The Physiology of Taste (59 page)

Spread this paste evenly on the bread slice, and place it under the pheasant, already stuffed according to the preceding description, so that it will catch every drop of juice which will appear while the bird is roasting.

When the bird is done, serve it lying gracefully upon this crisp little couch; surround it with bitter oranges, and be assured of the fortunate outcome.

This highly savorous dish should be accompanied, preferably, by a vintage Burgundy; I have reached this conclusion after a series of observations which have been more work to me than a table of logarithms.

A pheasant thus prepared is worthy of being served to angels themselves, if by chance they still roamed the earth as in the days of Lot.

But what am I saying? This has indeed already happened! Such a stuffed pheasant was prepared once, under my own eyes, by the famous chef Picard, at the chateau of La Grange, the home of my charming friend Madame de Ville-Plaine, and was brought to the table by Louis the butler, who carried it at a solemnly processional pace. It was as closely examined as one of Madame Herbault’s
³³
hats; it was tasted with intense concentration; and all the time the ladies’ eyes shone like stars, their lips gleamed like polished coral, and their faces were ecstatic. (See “Meditation 13, On Gastronomical Tests.”)

I have experimented even further: I served a similar bird to a gathering of magistrates of the Supreme Court, who understand that it is good sometimes to shed the senatorial toga, and to whom I have often proved without any difficulty that the pleasures of the
table are a natural compensation for the troubles of professional life. The dean of our reunion, after a proper examination of the dish, uttered in a solemn voice the one word,
Excellent!
Every head nodded in agreement, and the verdict was unanimous.

I noticed, during this period of decision, that the nostrils of all these dignitaries were literally trembling, that their august foreheads looked as if blanketed with peaceful serenity, and that their firm honest mouths had an expression of jubilation on them, almost like a half-smile.

But such marvelous results are in the nature of things. A pheasant prepared as I have described, being already remarkably flavorsome in itself, is inundated on the outside by the savory grease of the browning bacon; inwardly it is impregnated with the odorous vapors which escape from the woodcock and the truffles. And the slice of toast underneath, so richly spread with paste, has received the triply flavored juices which seep from the roasting bird.

Thus, of all the delicious things which have been brought together, not a single droplet or crumb escapes attention, and given the excellence of the dish, I believe it worthy of the most august banquet boards.

Parve, rice invideo, sine me liber ibis in aulam.

I have discussed in a preceding chapter the enormous benefits which France derived from gourmandism in the unusual circumstances of 1815. This national propensity was no less useful to the
émigrés;
and those among them who possessed some talent in the art of cookery drew invaluable help from it.

When I was in Boston, for instance, I taught the restaurant keeper Julien
*
how to make my
fondue
, of scrambled eggs with
cheese. This dish, new to the Americans, became so much the rage that Julien felt obliged to reward me by sending to me in New York the rump of one of those pretty little roebucks which are sent down in wintertime from Canada, and which was pronounced exquisite by the special company I invited to enjoy it.
³⁴

Captain Collet, also, earned a great deal of money in New York in 1794 and 1795 by making ices and sherbets for the inhabitants of that commercial town.

It was the ladies, above all, who could not get enough of a pleasure so new to them as frozen food; nothing was more amusing than to watch the little grimaces they made while savoring it. It was especially difficult for them to understand how anything could stay so cold in the summer heat of ninety degrees.

When I was in Cologne I met a gentleman from Brittany who was doing very well for himself as owner of an eating-house, and I could go on indefinitely, citing such examples; but I prefer to tell, because it is more unusual, the story of a Frenchman who grew wealthy in London because of his skill at making salad.

He was a Limousin, and if my memory does not fail me was named d’Aubignac or d’Albignac.

Although his spending money was greatly restricted by the bad state of his finances he still found himself, one day, dining at one of the most famous taverns in London; he was among the people who believe that a good dinner can consist of a single dish, if that dish be excellent.

While he polished off a dish of succulent ROSTBEEF, five or six young men of good family (
DANDIES
) were banqueting at a nearby table, and one of them got up and walked over to him, and said in a polite voice, “Mister Frenchman, it is said that your nation excels in the art of salad making; would you do us the honor of tossing one together for us?”
*

D’Albignac consented, after some hesitation, asked for everything he felt he would need to make the awaited masterpiece, gave all his attention to it, and had the good luck to bring it off.

While he measured his amounts, he replied frankly to the questions that were put to him about his affairs; he said that he
was an exile and admitted, not without blushing a little, that he was being helped by the British government, a confession which doubtless seemed justification enough for one of the young men to slip into his hand a note for five pounds sterling, which he accepted after a most cursory resistance.

He had given them his address; and a very short while later he was none too surprised to receive a letter begging him, in the most straightforward way, to come and concoct a salad in one of the finest homes on Grosvenor Square.

D’Albignac, beginning to sense some permanent benefit to himself, did not hesitate a minute, and arrived punctually, armed with various new seasonings which he felt were indicated to give his creations an even higher degree of perfection.

He had had the time to consider the task ahead of him; he had the good luck to succeed again, and this time received a tip which he could not have refused without being foolhardy.

The first young men for whom he had performed had, it can be assumed, praised to the point of exaggeration the merits of the salad he had tossed together for them. The second group made even more noise about it, so that d’Albignac’s reputation spread at once: he was known as the
FASHIONABLE SALAT-MAKER
; and in this land so hungry for anything new, everyone with any pretensions to social importance in the capital of the three kingdoms languished for a salad made according to the French
GENTLEMAN’S
method:
I DIE FOR IT
, as goes their hallowed expression.

D’Albignac, being an intelligent man, took full advantage of the adulation which was poured on him; soon he had his own carriage to transport him more quickly between the places to which he was summoned, and a servant to carry, in a fitted mahogany case, all the ingredients with which he had adorned his repertory: variously flavored vinegars, oils with or without a fruity taste, soy, caviar, truffles and anchovies, ketchup,
³⁶
meat essences and even the yolks of eggs, which are the distinctive ingredient of mayonnaise.

Later he manufactured copies of his case, which he outfitted completely and sold by the hundreds.

Finally, thanks to following his line of endeavor with precision and wisdom, he found himself with a fortune of more than 80,000 francs, which he took back with him to France when things had become better there.

Once more in his native land, he wasted no time in making a show on the streets of Paris, but concentrated on securing his own future. He invested 60,000 francs in the public funds, which stood then at 50, and he bought for 20,000 francs a little country place in Limousin, where probably he is still living, content and happy, since he is a man who knows how to limit his desires.

These details were given to me some time ago by one of my friends who had known d’Albignac in London, and who had just seen him again after his return to Paris.

In 1794 M. Rostaing
*
and I were in Switzerland, putting a good face on our unhappy fortunes, and holding fast to our love for the country which was persecuting us.

We went to Mondon, where I had relatives, and were received by the Trolliet family with a kindliness which I shall always remember with emotion.

This family, one of the oldest there, has now died out, since the last heir left but one daughter, who in turn did not bear a male child.
³⁷

I had pointed out to me in Mondon a young French officer who had taken up the profession of weaving, and the following is how he came to such a decision.

This young man, of very good family, was passing through Mondon to rejoin Condé’s army,
³⁸
and found himself seated at table beside one of those old men blessed with a face at once
sober and animated, such as artists depict in the companions of William Tell.

During dessert they talked: the officer did not hide his position, and in return received various signs of interest from his neighbor, who sympathized with him for being forced so early in life to give up everything that was dear to him, and who reminded him of the justice of Rousseau’s maxim that every man should know a trade, so that he might take care of himself in adversity and be able to support himself no matter where he was. As for himself, he said that he was a weaver, a childless widower, and happy with his lot.

The conversation went no further; the next day the officer departed, and soon afterwards found himself installed in the ranks of Condé’s army. But from all that was happening, both within the group and outside of it, he came easily to the conclusion that it was not by this route that he could hope to return to France. He did not have to wait long to experience some of those unpleasant shocks which are often met with by men who have no other qualifications than their enthusiasm for the royal cause,
³⁹
and a little later he was the victim of a piece of favoritism, or some such thing, which seemed painfully unjust to him.

Then the words of the old weaver came back to him. He pondered on them for a time, and having made up his mind he left the army, went back to Mondon, and presented himself at the weaver’s, begging to be accepted as an apprentice.

“I cannot let this chance to do a good deed escape me,” the old man said. “You will eat with me. I know only one thing, and I shall teach it to you. I have only one bed, and we’ll share it. You will work thus for a year, and at the end of that time you can start out for yourself, and live happily in a country where labor is honored and encouraged.”

From the very next day the officer set himself to work, and succeeded so well that at the end of six months his teacher confessed to him that he had nothing more to teach him, that he felt amply repaid for the effort he had made, and that from that moment everything the young man did was for his own profit.

When I was in Mondon, the new artisan had already made
enough money to buy himself a loom and a bed; he worked with an earnest attention that was remarkable, and everyone took such an interest in him that the best families in town had arranged things so that he might dine each Sunday with one or another of them in turn.

That day, then, he put on his uniform and took up his rightful position in society, and since he was most agreeable and well educated, he was made much of. But Monday he became a weaver once more and, spending his time in this double life, seemed far from discontented with his lot.

To this picture of the advantages of industry I am going to compare another of a completely opposite nature.

In Lausanne I met an exile from Lyons, a big handsome fellow who, rather than go to work, had reduced himself to eating but twice a week. He would have starved to death with the best grace in the world if a kind merchant of the town had not opened an account for him at a tavern, where he could dine every Sunday and Wednesday.

The
émigré
would arrive on the appointed day, stuff himself to the gullet, and leave, but not without taking off with him a big piece of bread, as had been agreed upon.

He made this supplementary ration last as long as possible, drank some water when his stomach hurt, spent part of his time stretched on his bed in a kind of daydream which was not without its own charm, and thus existed until the next meal.

He had lived in this way for some three months when I met him: he was not ill, but there was throughout his whole body such lassitude, his features were so drawn, and there was something so Hippocratic
⁴⁰
about the space between his nose and his ears, that he was painful to behold.

It was astonishing to me that he would submit to such anguish rather than try to make some use of himself, and I invited him to dinner at my inn, where I shuddered to watch him gorge. But I did not ask him back, because I believe that we must stiffen ourselves before adversity, and obey, when we hear it, the sentence passed on the whole human race:
Thou must work
.

What good dinners we had in those days in Lausanne, at the
Silver Lion!

Averaging fifteen
batz
(2 francs 25 centimes), we were presented with three complete courses, where we would see among many other things fine game from the neighboring mountains and the excellent fish from the Lake of Geneva, and we moistened all of it, according to our own wishes and capacities, with a simple white wine as limpid as spring water, which would have made a madman drink.
⁴¹