Paris à la carte

aris a la Carte

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ional

lity

C.fa

J ULIAN STREET

PARIS A LA CARTE

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

" THE NEED OF CHANGE."

Cloth. 50 cents net.

" SHIP-BORED."

Cloth. 50 cents net.

" MY ENEMY — THE MOTOR."

Cloth. 50 cents net.

D P

£3

O P

^^L

PARIS
A LA CARTE

By

JULIAN STREET

AUTHOR OF "THE NEED OF CHANGE," "MY ENEMY-
THE MOTOR," "SHIP-BORED," ETC.

With Illustrations by
MAY WILSON PRESTON

NEW YORK
JOHN LANE COMPANY

MCMXII

Copyright, 1911
By The Ridgway Company

Copyright, 1912
By John Lane Company

Stack Annex

To
WILLIAM RICHARD HEREFORD

in Memory of
Menus Met and Conquered

List of Illustrations

If you have not the energy to find it, you
don't deserve to know the Restaurant
du Coucou .... Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

Beside the luminous doorway huddled a
little group of onlookers . . .18

Aside from the fact that a pair of profes-
sionals give the "Apache" dance among
the tables, there is no reason for sitting
there . . . . . .24

Long (and high) live the army! . . 32

When Frederic carves a Rouen duck people
lay down their knives and forks to
watch, and waiters stand about in
prayerful attitudes . . . .40

Shedding a glamour on the quartier and soup
on their Windsor ties . . . .48

The spirit of Parisian restaurants . . 58
She is starring in opera in America this year 66

Paris a la Carte" originally appeared in
Everybody's Magazine.

Preface

IN the foreword to his "Gastronomic
Promenade in Paris," published 1804, the
eminent and capacious Grimod de la Rey-
niere expressed himself as follows:

"The author will regret neither the cares
nor the indigestions his researches have caused
him, if the alimentary art owes new progress
to this effort.11

In the account, which follows, of certain
of my own "gastronomic promenades in
Paris," conducted (principally in taxis)
more than one hundred years after Grimod,
the reader may miss the sweetly melancholy
note of the old gourmand. I have no cares
and but few indigestions to look back upon.
Nor am I in the least concerned as to new
progress of the alimentary art, which — as

9

io Preface

at present practiced in the agreeable city of
Paris — meets with my more than cordial
approbation.

In making my researches I carried with
me no sense of deep responsibility, no
gloomy thoughts on the "decadence of the
French cuisine," of which one hears in
Paris. My principal accoutrements were,
upon the contrary, an almost frivolous op-
timism, an appreciative palate, a roving
eye, and a substantial set of banknotes. I
may have also carried, upon some of my
excursions, a pencil and a memorandum
book, but the notes I made were not so in-
teresting as those I spent. I did not make
the notes I spent. They were supplied to
me by the very kindly Editors of Every-
body's Magazine, who, in the interests of
science, financed my expedition.

It is true that the Editors of Everybody's
Magazine stayed at home, while the writer
crossed the seas and risked digestion, even

Preface "

life itself, in the course of his explorations.
But this fact does not justify a charge of
cowardice against them. It is not given to
all of us to take the field. Not all of us may
go into action to the martial music of the
Hungarian orchestra, may hear the hoarse
orders of head waiters, the clatter of wine
coolers being rushed forward into action,
the heavy detonation of the magnums, and
the incessant popping of the pints and
splits. Not all of us may witness the swift,
silent rushes and retreats of the light infan-
try of omnibus boys, and the flashing of
steel blades as brave hearts and gouty
hands surround the floral centrepiece and
try conclusions with Sole a la Margutry or
Canard presse. No, there must be unsung
heroes, who, staying ingloriously at home,
yet furnish the sinews of war. The writer
therefore gives his thanks to the Editors of
Everbody's.

The present volume contains much ma-

12 Preface

terial which, owing to the limitations of
magazine space, to recent restaurant his-
tory in Paris, and to further information
which has come to the hands of the author
from various sources, did not appear in the
original publication. One correspondent,
after flattering me upon the thoroughness
with which he is kind enough to say my
original work was done, utters a mild re-
proach upon my negligence in leaving out
his pet among the smaller Paris restaurants:
Au petit Riche, in the rue Lepelletier, which
he says is more than very good and less than
very moderate. Another mentions Lucas'.
I shall look forward to the Petit Riche and
Lucas*.

Another friend — no less a person than
the Reformed Diplomat, himself — wrote to
me from Paris, on hearing that this publica-
tion was impending. "Don't make it guide
booky," he urged. "Make it entertaining
and amusing." His order is a difficult one

Preface 13

to fill. Much as I dislike to do so, I must
admit that I have written with the purpose
to be "helpful."

The letter which I have found most dif-
ficult to answer came from a gentleman
whose daughter was in Paris with another
lady. "I wish you would tell me," he
wrote, "to just which places they may go,
without transgressing the conventions."

I wish I knew. I would tell him, if I
did. American women abroad are con-
stantly transgressing the conventions in
such matters — transgressing them in a man-
ner altogether breezy and delightful. Am-
ericans rush in where Frenchwomen fear
to tread, and, to drop into the argot, "get
away with it." Yet I cannot take the
responsibility of advising them to do so.
I advise them not to. I strongly recom-
mend them to refrain from going out to
dinner unescorted (mothers, aunts, and
duennas do not come within my definition

14 Preface

of the word "escort"), and to patronise
only the more conventional establishments
for luncheon.

But all these things depend upon how
much you think that women — married or
unmarried — ought to know and see and
do. I have taken married ladies into
Maxim's, to Montmartre, and to the places
on the "Boul' Mich'" (because they in-
sisted I should do so). Such places de-
press some women, amuse others. But I
have never noticed any deleterious effects,
except those manifested by the husband of
one lady. He came along and violently
disapproved. But that I did not mind at
all; the lady made herself proportionately
more agreeable.

So there you are! And may your viands
taste like magic dishes from some fire fairy's
golden casserolle. J. S.

NEW YORK, January, 1912.

PARIS A LA CARTE

Paris a la Carte

THEATRES and music-halls were
emptying; cafes filling up. Under
the blue glare of arc-lights, the Paris
boulevards had lost their last vestige of
reality and attained their ultimate theatric
touch; the rows of horse-chestnuts had be-
come stage trees, with papier-mache trunks
and preposterous green paper leaves; the
women, walking in the patched lights be-
neath, unearthly beings, with reptilian eyes
and poisonous cheeks. Cabmen, soldiers,
chauffeurs, policemen, boulevardiers, were
playing their parts like trained comedians;
the rest of us were "supers," marching and
countermarching to the music of the mid-
night streets. It was the most unreal hour
in the most unreal city in the world. And

we were at the very heart (or, if you think
a 17

i8 Paris a la Carte

it has no heart, the stomach) of the gay
night life of Paris.

Turning into the avenue de l'Op6ra, my
friend, the Reformed Diplomat, and I be-
held a line of variegated vehicles, drawing
up successively before the entrance of the
Caf6 de Paris. On the walk, beside the lu-
minous doorway, huddled a little group
of onlookers — several grimy, tousle-headed
children; a pair of sad-eyed midinettes,
doubly pale in their black dresses; an old
crone bending over her cane ; a burly, beery
truck-driver pausing on his way from a
cruel day's work; a haggard girl of the
streets pausing on her way to a cruel night's
work — objects to inspire repulsion, pity, or
perhaps artistic approbation as the back-
ground for a series of startling, vari-coloured
visions which burst from the equipages,
scudded across the sidewalk on twinkling
satin slippers, and entered the door of the
cafe. Accompanying each of these effulgent

Paris a la Carte 19

beings was a hovering black figure, shod in
glistening patent leather, topped with a
sleek silk hat, and garnished with the essen-
tial pocketbook.

We followed and were met, within, by the
scream of violins, the scrutiny of head
waiters, and the scent of viands. Before us
was a buffet, dressed with a profusion of
rare edibles: capon from Le Mans, black
truffles from Perigord, ripe red tomatoes
from Provence, great fish from icy rivers,
pates de foies gras from Strassburg, tender
asparagus from Rheims, succulent string-
beans from Nice, red-lacquered cherries,
bits of grape-vine bearing fruit like clusters
of old green and purple jewels, almonds in
jackets of verdigris; big, bizarre strawber-
ries; peaches with firm, tender flesh and
velvet skin ; an avalanche of golden bananas,
and, enthroned above all, Her Majesty the
pineapple, in the green crown she wears as
queen of tropic fruits.

20 Paris a la Carte

Beyond the buffet lay the Caf£ de Paris,
divided, like all Gaul, into three parts.
Some people were going up
a stairway (two by two like
the animals into the Ark)
to the cabinets particuliers,
those secluded and insinuating private di-
ning-rooms which are not the least Parisian
things about the leading Paris restaurants.
Other people were going sadly to the left side
of the ground-floor room, which is the "dis-
card"; still others were being shown to the
opposite side, which is, in both senses of the
word, the right.

To sit upon the right side of the Cafe de
Paris it is necessary to be upon the right
side of Louis Barrya, the maitre d' hotel—
which costs, I am informed, one hundred
francs, payable in almost any sort of money,
in advance. Aside from the fact that a
pair of professionals give the "Apache"
dance among the tables, there is no reason

Paris a la Carte 21

for sitting there, excepting that it is "the
thing" to do so. My friend, the Reformed
Diplomat, declares that it is a sort of un-
chartered American club, of which Louis is
the house committee, the membership com-
mittee, and, above all, the treasurer. The
qualification for membership is the posses-
sion and free use of money. Payment of
the initiation fee creates instant member-
ship, giving you the right to sit on a yellow
divan, order a la carte from a menu which
scorns to mention sordid things like prices,
and, having ordered, eat and drink and
look about at the marble columns, gold
ceilings, mirrors, luxuriant plants, and
gaudy Americans.

If you see an occasional "foreigner," it is
probably James Hazen Hyde, Valeska Sur-
ratt, or a waiter — although I have heard
that a Russian or an Anglomaniac French-
man drifts in, now and then, during the
winter, when there are no Americans in

22 Paris a la Carte

Paris. (No wonder French waiters think
that Americans hibernate through the cold
season, only to reappear in the spring, the
females with new plumage, the males with
new letters of credit.)

One is inclined to puzzle, at first, as to
how the Caf6 de Paris exists while the Amer-
icans are absent, but presently one gets one's
bill and understands. I ceased to wonder
even before the bill was brought, for I saw
a gentleman from Indiana drop a golden
louis on the floor and give it to the waiter
as a tip for his pains in having picked it up.

Witnessing this exhibition of financial in-
souciance, I suddenly became conscious of
the fact that the Cafe de Paris is no place
for a person who endeavors to extract a liv-
ing from that typewriter we still refer to,
picturesquely, as "the pen." The food and
drink are not homelike from a literary point
of view — they are too good; and although
authors, in their lairs, have no prices marked

Paris a la Carte 23

upon their menus, the absence of prices
from the menus of this cafe does not give
that cosey and domestic touch one might
expect.

To feel entirely at home in the Caf£ de
Paris one should have been especially born
for the purpose. The seventh son of the
seventh wife of a man with seven millions
might grow up to it, especially if born with
a golden spoon (full of caviar) in his mouth,
or if he came into being in a proscenium
box on the first night of a Broadway musi-
cal show. Subsequent training as a stock-
broker, a wine-agent, a man-milliner, or the
editor of a Chicago society paper might also
help. An infant born under such favorable
conditions, and carefully nurtured with bot-
tled cocktails and absinthe, would be ready
for the Cafe de Paris on attaining his major-
ity, or be a disappointment to his parents
and the show-girl with whom he elopes. It
would be a good place for his honeymoon

24 Paris a la Carte

with his unblushing bride, except for the
fact that the Cafe de Paris closes at about
three o'clock in the morning, which might
spoil their evenings.

Apropos of this, it may be mentioned
that, though the matter of time is, from one
point of view, unimportant to your Parisian
restaurant-goer, it is peculiarly important
from another. Unlike the American, the
Frenchman is not irritated by slow service,
providing each dish is palatable when it
finally arrives. He prefers things cooked to
order, regardless of time, and, to this end,
ceases entirely to transact business between
the hours of noon and two o'clock. In the
largest cities outside Paris, even the banks
are closed through this part of the day.

"All of which," Flammang will tell you,
"shows why the French have better things
to eat than the Americans, no matter how
many celebrated Parisian chefs are taken
to New York."

O O
« 2

•< SB
eu H

•< en

AN OLD
CHEF

Paris a la Carte 25

Flammang has been chef for the Duke of
York, also in many clubs and fashionable

restaurants in New York, but

has retired, now, to pass a phi-
losophic old age as proprietor
of a tea-room and pastry-shop
on a corner of the rue Valois, near the
Palais Royal.

"In America," says he, "people eat too
fast. They sit down to table, regard their
watches, and say to the waiter: 'Quick!
I have but an half-hour!' He brings them
food, running. They throw it into their
mouths as one throws clothing into a laun-
dry bag. When one course isjfinished, the
next must be upon the table. If it is not,
they call for the head waiter and cry with
fury: 'What is the matter! What is the
matter! I arrived at three minutes past
twelve; it was twenty-one minutes past
when I called you, and here a whole half-
minute has passed while I have spoken!

26 Paris a la Carte

Eighteen and one-half minutes gone, yet
where are those chop with petits pois? This
is terrible! It is one veritable scandalef

"And for that," Flammang continues,
"what must these good chefs do? They
must begin to cook two or three hours in
advance. Then the food must stand in
large quantities, to become dry and with-
out flavour. Ah, but it is ready! That
is the thing. Quick! Quick!"

If the time spent at table is not impor-
tant to the Frenchman, the time for sitting
down to meals is highly so. Certain res-
taurants are popular at certain hours : some
for breakfast, others for luncheon, tea, din-
ner, or supper. Comparatively few people,
for example, lunch at the Cafe de Paris,
more dine there, but it is not until about
midnight that the great crowd arrives.

When, two or three hours later, the people
are leaving this cafe, and the violinists are
putting their instruments in cases, such re-

Paris a la Carte 27

sorts as Maxim's and the wild establish-
ments of Montmartre are only tuning to
their shrillest, dizziest pitch. Maxim's,
though technically open through the day,
is practically deserted before midnight, and
does not reach its ultimate until half-past
two or three o'clock, A.M., while the several
giddy Montmartre cafes, of which I shall
speak later, do not even make a pretence
of opening their doors before eleven or
twelve at night.

Last year I met, in Paris, an American
youth who, having seen "The Merry
Widow" and "The Girl from Maxim's,"
wished to visit the notorious establishment
at once. He went there for dinner on the
night of his arrival in the city, only to find
himself alone in the place save for the idle,
grinning waiters.

I congratulated him.

It was not my original intention to men-
tion Maxim's quite so soon, but since I

28 Paris a la Carte

have drifted to it, I may as well continue.
I abominate the place, not because it is
gay or seductive, but because
it is precisely the reverse — a
brazen fake, over -advertised,
ogling, odoriferous; a night-
mare of smoke, champagne, and banality.
Its art nouveau mural decorations are ver-
tiginous and terrible, and the people beneath
them are even worse — pudgy, purple men,
trying to purchase happiness in iced bottles,
and solitary sirens trying to look gay and
alluring before the dismal pints of cham-
pagne which, on entering, they are obliged
to order if they wish to stay. The rest are
onlookers who might better have remained
away.

However, I have been able to find two
sadly funny things about this place: a re-
volving door and a chasseur. The former
is, so far as I know, the only door of its kind
in the world. Instead of the usual four

Paris a la Carte 29

divisions, it has but two, each of which ac-
commodates a pair. The purpose of this
door is beautifully obvious: it prevents
couples devoted, disgusted, or drunk, as the
case may be, from even an instant's separa-
tion. The chasseur is comic because of his
superbly suitable appearance. A youth but
little more than four feet tall, with a sallow,
sharp face and shrewd, derisive eyes, he
wears a bright red pill-box cap, set so jaun-
tily upon the side of his head that one fancies
it must hang upon a sprouting horn. His
flaming jacket is cut to an absurd little
point, like a sharp tail, behind. Altogether
he is the perfect image of his father, Mephis-
topheles, who (in spite of reports that it is
owned by an English stock company) I be-
lieve is the proprietor of Maxim's. Waiting
with his bicycle, to carry nasty messages for
nasty people, you may see the diabolic little
chasseur almost any time you drive past
Maxim's (which I hope you'll always do).

LARUE'S

3° Paris a la Carte

You need drive but a few steps farther to
reach the Restaurant Larue, which, by day,
lies in the shadow of the church
of the Madeleine, and by night
casts shadows of its own. With
its excellent cuisine and wines, its cosmopoli-
tan clientele, its Tzigany orchestra, and its
florid decorations, Larue's is very typical of
the Paris boulevards. Americans go there,
but then, so do Frenchmen. And French-
women! It is not coarse, like Maxim's, but
gay, like Paris; the sort of place one would
select for a first meal in the "ville lumiere"
after two years spent on the veldt, or in one
of our western towns with funny names and
"oyster parlors" situated on Main Street.

It is very annoying to have to write any-
thing useful or instructive. That is the
trouble with this article: it is written with
a purpose. I want to convert you from the
stupid pretence of standing before statues

Paris a la Carte 31

and paintings which you will never under-
stand, and teach you how to improve your
time in Paris, so that, instead of coming
away with a blurred list of painters and
sculptors, you will bring back recollections,
definite and permanent, of interesting res-
taurants, dishes, and people. To this end I
must encroach somewhat upon the field of
Mr. Baedeker and, instead of describing
separately each important restaurant on or
near the Grands Boulevards, run through
the list hurriedly:

The Hotel Ritz, Henry's (not Henry's
bar), Paillard's, Durand's,* and the Cafe
Riche are fashionable and very good. The

* A cable dispatch in the New York Times contains the
sad news that Durand's closed its doors after dinner on
the night of Dec. 19, 1911, the floods of the year previous
having undermined the foundations of the building.

"It was at Durand's," says the dispatch, "that Gen.
Boulanger had his one chance for a coup d'etat. When
the boulevard was crowded with enthusiastic mobs singing
and cheering the then popular idol, he was entertaining
a party of friends in one of the private rooms on the first
floor. The banquet was prolonged until early morning

32 Paris a la Carte

last of these is one of the older restaurants
of the first class, having been established
about 1820-30. The Cafe
de ^a Pa*x is likewise good,
and is particularly cele-

A GROUP OF
FAMOUS

RESTAURANTS for

terrace, where one may sit
over a lemonade, a sir op, or an ice, and watch
the fascinating Paris crowd. The Caf£ Ameri-
cain is not American at all, and has a rather
sad supper room up-stairs, in which, late at
night, professional dancing-girls waltz, lack-

and the populace went home to bed before the feasting
was over."

One of the proprietors of Durand's told me that the
mob came there for Boulanger drawing a carriage, in which
they meant to take Boulanger to the Elysee Palace and
proclaim him King, but that either because he was afraid
to take the decisive step, or because he was enjoying his
dinner too well, he would not go, and thus lost his one
great opportunity. The ancient royalist club called the
Pot au Feu occupied rooms over Durand's, having existed
for a number of centuries, and in the Musee de 1'Armee
there is a clock from this historic restaurant in which is
lodged a bullet which came in through the window at
the time of the revolution.

LONG (AND HIGH) LIVE THE ARMY !

Paris a la Carte 33

adaisically, between the tables. Prunier's is
famous for sea food, but is closed in hot
weather. Noel Peter's is well known and
good. The Restaurant Champeaux (es-
tablished 1.800) is popular with stock-bro-
kers, and is described by Zola in the first
chapter of "L' Argent."

So on, down the boulevard, until we come
to the famous and admirable Marguery's in
the Boulevard Bonne Nou-
velle. Marguery's is neither
painfully fashionable nor
distressingly expensive, yet it is one of the
best restaurants in Paris, thriving, despite its
some what out-of-the-way location, by virtue
of fine fare and a consequent strong bour-
geois support. I hope that it will always
thrive, and that I shall often see it doing so —
over a platter of sole a la Marguery: the
most delectable of fish, cooked in the most
marvellous of manners.

The bent, picturesque figure of old Mon-

3

34 Paris a la Carte

sieur Marguery, with the red ribbon of the
Legion of Honor in his buttonhole, is no
longer to be seen passing from table to
table. He belonged to an age and type
which are fast vanishing. Companies run
restaurants to-day, and companies can not
be expected to have white hair, or person-
ality, or to stroll among the tables bowing
and keeping an eye to the service. Com-
panies hire men to do this sort of thing.
And from my observation, they thus give
legal and lucrative employment to many
individuals who, had they lived in other
times, would very likely have sailed the
Spanish Main under a flag like the label on
a carbolic-acid bottle.

In enumerating these leading restaurants,
I have purposely omitted Voisin's and the
Cafe Anglais, because they are entirely
unique. Built before the days of Midas &
Co., architects and mural decorators, whose
touch has turned all modern restaurants to

Paris a la Carte 35

gold, these two fine old establishments hold
out with patriarchal scorn against the flam-
boyant tendencies of the times. Their door-
ways are not the doorways of palaces ; they
are white, inside and out; they employ no
orchestras to drown stupid conversation, no
buccaneers of waiters to gouge their patrons.
They are the two great ancient temples of
the French cuisine which still remain in
Paris.

Voisin's, the more recent of the two, was
established in 1813, in a building belong-
ing to a convent, the grounds of which occu-
pied, until the Revolu-
tion, the entire neighbor- THE ANCIENT
hood. It has never DIGNITY

moved from its location, OF VOISIN>S

and has changed hands
but twice. Its cellars (containing such vin-
tages as Chateau Margaux, 1846, Chateau
Lafitte, and Chateau Haut-Brion, 1847) are
the most famous, I suppose, of any public

36 Paris a la Carte

cellars in the world. And if there are no
prices on the bill of fare, one does not feel
resentful, for one knows tliat there will be no
overcharging, as at certain other restaurants
where this custom holds.

I have the menu of a Christmas dinner
held at Voisin's in the year 1870, on the
ninety-ninth day of the siege of Paris. Per-
haps they did not eat the things which were
listed on that card, but they perpetrated
a brave joke in face of famine and disaster,
when they debonairly listed such dishes as
Roast Camel, Stuffed Donkey's Head, and
Cats with Rat Dressing.

The Cafe Anglais is, in history, spirit,
and appearance, very similar to Voisin's.
Fournier, in his "Promenade Historique
dans Paris," tells of the discovery of the
place in the year 1800 by some gay young
men who soon made it famous and caused
its transformation from a humble little ca-
baret into a restaurant of the first order.

THE
CAFE ANGLAIS

AND ITS
FINGER-BOWLS

Paris a la Carte 37

The great men of the last century have
dined at both these restaurants, and pre-
cious souvenirs of royal _
patrons are preserved at
the Cafe Anglais, in shape
of finger-bowls, each bear-
ing the monogram and
cipher of the king or prince who used it.
The late King Edward's finger-bowl is
there, as are also those of the Kaiser,
the late Leopold of Belgium, the King and
the Crown Prince of Greece, the King
of Spain, the Grand Duke Alexis, the
ex- King Manuel of Portugal, and many
others.

Collectors look upon these souvenirs with
greedy eyes.

"But, Monsieur," the maitre d'h6tel ex-
plained to me, "they are not ours to sell.
We regard them as the private property of
their respective majesties and royal high-
nesses. And what would they think, Mon-

38 Paris a la Carte

sieur, on coming back, to find their finger-
bowls no longer here?"

"King Edward and King Leopold will
not come back," I ventured.

"True, Monsieur," he replied with dig-
nity, "and that is but an added reason why
we most respectfully preserve their finger-
bowls."

I know of several other notable restau-
rants, but of less aristocratic lineage, which
are as old or older than Voisin's and the
Cafe Anglais. One of these, Gauclair's,
was founded in 1800, and still flourishes on
its old site, especially at the luncheon hour.

Another, the Bceuf a la

Mode, in the rue Valois,
was founded in 1792. It
is a favourite eating-
place of mine, simple, old-fashioned, very
good. And it is near the Palais Royal, the
Com6die Franchise, and the Louvre; so

THE OLD BOEUF
A LA MODE

Paris a la Carte 39

if, in spite of my advice, you insist on
sightseeing, you may find it convenient.
And if, while in that neighborhood, you'll
look within the courtyard of the Palais
Royal, at the further end, you'll see a res-
taurant— no longer fashionable — whither,
in other days, were wont to dine the ladies
and gentlemen of the court of Napoleon III.
Older even than the Boeuf a la Mode is
the Tour d'Argent, which, so far as I know,
has the record for antiquity, having existed
upon its present site on the Quai de la Tour-
nelle since 1582, or within less than four-
score years of the death of Christopher
Columbus. The place is rather dingy; one
does not go there to hear music or to see
crowds and elaborate costumes, but for the
special dishes cooked by old Fred6ric,* who,
with his Ibsenesque head and his broad

* Frederic Delair died in Paris about the time these
lines were written. His death was widely noticed through-
out France.

40 Paris a la Carte

shoulders, stooping under the weight of the
sixty-nine years they carry, is one of the
sights of Paris — and knows it.

His greatest specialty is canard presse.
When Frederic carves a Rouen duck, crushes
the carcass in a silver press,
mixes his savoury sauce, and
with it anoints the tender
slices, people at the tables
lay down their knives and forks to watch,
and waiters stand about in prayerful atti-
tudes. The very writing of the thing fills
me with a great desire ; yet a still small voice
whispers to me that I'm better off away from
Frederic's. His canard presse is extremely
rich, and the "gathering of material" for
such books as this gives one a tendency
toward biliousness and gout.

It occurs to me that this may be the rea-
son why so little information has hitherto
been given on the subject of the Paris res-
taurants. Writers have doubtless tried to

(6 <

o. a

O <

FREDERIC'S
HALL OF FAME

Paris a la Carte 41

tell about them, but have died in the at-
tempt, or given up and gone to Carlsbad.

Notwithstanding this, there are persons
who have enjoyed the distinction of having
dishes named for them by Frederic, yet
lived. On the menu of
the Tour d' Argent will
be found the following:
Sole Loie Fuller, Canape
Clarence Mackay, Sole Phipps, Salmon Trout
Munsey, and, getting down to dessert, Pear
Wanamaker — in which dish a slangy Parisian
might find the flavour of a double entente; for,
in France, to call a man a poire is to refer
ironically to the shape of his head and the
paucity of its contents — as witness the pun-
ishment of the journalist who applied the
term to King Louis Philippe.

I once wormed myself into the confidence
of one of Frederic's waiters, a confidence
which I shall now betray.

"Mais oui, Monsieur," he smiled. "I

42 Paris a la Carte

can make canard presse as well as any one.
But then, Monsieur, the people would not
come to see me do it. I have neither the
so grand manner nor yet the so grand
whiskers which have made my patron rich,
Monsieur."

I was not entirely surprised to hear that
my friend Frederic was rich. Not only does
he charge good round prices, but he has
served me wines which, on comparing price
with flavour, made me think he was just a
trifle richer than he really ought to be.

At Frederic's we find ourselves for the
first time on the left bank of the Seine, a
region which one thinks of as being given
over to art, medical and university students,
and the Bon Marche.
Here, from the river back
to the farthest corner of
the Latin Quarter, will be
found a sprinkling of restaurants and cafes
of both high and low degree. On the quai,

LAPEROUSE
AND R. L. S.

Paris a la Carte 43

not far from the Pont Neuf, is the Caf6
Laperouse, well known to all the artists and
literary men who have frequented the
French capital in the last half-century.
It is as good a place to-day, I think, as when
Robert Louis Stevenson and his friends
were wont to go there. The prices are rea-
sonable (as prices should be upon the left
bank of the Seine)' and the fish and chicken
specialties are worth investigation.

Those who remember Thackeray's "Bal-
lad of the Bouillabaisse," will find the res-
taurant therein cele-
brated a few blocks back
of the Cafe Laperouse,
near the church of Saint
Germain des Pres. I do
not know that bouillabaisse may still be
had there, but I hope so. Perhaps you will
find out.

Still further from the Seine, not far from
the Odeon Theatre, is the Hotel Corneille,

THACKERAY

AND
LITTLE BILLEE

44 Paris a la Carte

where Little Billee lived, when he was in
love with Trilby, and near it is the Res-
taurant de 1'Odeon, where he went with
Taffy and The Laird, and found that "the
omelettes were good and the wine wasn't
blue." Undoubtedly the best restaurant on
this side of the river is the Foyot, near the
Luxembourg galleries and gardens. The
Foyot is a fine, unpretentious old place, fre-
quented by professors from the Sorbonne
and the schools, and by the senators of
France. Its wines and cuisine are of the
very best. Of the thousand stories hanging
'round the old white build-
ing there is one, which I
recall, that played upon
the sardonic risibilities of

A COMEDY

AT THE
CAFE FOYOT

Paris for a week. An edi-
torial writer on one of the Parisian news-
papers, who was very fond of airing, in
print, his anarchistic tendencies, was also
very fond of dining at the Cafe Foyot. At

Paris a la Carte 45

the time of which I write an anarchist had
thrown a bomb in the restaurant of the
H6tel Terminus at the Gare St. Lazare, in-
juring a number of persons, and the anar-
chistic editorial writer had shocked Paris by
writing, apropos of the crime, a grimly cyn-
ical leader, excusing the bomb-thrower on
various aesthetical grounds. Each para-
graph of this clever bit of sophistry ended
with a phrase demanding: what difference
do the lives of a few rich persons make "si
le geste est beau"? One evening, a few weeks
after the publication of the editorial, our
newspaper man was at the Cafe Foyot, re-
galing himself upon one of the famous chops,
cooked in paper wrappers, which are a
specialty of the place, when another anar-
chist came along with another bomb, and,
mistaking his brother in the cause of the red
flag for a certain unpopular senator whom
he resembled, let fly his missile. It was the
sort of thing which wouldn't happen in any

46 Paris & la Carte

other place but Paris and wouldn't be enjoyed
by any other people as by the Parisians. So
when, to use the vernacular, the anarchistic
editor "got his," the whole press of Paris—
and it is the wittiest press on earth — burst
forth as one voice with the ironical demand :
"What matters it "si le geste est beau11?

Probably the best-known restaurants of
the Latin Quarter are on or near the
Boulevard St. Michel-
known familiarly among
the people of the quar-
/^rasthe"BoulMich'."
Representative among
them are: Pascal's in the rue de 1'ficole du
Medecin, frequented principally by medical
students and their "bonnes amies;" the Cafe
d'Harcourt, in the boulevard near by, an old
favourite among the art students; and the
Taverne du Pantheon, also on the "Boul'
Mich'," much the same as the Harcourt,

GAY CAFES

OF THE
LATIN QUARTER

Paris a la Carte 47

though somewhat more pretentious. In
these cafes, or on the sidewalk terraces out-
side the two last-named, one sees, at night,
the gay, outdoor life of the present Latin
Quarter. There is a good deal of sordidness,
a good deal of pose, and a great deal of
youth about it, but it is not so heartless
and commercial as the night life on the
other side of the river.

Though some writers try to keep up the
illusion of the "Real Latin Quarter," the
fact is that the days of "Trilby" and of
gay grisettes are gone. The grisette is an
extinct animal, having evolved into the
model or the cocotte, and though one sees in
these cafes evidences of the fact that life in
the Latin Quarter may still be loose, the
students' trousers are not nearly so loose as
they were twenty, or even ten, years ago.
If a few young men affect the baggy cor-
duroys, long matted hair, and flat hats once
so prevalent, they are the inefficients who,

48 Paris a la Carte

being unable to paint, devote themselves to
shedding a glamour on the quartier and soup
on their Windsor ties. Nevertheless, if one
be finicky enough to disapprove of kissing
between mouthfuls (and strictly between
friends, of course) 'twere better not to dine
or sup on the "Boul' Mich'."

The Restaurant Lavenue, near the Mont-
parnasse railway station, though frequented
by artists, shows more re-
straint than the last three I
have mentioned. It is di-
vided into two sections, the Grand and the
Petit Lavenue. The former is the more ex-
pensive and pretentious, and is more likely to
be crowded, having as a drawing card a
particularly good violinist by the name of
Schumacher.

For the rest, the boulevards and side
streets of the neighborhood are fairly dotted
over with quiet little restaurants, some of
them decorated by the students, where one

Paris a la Carte 49

may lunch or dine surprisingly well for a
franc or two. The average traveller will
not be interested in these humble places, I
suppose, but for the benefit of others who
may wish to find them I shall take the risk
of mentioning old Mere Boudet's, where I
used to lunch some years ago — and very
well for very little money. They tell me
that Mere Boudet's isn't
what it used to be ; that

T . . , RESTAURANTS

Louise, the pretty bonne,
no longer graces it; that
it has grown large and
lost its intimacy. They say "the crowd"
all goes to Garnier's now. I do not know.
Things change. But somewhere, not too
far from the old Hotel Haute Loire (within
whose ramshackle, flatiron-shaped walls,
so many men, destined to paint their way
to fame, have lived, on first arriving in the
city of their dreams), somewhere about
that neighborhood there is a place to which

LITTLE

FOR
THE ARTISTS

5° Paris a la Carte

the students, the poor artists, and the models
of the region go to-day to lunch and dine.
The slender Russian girl — uncorseted but
never unescorted — who dressed in flowing
robes and wore sandals on her feet and a
fillet round her jet-black hair, is doubtless
gone, these several years. But let us hope
that there is some one else, spectacular as
she was, whom you may see upon your
Latin Quarter prowl.

Perhaps at this point you'll permit a word
about the cheapest eating- places of the city.
The establishments Duval and Bouillon-
Boulant are scattered over
Paris as are those of Childs
and Kohlsaat in New York
and Chicago. They are
very inexpensive, far from bad, and are pa-
tronised by shop-clerks and the like. Fur-
thermore, there are literally thousands of
small independent bars and wine-shops, in

INEXPENSIVE
CAFES

Paris a la Carte 51

almost any one of which a good omelette,
soup, broiled ham, or other simple dish, may
be obtained for a few sous. Many of these
places are known as "rendez-vous des cockers"
and are largely patronised by cabmen, who
in their voyages about the city soon learn
where the best food is served for the least
money. And let me tell you, there are
many well-to-do Americans who do not eat
such appetising and nutritious meals in their
own homes as are enjoyed by the jolly, red-
faced Paris cockers.

It is natural that Paris, with her cosmo-
politan population, should have a group of
restaurants specialising in
the cuisine of other lands.
Several German cafes are
to be found upon the
boulevards; a Spanish
restaurant, at 14 rue du Helder; and a
restaurant called Vian's, at 22 rue Daunou,

52 Paris a la Carte

opposite the Hotel Chatham, where the
homesick American may procure codfish
balls, corn-bread, sweet corn on the cob, and
other dishes to remind him that the United
States is not without her culinary specialties.
There are also several Italian restaurants:
one on the Boulevard des Italiens, another
in the Passage des Panoramas, and still
another, little known, yet very fascinating,
quite at the top of the Montmartre.

The rather inaccessible position occupied
by the Restaurant du Coucou has saved it,
so far, to the coterie of
artists, actors, journal-
ists, and literary folk

THE CHARM

OF THE

RESTAURANT

DU COUCOU

make up its clientele.

It perches like a bird's-
nest on the steep hillside which surrounds the
Sacre Coeur. In front of the picturesque,
dilapidated old building which is the restau-
rant proper, lies a tiny square, the name of

Paris a la Carte S3

which I shall not give — for if you have not
the energy to find it, you don't deserve to
know about the Restaurant du Coucou.
The square sleeps throughout the day, but
as dinner-time approaches appear fimilie,
Marguerite, Rina, and Charles (the children
of Vincent, chef and proprietor of the Cou-
cou), bearing little tables and rush-bottom
chairs, which they set about the open place
between their building and the studio-
residence of the artist across the way.

Vincent came from Asti, in Italy, a good
many years ago, and, after being maitre
d' hotel in well-known families, started his
little restaurant a decade since. His cheer-
ful femme, who watches the accounts, is
Swiss, but the children, who serve the
diners, possess (like the cooking and the Asti
wine) the qualities of their father's father-
land. More than any other place I know,
perhaps, the Restaurant du Coucou strikes
me as superbly simple, rare, unspoiled. It is

54 Paris a la Carte

like a scene from Charpentier's "Louise";
like the veritable citadel of "La Boheme."
When darkness falls, the three girls ap-
pear with tiny lamps, which, placed about
upon the tables, shed glow-worm lights
upon the diners, among whom Charles,
youngest of Vincent's flock, passes in the
r61e of jester, "blagueing" and being spoiled.
With the aid of what I have told you, you

can find the Restaurant

du Coucou in an hour
or two's tramp. Having
found it, select a balmy
night to dine there. You will sit a long
time before asking for your bill, which
will be written in chalk upon a slate, and
very moderate. We were four at table
the last time I visited the Coucou, and
Rina's slate called for twenty francs, or just
one dollar each, for a meal of soup, spa-
ghetti, lobster, salad, and other things,
washed down with Asti wine. I paid, but,

TWO
OVERCHARGES

Paris a la Carte 55

just as we were leaving, Rina came run-
ning after me, announcing a mistake.

"How much more?" I asked, slipping my
hand into my pocket.

"Nothing, Monsieur," she said, showing
me the amendment on her slate. "We
owe you two francs."

I had a different experience at Larue's a
few nights later. This time I discovered an
error of a few francs on a much bigger bill,
and requested that it be corrected. The
waiter took the bill away, and when he
brought it back it was larger than before.
They had deducted the amount I objected
to, but added a larger sum against another
item ! The restaurateurs of the boulevards
do not believe in "revision downward."

Since the time the ancient Gauls first
made their marmite, it has been the custom
of Gallic people to consider eating passion-
ately. The art of the cuisine is to the

56 Paris a la Carte

French what the — may one say art? — of
the Quick Lunch is to us, excepting that
our quick lunch is so very, very quick that
we have no time (or reason) to be proud of
it. No American has ever undertaken to
write grandly, majestically, of the quick
lunch, but there are Frenchmen who have
earned immortal names by writing of mat-
ters which may, with particular correctness,
be described as "touching on the stomach
and the palate." Consider, for example, the
fulminations of Fulbert Dumonteuil, in the
"Almanach des Gourmands":

" It is the flag of the French cuisine, which
our incomparable master-cooks have proud-
ly planted upon the strange soil of grateful
and charmed nations. And every day its
Empire grows more vast, and, above all,
more durable than those of Alexander and
of Charlemagne!"

What is left to other nations in face of
such a gastronomic war-whoop but to strike

Paris a la Carte 57

their colours to the French? And we do
strike them (all of us but the Germans) by
wearing our napkins at humble half-mast,
in our laps, while the Frenchman raises the
white banner of culinary conquest to full
height, flaunting it victoriously from be-
tween his collar and his double chin.

If the French do not know how to eat,
they certainly do know what and where to
eat. Eating is part of the Parisian's train-
ing for the one game, the one industry, the
one passionate pursuit on which the whole
of his existence centres —
the pursuit of woman.

THE SPIRIT OF

PARISIAN
RESTAURANTS

Each time I go to Paris
I see more clearly that
the superb restaurants,
with their rich food and drink, their seduc-
tive music, and their little stairways, leading
up to cabinets particuliers, are designed to
strike one incessant note in the bacchanalian
chorus of the Venusberg — a chorus in which

5§ Paris a la Carte

other notes are struck by the literature, the
drama, the costumiers, milliners, and jewel-
lers, the insinuating deep-topped fiacres and
taxis scurrying on clandestine errands.

" The fairy of toilettes," an anonymous
French writer says of one Paris restaurant
(and he might have said it of a score), "the
fairy of adornments, of jewels, of shoulders,
the poem of the flesh, the eyes of sorceresses,
palpitating throats, superb hair, white hands
covered with precious stones, compliments
and favours, kisses and embraces, love and
voluptuousness, wealth, happiness, joy,
youth, luxury, shine resplendently in ele-
gantly decorated rooms, bloom in the inti-
macy of picturesque salons. ..."

There is a glimpse of the Frenchman's
point of view as set down by himself! Two
types of Paris restaurants exemplify it in
its extremity. In its most elegant aspect
it is to be seen in the outdoor and semi-
outdoor establishments of the Bois de Bou-

4

Paris a la Carte 59

logne and the Champs Elysees; in its more
sordid and professional quality in the sup-
per places of M ontmartre.

The outdoor restaurants of Paris are
unique. Architects, landscape gardeners,
and nature have combined
with chefs and maitres
d'h6tel to endow them with
a theatrical allure so extrava-
gant that, even in broad day,
they give one a strong sense of unreality.

The Chateau de Madrid, a hotel run by
the proprietors of the Restaurant Henry, is
the latest of them. It occupies, almost foot
for foot, the site of a chateau built by
Francois I. in the early part of the sixteenth
century, and possesses one or two souvenirs
of the original structure. The other outlying
places, the Pre Catelan, Pavilion d'Armenon-
ville, Cascade, etc., are arranged on a differ-
ent plan, each having a central pavilion — a
low building with large dining-rooms below,

60 Paris a la Carte

private ones above, and wide verandas,
glass-enclosed or not, according to the
weather. Around these
central buildings lie gar-
dens sheltered by opulent
trees, walled in by secretive hedges, filled
with the scent of flowers, the sound of
music, and the sense of sophisticated
seclusion.

Especially during the racing-season is the
show at the Pre Catelan and Armenonville
spectacular. For dejeuner, tea, and dinner
they are crowded, but have, perhaps, their
largest throng for what Paris calls the "feeve
o'clock." For this function, which the French
now indulge in quite as regularly as the
English, an endless line of vehicles arrives
with women in toilettes elegant and extreme
beyond the belief of Anglo-Saxon man, and
French men of fashion, gommeux, with
pointed shoes, English clothes, canes, silk
hats, monocles, and quick, appreciative

Paris a la Carte 61

glances for such women as are either beauti-
ful, chic, or bizarre.

Effective as they are by day, it is not
until night that the great hour of the al
fresco restaurants arrives. At dinner-time,
and through the evening, they are like Be-
lasco stage-settings, very perfect and en-
tirely theatrical. There is the play, but it
does not progress. It is the same, hour
after hour, night after night, year after
year.

The performers come in two by two, take
tables on the verandas, or in the little bow-
ers and kiosks of the gardens — men with
extraordinary beards and mustachios, wom-
en with mysteriously wise eyes and fascina-
ting gowns — to consume rare wines and
viands brought (to music) by discreetly
self-effacing waiters. What place could be
more fitting for a rendezvous (ah, beautiful
French word!) with some one's tremulously
lovely wife — perchance your own?

62 Paris a la Carte

Best of all these garden spots, I like to
dine at the Cafe Laurent in the Champs
Elysees. Though smaller than Ledoyen's
across the way (where a thousand people
will dine of a summer's eve-
ning), there is something su-
perlative about it : its cooking
and service are superb, its
patrons very fashionable, its
gardens gloriously theatric, and its prices —
well, they are, too.

The garden would make a perfect setting
for the second act of a "comedy of manners,"
in which one of the characters is a beautiful
young Russian woman with a gown cut to
an acute V in the back. She would rest a
pair of lovely elbows on the table, hold
a cigarette between jewelled fingers, and
gaze off through the trees at the necklace of
amethyst lights that encircles the Theatre
Marigny. The men would be ambassa-
dors, and they would talk in well-bred

Paris a la Carte 63

voices while an orchestra played throbbing
waltzes.

If, on the other hand, I wished to set a
scene for a "Zaza" sort of drama, about an
innocent youth and a fiery, wiry actress, I
should betake myself to the Cafe des Am-
bassadeurs, a stone's throw from the Lau-
rent. There I should have my rich young
hero (he would have to be rich to do it)
take a table in the first row of the balcony,
where one may dine while witnessing the
performance in the half-outdoor music-hall
below. The plot of the play for which I
select this scene would depend upon the
country for which it was written. If it was
for America, it would hinge upon the efforts
of the actress to send the boy back to home
and mother, but if for France, upon her
efforts to keep him away from them. For
the French use vinegar and pepper where
we use cream and sugar.

But it is getting late. We must decide

64 Paris a la Carte

between repose and prowling. Of course, I
recommend that we go home, but you — ah!
I can tell from the glitter of your eye that
the nocturnal restlessness of Paris is sur-
ging through your veins. Well, as you must
sit up, let's go to Fysher's.

Fysher's is not properly a cafe. It is
(rather improperly, I fear) a wine-room,
where nothing but cham-
pagne is served ; a fast, chic,
boulevard edition of the old-
time cabaret, in which the
threadbare poets and composers of Mont-
martre rendered their compositions before
shabby, appreciative audiences, sipping
sirops, beers, or absinthes.

The place consists of one small room, full
of chairs and tables. Through the three hours
that follow the striking of eleven it is packed
with fashionably dressed men and women,
representing "smart" society, the stage, and
the "upper class" of the demi-monde.

Paris a la Carte 65

Fysher's has been running several years,
but has, both metaphorically and literally,
been kept dark. Double doors and shut-
ters keep the light and music from getting
out, and stray nocturnal wayfarers and
fresh air from getting in. When the room
becomes hot and smoky, a waiter under-
takes to purify the atmosphere with a fine
spray from a nickel-plated squirt-gun,
charged with perfume. Real ventilation
would, as a friend of mine remarked, seem
to the French unpatriotic.

Fysher, who is something of an artist,
rises now and then and sings French
love-songs written and composed by him-
self— tender, lilting bits, of the type made
known to American theatre-goers by Mau-
rice Farkoa and Henri Leoni. The senti-
ments in Fysher's songs run to such
declarations as:

If life were one long kiss,
I would choose your lips for a dwelling place
5

66 Paris a la Carte

and the rhymes to such combinations as
tendresse — caresse — ivresse, which are the
French equivalents, more or less, of our own
old favourites, lady love — stars above —
turtle dove.

There are other singers who alternate
with Fysher, and sometimes a volunteer is
found among the tables. One of the regular
singers whom I heard there last year, a
pretty young woman with a vase-like figure
and a bell-like voice, is starring in opera in
America this year. The other, I think it
safe to say, will never sing in opera. She
bawls gay tunes in a raucous voice, but her
personality is so humourously engaging
that people laugh the moment she stands
up.

I have no idea of spoiling Fysher's by
telling you exactly where it is. If you find
it, you must find it for yourself or get some-
one else to show you. The only clue that
I shall give is this: that from the step of

SHE IS STARRING IN OPERA IN AMERICA THIS YEAR.

Paris a la Carte 67

the Cafe de Paris, you can very nearly
throw a gold piece (or a handful of them)
to Fysher's darkened doorway.

Two classes of night restaurants are left
to us when Fysher's closes. There is Max-
im's and the similar, if less objectionable,
places of Montmartre on the one hand, and,
on the other, the little-known dives of the
"Apaches'1 both in Montmartre and near
Les Halles, the great markets of the city.
If the former are dissolute and foolish, the
latter are really dangerous, for they are in-
fested by the lowest characters.

Only those who know Paris well should
venture into night resorts in doubtful neigh-
bourhoods. All the so-called "gaiety"
that any normal person wishes may be
found in well-known places like the Rat
Mort and 1'Abbaye. The stray sociologist
alone should think of penetrating to the
lower depths, and him I advise to stay
away.

68 Paris a la Carte

Le Pere de Famille, Le Grand Comptoir,
Le Chien qui Fume, Le Lapin Sautant, Le
Caveau des Innocents, etc., clustering about

Les Halles, are, for the

most part, shabby like-
nesses of the Mont-

THE CAFES OF
THE "APACHES'

martre restaurants.
With the exception of the last-named, they
have cafes and bars on the ground floor,
and restaurants above ; and usually there is a
red-coated orchestra, composed of hunch-
backs or otherwise grotesque musicians.
To these places come the ''Apaches" (a word
which the French have borrowed from
among our Indian names, to designate
a bloodthirsty villain), the "voyous," or
toughs, who hang about the markets, and
the "maqueraux," with their women. To
some of them, especially the Grand Comp-
toir, which is the largest and perhaps the
most orderly of them all, occasionally come
slumming parties from the fashionable

Paris a la Carte 69

world of Paris; but foreigners are never
seen.

The crowds arrive between midnight and
two o'clock, and stay through until morn-
ing, dancing, singing the latest ribald songs,
breaking chairs and bottles, and occasion-
ally shedding blood. Just as the purest
French is said to be spoken in the city of
Tours, the impurest is spoken in these res-
taurants. It is the argot of the underworld,
and is called the "langue verte." The most
poisonous-looking place of all is the Caveau
des Innocents, a low, vaulted cellar, with a
doorway so small that one must stoop to
enter, and a series of narrow little rooms,
in which desperate characters congregate
about tables covered with the names of
"Apaches," which they have carved with
their murderous knives: "Casque d'Or,"
"Coup-couteau de la Bastille," etc.

Outside the great Halles roar with work
as the creaking two-wheeled carts, which

7° Paris a la Carte

have come in from the country, are emptied
of their produce. And when, at five or six
o'clock in the morning, the fetid cafes close
at last, they are hemmed in by barricades
and breastworks of fresh vegetables.

This brief descent into the underworld
has been a slight digression from the line of
march. The logical ending of a night of
prowling in the Paris cafes is, as everybody
understands, in Montmartre. To speak of
Montmartre anywhere but at the very end
of this article would be to "put the carte
(du jour) before the hors (d'ceuvre)."

Very well. You and I have come from
the boulevards below. Our taxi has panted
up the "mountain,"
between rows and rows

MONTMARTRE

of darkened houses,
steering a straight course for the beacon
lights of the Place Pigalle. Nearing the top,
we have reached the realm of illumination,
the big electric sign of the Bal Tabarin, of

Paris a la Carte 71

the Restaurant Lajeunie, the Royal,
Monico's, Pigalle's, and at last, upon the
plateau of the Place Pigalle, 1'Abbaye and
the Rat Mort.

One can never tell just what is going to
happen in 'Montmartre. The evening may
be dull or may be gay. Banalities, absurd-
ities, comicalities, or odd adventures may
be there awaiting us. We shall see Spaniards,
Italians, Russians, Arabs, Scandinavians,
Germans, Englishmen, Turks, and our own
fellow-countrymen in search of amusement,
mischief, vice. We shall see a sprinkling
of respectable American women, with their
escorts, clean-looking women, wide-eyed and
curious, who decorate these bawdy supper
rooms like lilies growing in a heap of refuse ;
we shall see other American women, shrewd
sagacious buyers, who have come to Paris
for the purchase of model hats and gowns
for the coming season in New York,
Chicago, San Francisco; and we shall see

72 Paris a la Carte

still others: adventuresses, women who
have drifted here on the crest of one ad-
venture, and are floating idly in the eddies,
waiting for another one to roll along.
The easy, indolent, elegant, and relatively
inexpensive life of Paris appeals to American
women of all classes. Just as quantities of
well-to-do and rich ones have their apart-
ments on or near the Champs Elysees and
the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, and
quantities of others, who have tiny in-
comes, live comfortably in cosey little flats
about the Latin Quarter, so also do in-
numerable women of our demi-monde float
over and stay, held by the charm of Paris,
by the modest cost of living, by the horse-
racing, the gambling, the revelries of hectic
nights.

New York's Lobster Palace Society has
always its ambassadors in Paris, and anyone
unfortunate enough to know by sight the
more conspicuous figures of the Manhattan

AN
IMPORTATION

FROM
NEW YORK

Paris a la Carte 73

Tenderloin is sure to find familiar faces in
the Paris restaurants.

"Mr. Feldman," a figure well known to
the head waiters of Long Acre Square, will
surely be in Paris. You will see him enter
the Cafe de Paris,
Maxim's, or 1'Abbaye
with the same air of
being "someone in par-
ticular" that you have
seen him wear when entering the Knicker-
bocker grill-room, Martin's, the "other"
Martin's, or Churchill's in New York. And
trailing on behind him you will see the same
large lady in staccato scents and a dimin-
uendo dress.

To anyone who sees our "Mr. Feldman"
walk into a restaurant it is instantly ap-
parent that he is not made of common clay,
but rather of truffles and pate de foies gras.
Neither in New York nor Paris is it neces-
sary for him to reserve tables in advance.

74 Paris a la Carte

No matter what a crush there is he always
sails majestically in and finds a place. If
the regular tables are occupied a special
one is carried in and laid for him.

The "Mr. Feldman" kind of man distrib-
utes largesse with a plump and lavish hand.
He has cocktails named for him, drinks
vintage champagnes, sends for the head
waiter, calls him "Louis," dresses him down,
and gives him a twenty-dollar bill.

"Mr. Feldman" is sometimes young, but
usually he is middle-aged and just a little
bald. His complexion is of either a pasty
cream colour, or an apoplectic purple,
shading off to a lighter tone about the
prominently upholstered neck. There are
deep wrinkles beside the nose, fleshy pouches
beneath the eyes, diamonds on the fingers,
and very fancy buttons on the waistcoat.
The whole is mounted upon creaky legs.

While "Mr. Feldman" lives, he lives very
high, and when he comes to die, he does it

Paris a la Carte 75

so quickly that he actually interrupts him-
self in the midst of ordering another bottle.
His colour changes. If he was purple, he
turns mauve; if cream-coloured, a lovely
shade of pale green. An attentive waiter
catches him as he starts to flop over on the
wine coolers. He has stopped ordering, so
his friends know he must be dead.

But we were in Montmartre. Mont-
martre is dissipated, but not in the
oppressive, ugly manner of the New York
Tenderloin. Many of the women who go
regularly to the Abbaye, the Rat Mort, and
Rabelais', are startling in appearance, and
though there is no doubt as to the business
they are bent on, they have a superficial
gaiety, a native wit, which the Anglo-Saxon
sometimes finds alluring.

"No wonder," I heard an American
woman say to her husband, as she watched
a youthful Briton gaily buying bottle after

76 Paris a la Carte

bottle of champagne for a group of bizarre
young women in the Abbaye, "no wonder
that young Englishmen have such a jolly
time in Paris. Think of the dulness of the
women that they see at home!"

We have come to Montmartre "for fun,"
and perhaps we can have fun, if we keep
our minds trained up-

on th

"THE MOUNTAIN"

of things. We must
persuade ourselves
that the dancing-girls are there from terp-
sichorean passion; not for the paltry francs
they gain. We must regard the extrava-
gantly costumed cocottes as happy nymphs,
and must believe that, between hectic nights
in cafes and slumbrous days in stuffy rooms,
the "filles dejoie" lead joyful, soul-satisfying
lives. In short, we must accept the point of
view of other casual visitors, and think that
happiness is manufactured by the topsy-
turvy formulas of Montmartre.

Paris a la Carte 77

Failing to accomplish this inversion, we
shall see in the region of the Place Pigalle
only a sample of that sad, artificial gaiety
which exists in any city where the "lid is
off."

It is to the credit of the French and of
Montmartre that one sees but little drunk-
enness up there. And it is to the discredit
of Americans that they supply such as there
is. No more excuse for inebriety exists in
Montmartre than in an insane asylum.
The place is crazy enough without the aid
of an excess of alcohol. It is a distorted,
iridescent world, seen through the bottom
of a goblet; a dusty, dirty dream, full of
colour, noise, and confusion, peopled with
caricatures, and smelling stale as a plush
dress on which a goblet of champagne has
been upset. And there you sit and sit until
the blue dawn begins to percolate through
roofs of glass, and things and people fade
and melt in the mixed lights.

A

MONTMARTRE
DAWN

78 Paris a la Carte

You grow depressed. It is another morn-
ing— another day to be met and coped with.
You shut one eye, relight your cigar, call
for checks and coats, and leave.

As you go into the street, a tall, hand-
some girl from one of the other restaurants
is passing toward her
home. Over her lovely
evening dress is thrown
a wrap of costly lace.
Her ebony-black hair is
piled up wonderfully, and in place of a hat
she wears two large rosettes of lace and
ribbon, fastened to the ends of hatpins.
She turns her slanting, inscrutable black eyes
to you, notes that you are an "Anglais,"
and says, in staccato accents, as she goes
upon her way:

" 'Allo, my dear. Sink of me."
A little morning pleasantry, in passing
— that is all.

The Paris dawn is very beautiful. It is

Paris a la Carte 79

blue and cold and pure, and as you clatter
home through narrow, sleeping streets, the
mad scenes of the night, which have been
swinging in your brain like windmills, are
as the horrors of a past delirium. Paris has
been born again, beautiful and virginal, as
only you, who see her by the light of dawn,
may ever see her.

Yet, even then, she is unreal. The trees
are unreal, the long line of two-wheeled
carts and the piles of fresh vegetables —
green, yellow, white — arrayed within them,
are unreal; the man who is washing down
the streets with an absurd hose, on rollers,
is unreal ; the house before which your cab-
man stops is unreal; and when, later on,
you offer it to some one, you will find that
the change the cabman gave you was unreal,
as well.

END

BOOKS BY JULIAN STREET

The Need of Change. Illustrations by Horace
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