From Absinthe to Zest: an Alphabet for Food Lovers by Alexandre Dumas

Author:Alexandre Dumas [Dumas, Alexandre]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141966915
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2011-03-19T16:00:00+00:00

[Dumas gives, under the same heading of Lobster, an account of a whole meal which he prepared at the seaside.]

‘Oh sea, the only love to whom I have been faithful’

This line from Byron may become my motto, and I love the sea and hold it as necessary to our pleasure and even to the happiness of our existence. When a certain period of time has elapsed since I have seen the sea, I am tormented by an irresistible desire and, under some pretext or other, I take the train and arrive either at Trouville, Dieppe or Le Havre. On one particular day, I had gone to Fécamp.

I had hardly arrived before a fishing expedition was proposed for the following day.

I know all about fishing expeditions where nothing is caught, but one buys the fish which forms the basis of the dinner after the fishing expedition. On this occasion, however, contrary to the usual practice, we caught two mackerel and an octopus, but we bought a lobster, a plaice and about a hundred shrimps. A woman selling mussels, whom we encountered on our way, added to this lot about a hundred of her bivalves.

We had been having long discussions to establish to whose house we would repair and who consequently would be in charge of the dinner. Finally the choice fell on a wine merchant from Fécamp who had put his entire cellar at our disposition. He assured us en route that his cook had got the pot-au-feu going, and that we would find at his house the wherewithal for two or three dishes which the cook would have gotten together for his own dinner.

But his cook, even though he claimed her to be a cordon bleu, was unanimously demoted and I was elected in her place. She was free to keep the title of vice-cook, but only on condition that she would not oppose the chief cook in any way.

As we had been promised, we found a pot-au-feu which had been simmering since ten o’clock that morning, which meant that it had had about eight hours of cooking time. And it is after eight hours of cooking that a pot-au-feu comes of age.

France, I have already said, is the only country which knows how to make a pot-au-feu; furthermore, it is probable that my janitress, who has nothing to do but look after her pot-au-feu and unlatch the door, eats better soup than M. Rothschild.

To come back to our cook, she had the pot-au-feu which was simmering, two chickens already plucked and awaiting the spit, a beef kidney still ignorant of the sauce for which it was destined, a bunch of asparagus which was starting to run to seed, and at the bottom of her basket some tomatoes and white onions.

I had everything spread out on the kitchen table, and I asked for pen and ink. For the approval of my table companions I presented the following menu:

Potage aux tomates et aux queues de crevettes.

Entrées.

Homard à l’américaine.

Carrelet sauce normande.

Maquereaux à la maître d’hôtel.

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