High Bonnet by Idwal Jones

Author:Idwal Jones [Jones, Idwal]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-41559-2
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2012-09-06T04:00:00+00:00

VII

CHEFS DINE ELSEWHERE

My uncle was accustomed to dine well at a tavern he often frequented near Hyères because of its quietness. It was an ancient tavern with Crusaders’ heads cut into the stone above the door, but with nothing else to single it out above its rivals. He had to wait half an hour for a table. Motorcars and omnibuses were pulling up before it to disgorge patrons who had come for the roast lamb and apricot tarts. Its fame was resounding, though recent.

“Here, what does this mean?” he asked the proprietor over a glass of marc with him. “Have you a new cook?”

“The same one. But we painted his name on the sign. So now we are famous.”

I am not metaphysician enough to explain this. Perhaps the cook had improved, to live up to the dignity of the signboard. Or perhaps everyone seeing it thought that here was the Napoleon of chefs, not to be missed on any account. But it is true that where chefs are anonymous la gourmandise in its transcendent aspect may not exist.

The Faisan d’Or was renowned not only because its food had merit but because its cooks were known by name and therefore praised. The names of at least ten of them were attached to a sauce, a garnish, a dessert, or a manner of preparing fish or a fowl. Between the salons and the kitchen were invisible wires kept at tension by couriers like Pierre and the major-domo. They would purr that Blaise or Guido or Jules was in masterly vein at this moment; or, in a voice pitched low in excitement, hint that Monsieur Paul himself was this night turning out something special.

It was a subtle kind of flattery, also; the patrons felt that they themselves had conspired in the making of a dish whose pattern would never be exactly repeated. Then they would dispatch compliments, or even write off a note.

Guido received a note one night. He started as he read it, then gave it to me. It was from Georges Melun-Perret, whose pleasure it was that we dine simply with him on an evening a week hence.

“If he goes to the slums,” said Guido, “I tell you it will be for something good!”

The night came. Paris was dripping like a sponge. We crawled through a fog that seemed an overflow of the Seine, trudged far beyond Notre Dame to the bleak, cobbled alleys of La Villette, and fetched up at our rendezvous, a filthy little café on the banks of the canal. It was noisy, full of tanners and abattoir workmen, all thirsty, argumentative, and with pay money in their pockets. Dogs yelped and fought underfoot, and were no more noticed than if they were fleas. There was Monsieur Georges at a corner table, looking like a drover in rough coat and mud-colored tie.

He greeted us and shouted for hot grogs. We were served by a blue-jowled waiter in corduroys and visored cap.

“You did pick on a sale trou this time,” said Guido.

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