est foot forward. "Assuredly, monsieur, we will do
so," was the answer, "because it is simply what we are in the habit of
doing every day." The retort was sharp, but absolutely justified by
facts. One was never told at the Cafe de Paris that this or that dish
"could not be recommended," that "the fish could not be guaranteed."
When the quality of the latter was doubtful, it did not make its
appearance on the bill of fare. _A propos_ of fish, there was a story
current in the Cafe de Paris which may or may not have been the
invention of one of the many clever literary men who foregathered there.
It was to the effect that one of Guepet's predecessors--Angilbert the
younger, I believe--had cast a doubt upon the historical accuracy of the
facts connected with the tragic death of Vatel, the renowned chef of the
Prince de Conde. According to Angilbert, Vatel did not throw himself
upon his sword because the fish for Louis XIV.'s dinner had not arrived,
but because it had arrived, been cooked, and was found "not to be so
fresh as it might be." The elimination of those dishes would have
disturbed the whole of the economy of the _menu_, and rather than suffer
such disgrace Vatel made an end of himself. "For you see, monsieur,"
Angilbert is supposed to have said, "one can very well arrange a perfect
dinner without fish, as long as one knows beforehand; but one cannot
modify a _service_ that has been thought out with it, when it fails at a
moment's notice. As every one of my chefs is a treasure, who would not
scruple to imitate the sacrifice of his famous prototype; and as I do
not wish to expose him to such a heroic but inconvenient death, we take
the certain for the uncertain, consequently doubtful fish means no
fish."

Truth or fiction, the story accurately conveys the pride of the
proprietors in the unsullied gastronomic traditions of the
establishment, and there is no doubt that they were ably seconded in
that respect by every one around them, even to the _clientele_ itself.
Not a single one of the latter would have called the waiters by their
names, nor would these have ventured to rehearse the names of the dishes
in a kind of slang or mutilated French, which is becoming more frequent
day by day, and which is at best but fit as a means of communication
between waiters and scullions. Least of all, would they have numbered
the clients, as is done at present. A gentleman sitting at table No. 5
was "the gentleman at table No. 5,"