Art, Sauces, Honor

In France, perhaps in France alone, the traditions of la haute cuisine survive from the days of the great gastronomes. Alexandre Dumas Pere sighed: "My books piled one upon another have the stature of a colossus. Who has not read my Three Musketeers? Yet in my heart I desire above all things to die the greatest cook of our time!"e*

Among the French this extravagant exaltation of cookery leads occasionally to quaint results.

Charged with murder there was brought before the Paris Court of Assize last week M. Berthelin, one of the greatest of French chefs. He spoke with verve and passion in his own defense: "This creature Davillard, my dishwasher, my scullion, what did he do that I should stab him in the chest with my carving skewer? Ha! Nom de Dieu! Standing at his filthy sink, he declared that my sauces stink, that they engender colic in delicate stomachs. My sauces! Sacre bleu! The pride of my cuisine. The pride of France. . . . "Mes amis, the sensibilities, the temperament of a great chef cannot be thus baited with impunity! Blood swam before my eyes. ... I skewered him it is true. . . . Next day he died at the hospital. . . . But it was to avenge my art, my sauces, my honor!"

The Court, overcome, sentenced eloquent chef Berthelin to but one year in jail.

M. Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle (1760-1836) author of La Marseillaise employed similar tactics when arraigned before a French jury on a capital charge. "Frenchmen!" he cried, "Hear my defense: I am guilty, but I am the author of La Marseillaise!"

Amid the singing of that anthem by all present at the trial, he went scot*free.

*He was an amateur chef of the very first rank, once cooked to perfection a Homeric repast for 200 friends.

*From Scot and Lot, a phrase common in the records of English medieval boroughs, applied to those householders who were assessed to any payment (such as tallage, aid etc.) made by the borough for local or national purposes.