dine at the Café Hardi.' May it not be added that one needs to be an English peer to dine at the Café Anglais, and a millionaire Parisian to try the Café de Paris? One may dine well at Véry's, but one will ruin himself; while the fish which is excellent at the Rocher de Cancale is scarcely exchanged for its weight in five-franc pieces."

Often in the midst of a dinner, on tasting of some novel dish at his favourite restaurant, the Café de Paris, Dumas would lay down his fork--"I must get the recipe of this dish." The proprietor was then sent for to authorise the novelist to descend to the kitchens and hold a consultation with his chefs. He was the only one of the habitués to whom this privilege was ever allowed; these excursions were usually followed by an invitation to dine with Dumas a few days later, when his newly acquired knowledge would be put into practice.

There were those, nevertheless, that previous to the advent of the "Dictionary" were sceptical as to Dumas' culinary accomplishments. Among such was Dr. Véron, author of the "Mémoires" and founder of the "Revue de Paris," who, with several other notabilities, had been invited by the novelist to partake of a carp of his own preparation. For days and days Véron, who was extremely fond of fish, talked of nothing else to his _cordon-bleu_.

"Where did you taste it?" said Sophie, becoming somewhat jealous of this praise of others,--"at the Café de Paris?"

"No,--at Monsieur Dumas'."

"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas' cook and get the recipe."

"That's of no use," objected her master. "Monsieur Dumas prepared the dish himself."

"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas himself and ask him to give me the recipe."

Sophie was as good as her word, and at once betook herself to the Chaussée d'Antin. The great novelist felt flattered, and gave her every possible information, but somehow the dish was not like that her master had so much enjoyed at his friend's. Then Sophie grew morose, and began to throw out hints about the great man's borrowing other people's feathers in his culinary pursuits, just as he did in his literary ones. "It is with his carp as with his novels--others write them, and he merely adds his name," she said one day. "I have seen him; he is a _grand diable de vaniteux_."

Influenced by his cook's remarks and the failure of the dish, and forgetting that surroundings often add much to flavour, Véron, on his part, felt inclined to think that Dumas had a clever chef in the background, upon whose victories he plumed himself. A few days afterwards, meeting Véron at the Café de Paris, Dumas inquired after the result of Sophie's efforts. The doctor was reticent at first, not caring to acknowledge Sophie's failure. When one of the company at last mentioned the suspicions attached to the carp, Dumas became furious. Then, after a pause, he said, "There is but one reply to such a charge: you will all dine with me to-morrow, and you will choose a delegate who will come to my house at three to see me prepare the dinner."

"I was the youngest," says the author of "An Englishman in Paris," who relates the story, "and the choice fell upon me. That is how my lifelong friendship with Dumas began. At three o'clock next day I was at the Chaussée d'Antin, and was taken by the servant into the kitchen, where the great novelist stood surrounded by his utensils, some of silver, and all of them glistening like silver. With the exception of a _soupe aux choux_, at which, by his own confession, he had been at work since the morning, all the ingredients for the dinner were in their natural state--of course, washed and peeled, but nothing more. He was assisted by his own cook and a kitchen-maid, but he himself, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a large apron round his waist, and bare chest, conducted the operations. I do not think I have ever seen anything more entertaining, and I came to the conclusion that when writers insisted upon the culinary challenges of Carême, Dugléré, and Casimir they were not indulging in mere metaphor.

"At half-past six the guests began to arrive; at a quarter to seven Dumas retired to his dressing-room; at seven punctually the servant announced that 'monsieur était servi.' The dinner consisted of the aforenamed _soupe aux choux_, the carp that had led to the invitation, a _ragoût de mouton à la Hongroise_, _rôti de faisans_, and a _salade Japonaise_. The sweets and ices had been sent by the _pâtissier_. I never dined like that before or after--not even a week later, when Dr. Véron and Sophie made the _amende honorable_ in the Rue Taitbout."

As a sample of Dumas' abilities in the _petite cuisine_, his _potage aux choux_ may be cited,--his mode of preparing Sauerkraut, like that of all French cooks, is not to be commended:

"Take a sound fresh cabbage, hash up all the remains of fowl and game that may be on hand, and have a good yesterday's bouillon, which pour in place of ordinary water on the beef intended for the day's bouillon. Then cover the bottom of the stewpan with a slice of fine ham, remove the leaves of the cabbage, and introduce the forcemeat, tying up the leaves afterwards so it will not be perceptible. Boil two hours, filling with the bouillon of the pot-au-feu as the bouillon of the boiling diminishes. After removing the bouillon from the fire, let the bouillon, cabbage, forcemeat, and ham simmer together for three quarters of an hour in the stewpan, give a last turn to the bouillon, serve your cabbage in the soup-tureen, allow it to cool a minute, and serve. Then you may have the choice of eating your cabbage in the soup, or of soaking some bread in the bouillon and making of your cabbage a relevé of the soup. Cooked in this manner, the cabbage, the bouillon, and the meat, each lending a part of its properties to the other, attain the greatest sapidity it is possible for them to attain."

This is the _potage aux choux_. The _soupe aux choux_ is another matter that sounds equally appetising and has the advantage to the eye of puffing up the cabbage to far larger dimensions.

The extended remarks on the pot-au-feu itself are well worth the careful attention of the housewife; the author declaring that the French cuisine owes its superiority to that of other nations to the excellence of its bouillon. Seven hours of slow and continuous boiling, he maintains, are necessary for it to acquire all the requisite qualities, _i. e._, to _faire sourire_ the soup. The term, "smile," is happily chosen. Every piece of bread in a good _croûte-au-pot_ wears a smile, and every dancing globule that remains after the skimmer has performed its office is a dimple on its face.

Of the basting of meats--and herein the average cook stands in need of constant advice and still more constant watching--he has this to say (he is speaking of a truffled turkey after the recipe of the Marquis de Cussy, which he suggests might be called _Dinde des Artistes_): "Above all, never moisten your roasts, of whatever nature they may be, except with butter mixed with salt and pepper. A cook who allows a single drop of bouillon in the dripping-pan should be instantly discharged and banished from France."

One of the brightest chapters of the volume is an essay which appears in the appendix--a eulogium of a certain mustard, in which Dumas out-Reynières Reynière. But one may overlook the subtle puffery that sheds a halo over the product of "M. Bornibus," in view of the vast erudition the writer displays and the grace with which the topic is invested. The essay first appeared in Monselet's entertaining "Almanach Gourmand" of 1869, the etymology of the word having been the subject of a wager between the writer and some of his friends. Of Dumas it may be said, as it has been said of the truffle, he "embellishes everything he touches"; or, to paraphrase Savarin's definition, "_Qui dit Dumas, prononce un grand mot._"

Among the most distinguished of modern professional cooks was Jules Gouffé, former _officier de bouche_ of the Jockey Club of Paris, whose "Livre de Cuisine" and "Livre de Pâtisserie" are unexcelled as guides to the greatest triumphs of the art of which they treat. The "Livre de Cuisine," which first appeared in 1865, is not a manual that can be utilised in the ordinary establishment, however; but a volume on a grand scale, written by a great chef for chefs. Francatelli, though very elaborate, is much more simple. At any rate, it is possible to simplify his recipes, or to derive many new ideas from them, even where his formulas may not be executed in the average household. But to follow Gouffé calls for the very highest professional skill and the most lavish expenditure,--the hand of a master, a larder of cockscombs, crawfish, truffles, plover and pheasants' eggs, not to mention a cellar of Château Margaux, champagne, and Chablis Moutonne. His recipe for quails _à la financière_, one of his nine elaborate ways of preparing the bird, will serve as well as any for illustration: