If the tide of Prince of Gastronomes had existed at that time, it would not have been awarded to Cambaceres, in spite of his pretensions and his big belly, but to Grimod de la Reyniere, for this original heir of a celebrated Farmer-General surpassed his rivals by a hundred cubits. Uniting theory with practice, he made of the culinary art a branch of literature. With his Almanack des Gourmands, which had a good sale for eight years in succession, he put poetry into his sauces, wit into his condiments — and made his readers' mouths water. 'Let us lay down our principles/ he says. 'You will agree, Messieurs, to begin with, that the pleasures afforded us by good food are those that we experience the soonest, that we relinquish the latest and enjoy the most often. Could you say the same of the others?'
As a practical application of these ideas Grimod founded a sort of little Academy, of which he was to be the perpetual president: le Jury degustateur* It consisted of a dozen members, elected unanimously, who assembled once a week — round a table, of course. They were given newly invented dishes to taste, on which they were to bestow certificates of official recognition, which were collected with the utmost seriousness by a secretary. Actresses sometimes attended the sessions of this Areopagus — Emilie Contat, Mile Volnays, Mile Mezeray, Mme Belmont and the celebrated Fanchon la Vielleuse, who played godmother to a new cake; la Fan-chonnette.
These dinners which, as we said, lasted no less than five hours, took place in winter at the Hotel de Grimod, No. 1 Champs-filysees - where the nineteenth century would see the Cercle de lEpatant, and the twentieth the United States Embassy —and were improvised, in summer, at his chateau of Villiers-sur-Orge. The table was laid out of doors, under a magnificent catalpa tree, and practical statements went the round, such as 'There's more wine than is wanted for the mass, and not enough to work a water-mill, so it must be drunk/
1 Whether Chambertin, Napoleon's favourite wine, or Clos-Vougeot or Chateau-Lafite, all the wines for the Tuileries were bought at this iked price at Souppe and Pierrugues, 333 Rue Saint-Honore.
Our Epicurean's guests were glad to obey him, for he owned an admirable cellar. His wines were not, like those of the Emperor, standard types at six francs a bottle, supplied by the local grocer, 1 but old bottles bearing impressive dates, to which one must take off^ one's hat. As for the liqueurs, Creme d'Arable, Creme des lies, and so on, that Grimod had served at table together with very hot coffee, he got them from Mme Amphion, an old lady of Martinique for whom he wore mourning in 1802, when she ended by dying at the age of a hundred and eleven. Which shows that if alcohol can kill a man it sometimes takes a long while to do it in the case of a woman. But to return to the Almanac
He could not have chosen a better time to glorify the art of cooking, for every class of society had its famous gourmands. The theatre boasted the huge, enormous des Essarts, who played Moliere's Orgon very well, but incarnated Rabelais's Pantagruel even more naturally in real life.
'An honest man', he said, 'must make the fame of his table his first care. Good food is the fertilizer of a clear conscience/ Then he goes into details. 'The leg of mutton must be looked forward to like a lovers' first rendezvous, beaten as tender as a liar caught in the act, blond as a German girl and bleeding like a Carib. Mutton is to lamb what the millionaire uncle is to a poverty-stricken nephew... spinach is not worth much in itself, but it is susceptible to every impression, it is the virgin wax of cookery Use the egg as an amiable conciliator insinuating itself between all parties in order to bring about difficult rapprochements!
In dramatic circles, furthermore, the critic Geoffroy was fond of his stomach, and this weakness led him to accept presents from his tradesmen. Next day he would slip a free advertisement for their benefit into the Journal des Debats, by way of postscript ^ to his article. But the practice was severely criticized by Etienne, the Censor, who launched this protest: 'Only a few days ago a mustard-seller came to the office of the Journal, under the impression that he could insist on having his merchandise advertised because M. Geoffroy had accepted samples from him. This is of the utmost indecency!' His indignation is easily understood: Accepting pots~de-vin y well and good, but pots of mustard, fie!
The great houses of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, which were doubtless victualled by more admissible procedures, included some first-class gormandizers among their inhabitants.
The due de Luynes eclipsed them all by reason of his name> his wealth and his girth. Those who dined with him noticed a sort of little internal gulf hollowed out of the table; this indentation was required to house the august abdomen. Although no longer young, its owner still ate voraciously, but bis head sometimes felt a bit heavy. Wishing to help his guests, he might dip the ladle into the soup tureeri and fall suddenly asleep before he had filled it. A servant would tap him on the shoulder; he would awake with a start, complete his polite effort and sink into lethargy again. An illustration of the proverb Qui dort dine.
With every year of the Empire the luxury of the table assumed fresh forms. Not only were the provision shops in the Palais-Royal raided - Chevet's, whose cramped premises were always crowded, Hyrment, famous for his fish and his stuffed tongues, Corcellet, whose sign was painted by Debucourt and who sold such exquisite larks from Pithiviers and such succulent pasties from Toulouse — but it was now sought to please the eye: people demanded fine glass and fine linen, and the wife of Marshal Ney bought four thousand francs* worth of tablecloths and napkins in a single season from a certain Mile Theoville. The decoration of a dinnerparty demanded a sumptuous display of candelabra and centre-pieces supplied by the firm of Odiot, and often hired out by them. The middle of the table was often ornamented by some masterpiece in nougat, sponge cake or spun sugar, representing the passage of the St Bernard or the episode of the bridge at Lodi, An edifying collaboration of confectionery and history!
As for the details of the service, the, procedure was almost invariable. Dishes were always handed round three times; this was the rule. Glasses must never remain empty, as soon as one threatened to dry up a butler hastened to refill it. Every guest found his place marked by a card bearing his name, but the use of hand-written menus had not yet come into fashion. It was thought sufficient to have the dishes announced by the major-domo, who usually played his part with the seriousness of a heavy father on the stage. And after all, in many houses, people were rather like the audience at a theatre. Talleyrand's guests must have felt like this, the day that a certain salmon was offered them with great pomp.
It was a gigantic fish, a real product of a peche miraculeuse. When it appeared, carried at arm's length by a major-domo, everybody exclaimed, * Marvellous I* 'Unique!* And Talleyrand, rubbing his hands 5 said, Tve certainly been lucky; there's not another salmon like it/ But he had hardly said. this when the sound of smashed crockery was heard. Having caught his foot in a chair, the major-domo had fallen full length on the carpet, amid the ruins of the salmon. Faced with this disaster, prearranged no doubt by himself, the prince alone remained unperturbed. With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he looked at the unique object, of which, as if by chance, he possessed two specimens, and said simply, 'Bring the other one!'
Not everybody bought their fish at Hyrment's nor their fruit at the widow Fontaine's. Besides the tables of high society, Paris contained countless others, more modest but no less good, those of unpretentious middle-class people, who appreciated good cooking for its own sake, and treasured their old recipes. Their menus often afford us amusing discoveries: had you ever heard of toasted dough, beef between two dishes, grilled fricassees, cream cheese a la rose, strawberry coffee? These were some of the specialities of the excellent Mme Moitte, with whom we shall soon make closer acquaintance. Whether going to market or watching over her kitchen stove, her only ambition was to do her family well, in her little apartment on the Quai Malaquais.