the
famous Escoffier. No one knew why he had settled in Paradise Inn, in a kitchen
where his historic copper pans and kettles looked like those of a giant. He had
hung them all on the wall and kept the copper shining like mirrors in which he
could read of his past splendors and victories.
Henri was tall, but with his chef’s bonnet he
seemed to touch the ceiling. He was also sumptuously upholstered by rich
eating, and when he moved between the carving board and the stove, he had to
pull in his vast stomach.
When he had finished cooking, the guests wanted
to hear his anecdotes. Late in the evening he would bring small roses to the
ladies and a profusion of biographical stories.
All the people he had cooked for bore famous
names, from Queen Victoria to Diamond Jim Brady. He described them in a decor
of crystal chandeliers, candlelight, lace tablecloths, attended by armies of
assistants. He recalled the exact compliments he had received from kings,
famous actors, society women, and later, from tycoons, gangsters and business
dictators.
He had been a child prodigy in the kitchen,
later a dictator ruling over his own culinary inventions.
His monumental figure and red face seemed
composed of all the delicacies he had cooked, an attrition of sauces, flavors,
spices and wines.
All the stories he served with the dishes were
of ancient vintage. He had invented the Crepe Suzette for Prince Edward, the
charcoal broiled steak for Diamond Jim Brady.
Dazzled by the past, he seemed near-sighted
about present celebrities. Perhaps he felt that in the past he had played a
major role, and that the visitors who came now were witnessing his aging. At
one time his dinners could influence the atmosphere of a political discussion
and affect history; they could decide the course of a love affair.
Perhaps he felt reluctant to admit that among
today’s diners there might be one future celebrity who might usher in an
equally brilliant era but an era he would not be there to feed.
As he was past eighty, many of his anecdotes
ended in funeral orations. Some of his flambes, accompanied by a list of the
missing, seemed like cremations.
He had two passions: one for the art of
cooking, one for the celebrities who had enjoyed his cooking.
In the art of cooking he was a perfectionist.
It would take him days to concoct a sauce. He did his own marketing and waged
an unremitting war on all synthetic, frozen, or canned foods.
But in the matter of names he was not so
snobbish. He did not question the composition of a famous name. He loved
titles, decorations, prizewinners, publicity’s favorites.
In Europe he acquired an obsession for quality.
In America he acquired gigantism. His dinners grew Gargantuan. His diners had
to take walks or dance or swim between dishes.
He took his diners on an Elysian journey of
high flavors. His stories poured out like the most suave of his sauces.
As he was as much interested in dishes as in
personalities, he gave his dishes the names of people he met. Strawberry
Pudding Carole Lombard, Naked Butterfly Irvin S. Cobb, Broiled Oysters George
Eastman, Tutti Frutti Edna May Oliver.
Had these personalities flavors which he
translated into delicacies? Was Greta Garbo like a flambee, and Julius
Bloomfield like borsch? Was William Vanderbilt a creme de France? And Marlene
Dietrich a Grenade d’Amour? Was Henry James only capable of evoking shirred
eggs, and Sara Delano Roosevelt cinnamon apples, and did Charles Hackett
deserve a panache?
But drinks he did not baptize with names of
people. They deserved enduring abstractions such as Justice, Liberty, Courage,
Democracy.
In the early days of his difficult start in New
York he carried home every night some empty bottle of Chateau d’Yquem which
retained its fragrance, and slept on a bench at Long Island station holding the
bottle to his nose to make himself dream again of the days when he was serving
royalty on the French Riviera. Whereupon he was arrested for alcoholism
famous Escoffier. No one knew why he had settled in Paradise Inn, in a kitchen
where his historic copper pans and kettles looked like those of a giant. He had
hung them all on the wall and kept the copper shining like mirrors in which he
could read of his past splendors and victories.
Henri was tall, but with his chef’s bonnet he
seemed to touch the ceiling. He was also sumptuously upholstered by rich
eating, and when he moved between the carving board and the stove, he had to
pull in his vast stomach.
When he had finished cooking, the guests wanted
to hear his anecdotes. Late in the evening he would bring small roses to the
ladies and a profusion of biographical stories.
All the people he had cooked for bore famous
names, from Queen Victoria to Diamond Jim Brady. He described them in a decor
of crystal chandeliers, candlelight, lace tablecloths, attended by armies of
assistants. He recalled the exact compliments he had received from kings,
famous actors, society women, and later, from tycoons, gangsters and business
dictators.
He had been a child prodigy in the kitchen,
later a dictator ruling over his own culinary inventions.
His monumental figure and red face seemed
composed of all the delicacies he had cooked, an attrition of sauces, flavors,
spices and wines.
All the stories he served with the dishes were
of ancient vintage. He had invented the Crepe Suzette for Prince Edward, the
charcoal broiled steak for Diamond Jim Brady.
Dazzled by the past, he seemed near-sighted
about present celebrities. Perhaps he felt that in the past he had played a
major role, and that the visitors who came now were witnessing his aging. At
one time his dinners could influence the atmosphere of a political discussion
and affect history; they could decide the course of a love affair.
Perhaps he felt reluctant to admit that among
today’s diners there might be one future celebrity who might usher in an
equally brilliant era but an era he would not be there to feed.
As he was past eighty, many of his anecdotes
ended in funeral orations. Some of his flambes, accompanied by a list of the
missing, seemed like cremations.
He had two passions: one for the art of
cooking, one for the celebrities who had enjoyed his cooking.
In the art of cooking he was a perfectionist.
It would take him days to concoct a sauce. He did his own marketing and waged
an unremitting war on all synthetic, frozen, or canned foods.
But in the matter of names he was not so
snobbish. He did not question the composition of a famous name. He loved
titles, decorations, prizewinners, publicity’s favorites.
In Europe he acquired an obsession for quality.
In America he acquired gigantism. His dinners grew Gargantuan. His diners had
to take walks or dance or swim between dishes.
He took his diners on an Elysian journey of
high flavors. His stories poured out like the most suave of his sauces.
As he was as much interested in dishes as in
personalities, he gave his dishes the names of people he met. Strawberry
Pudding Carole Lombard, Naked Butterfly Irvin S. Cobb, Broiled Oysters George
Eastman, Tutti Frutti Edna May Oliver.
Had these personalities flavors which he
translated into delicacies? Was Greta Garbo like a flambee, and Julius
Bloomfield like borsch? Was William Vanderbilt a creme de France? And Marlene
Dietrich a Grenade d’Amour? Was Henry James only capable of evoking shirred
eggs, and Sara Delano Roosevelt cinnamon apples, and did Charles Hackett
deserve a panache?
But drinks he did not baptize with names of
people. They deserved enduring abstractions such as Justice, Liberty, Courage,
Democracy.
In the early days of his difficult start in New
York he carried home every night some empty bottle of Chateau d’Yquem which
retained its fragrance, and slept on a bench at Long Island station holding the
bottle to his nose to make himself dream again of the days when he was serving
royalty on the French Riviera. Whereupon he was arrested for alcoholism
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