Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 15, August, 1851

"How do you prepare it?"

"By boiling dripping with onions, garlic, and spices; a good table-spoonful of this gives a nice taste to water, and you add every kind of vegetable you can obtain, and eat it with brown bread steeped in it. The very poor abroad almost live on it, and those who are better off take a sou from those who have no fire, pour tremper leur soupe; and surely on a cold day this hot mess is more acceptable to the stomach than cold bread and cheese."

"You seem very fond of onions with every thing."

"Yes; they make every thing taste well: now crevettes, what you call shrimps, how good they are with onions!"

"How! onions with shrimps! – what an odd combination! Tell me how to dress this curious dish."

"When the shrimps are boiled, shell them, take a pint or a quart, according to your family; make a rout, adding pepper; jump (sautez) them in it, adding, as they warm, minced parsley; when quite hot, take them off the fire, and stir round among them a good spoonful of sour cream. Pois de prud'homme and pois mange-tout are dressed the same, leaving out the flour and pepper."

"I don't know what pois you mean."

"The prud'hommes, when they first come in, are like lupin-pods, and contain little square white beans. You do not shell them till they are quite old, and then they are good also, but not nearly so good or so wholesome as in the green pods. The pois tirer or mange-touts are just like every other pea – only as you can eat the pods, you have them full three weeks before the others are ready, and a few handfuls make a good dish: you must take the string off both, as you do with kidney-beans, unless when young."

"I suppose you eat the white dry beans which are to be bought at the French shop here."

"No, never: they don't agree with me, nor indeed are they very digestible for any but strong workers."

"How should they be dressed?"

"Steeped from five to twelve hours; boiled till tender; then jumped with butter and parsley in a pan after draining well; and milk and an egg stirred in them off the fire, or what is much better, a little sour cream or thick buttermilk. They eat well with roast mutton, and are much more delicate than the red beans, which, however, I have never seen sold in this country."

"Do you drink tea?"

"I would do so were I confined to the wishy-washy stuff people of my rank in England call coffee – bad in itself, and worse prepared."

"How do you manage?"

"I buy coffee-beans, ready roasted or not: a coffee-mill costs me 1s. 6d., and I grind it every now and then myself; but I always freshen my beans by jumping them in a clean frying-pan, with a little new butter, till quite dry and crisp – very easy to do, and the way to have good coffee. I do a little at a time, and use that small coffee-biggen, which is now common even in this country: two well-heaped tea-spoonfuls serve me; but were I richer, I should put three. Upon these two spoonfuls I pour a cup of boiling water, and while it is draining through, heat the same quantity of milk, which I mix with the clear coffee, and I have my two cups. Chiccory I don't like, spite of the doctor, who says it is wholesome. All French doctors preach against coffee; but I, who have drunk it all my life, am of opinion they talk nonsense. You may take it stronger or weaker; but I advise you always to make it this way, and never try the foolish English practices of boiling, simmering, clearing, and such like absurdities and fussings. I generally, however, breakfast upon soupe à la citronille, which is very nice."

"Tell me how to make it."

"You cut your citronille (pumpkin, I believe you call it) in slices, which you boil in water till soft enough to press through a cullender into hot milk; add salt and pepper, stir smooth, and give one boil, and it is ready to pour upon your bread as a purée. A little white wine improves it, or you may make it au gras, mixing a little white meat gravy; but to my mind the simple soup is the best, although I like a bit of butter in it, I confess. Turnips and even carrots eat very well prepared this way, many think; but I prefer the latter prepared à la Crécy, which you do very well in England."

"You use a great deal of butter, which at one time of the year is very dear in England."

"And in France, also; therefore I buy it at the cheap seasons, put it on the fire, and give it a boil, skimming it well; then I let it settle, and pour off all that is clear into bottles and pots, and it keeps until the dear time is past, quite well for cooking."

"And eggs."

"Nothing so simple, when quite new laid; butter them well with fresh butter; remember if a pin's point is passed over, the egg spoils – rub it well into them, and place in jars, shaking over them bran or dry sand; wash when about to use them, and you would say they had been laid two days back only."

"Do you eat your prepared butter upon bread?"

"I never do any thing so extravagant as to eat butter upon bread: I prefer to use it in my cookery; but I don't think boiled butter would taste well so, though it fries beautifully on maigre days; and on others I use lard to my potato."

"Does one satisfy you?" asked I, laughing.

"Oh yes, if it is of a tolerable size. I cut it in pieces the size of a hazel-nut, dry, and put them into a common saucepan, with the least bit of butter, shaking them about every few minutes; less than half an hour does them; they are eaten hot, with some salt sifted over."

"I suppose you often have an omelet?"

"Not often; but let me offer you one now."

I had scarcely assented, when the frying-pan was on the fire to heat three eggs broken, some chives and parsley minced, and mixed with a little pepper and salt all together – Madame Miau throwing in a drop of milk, because she happened to have it, in order to increase the size of the omelet, although in general she seldom used it – and flour never. It was thrown upon the boiling fat, and as it hardened, lifted up with two wooden forks round and round, and then rolled over, never turned – the upper part, which was still slightly liquid, serving for sauce, as it were. This was all, and very good I found it. Another time she put in grated cheese, which was also excellent.

"I can't comprehend how you contrive to make every thing so good at so little expense," said I.

"There is no merit in making good things if you are extravagant: any one can do that."

"No, indeed, not every one."

"Cookery, in a little way," continued Madame Miau, "appears to me so simple. To fry well, the fat must boil before putting what you wish fried into it; and this you ascertain by throwing in a piece of bread, which should gild immediately: the color should be yellow or light-brown – never darker. To stew, the only rule is to let your meat simmer gently for a long time, and keep in the steam, and all sorts should be previously sautéd in a rout, which keeps in the juice: the look, also, is important, and a burnt onion helps the color."

Madame Miau, however, could cook more elaborate dishes than those she treated herself to, and I shall subjoin some of her recipes, all of which I have tried myself; and if the preceding very economical but thoroughly French dishes please as a foundation, I may give in a future number plats of a rather higher description.

STUDENT LIFE IN PARIS

The first impression of the Student of Students in Paris is one of curiosity. "When do the students find time to study?" is the natural inquiry. The next impression solves the mystery, by leading to the satisfactory conclusion, that the students do not find time to study. To be sure, eminent physicians, great painters, and acute lawyers, do occasionally throw sufficient light upon society to render its intellectual darkness visible. And the probabilities are that these physicians are not born with diplomas, as children are, occasionally, with cauls; nor the painters sent into the world with their pencils at their fingers' ends; nor the lawyers launched into existence sitting upon innate woolsacks. The inference, then, is, that education has done something toward their advancement, and that they, necessarily, have done something toward their education.

But the lives of great men are the lives of individuals, not of masses. And with these I have nothing now to do. It is possible that the Quartier Latin contains at the present moment more than one "mute inglorious" Moliere, or Paul de Kock, guiltless, as yet, of his readers' demoralization. Many a young man who now astonishes the Hôtel Corneille, less by his brains than his billiards, may one day work hard at a barricade, and harder still, subsequently, at the galleys! But how are we to know that these young fellows, with their long legs, short coats, and faces patched over with undecided beards, are geniuses, unless, as our excellent friend, the English plebeian has it, they "behave as such?" Let us hope, at any rate, that, like glow-worms, they appear mean and contemptible in the glare of society, only to exhibit their shining qualities in the gloom of their working hours.

It is only, then, with the outward life of the students that I have to deal. With this, one may become acquainted without a very long residence in the Quartier Latin – that happy quarter where every thing is subservient to the student's taste, and accommodated to the student's pocket – where amusement is even cheaper than knowledge – where braces are unrespected, and blushes unknown – where gloves are not enforced, and respectability has no representative.

If the student be opulent – that is to say, if he have two hundred francs a month (a magnificent sum in the quarter) he lives where he pleases – probably in the Hôtel Corneille; if he be poor, and is compelled to vegetate, as many are, upon little more than a quarter of that amount, he lives where he can – no one knows where, and very few know how. It is principally from among this class, who are generally the sons of peasants or ouvriers, that France derives her great painters, lawyers, and physicians. They study more than their richer comrades; not only because they have no money to spend upon amusement, but because they have, commonly, greater energy and higher talents. Indeed, without these qualities they would not have been able to emancipate themselves from the ignoble occupations to which they were probably born; unlike the other class of students, with whom the choice of a profession is guided by very different considerations.

It is a curious sight to a man fresh from Oxford or Cambridge to observe these poor students sunning themselves, at mid-day, in the gardens of the Luxembourg – with their sallow, bearded faces, bright eyes, and long hooded cloaks, which, notwithstanding the heat of the weather, "circumstances" have not yet enabled them to discard. Without stopping to inquire whether there really be any thing "new under the sun," it may be certainly assumed that the garments in question could not be included in the category. If, however, they are heavy, their owners' hearts are light, and their laughter merry enough – even to their last pipe of tobacco. After the last pipe of tobacco, but not till then, comes despair.

The more opulent students resemble their poorer brethren in one respect: they are early risers. Some breakfast as early as seven o'clock; others betake themselves by six to their ateliers, or lectures – or pretend to do so – returning, in two or three hours, to a later meal. This is of a substantial character, consisting of two or three courses, with the eternal vin ordinaire. When living in a hôtel, the student breakfasts in the midst of those congenial delights; the buzz of conversation, the fumes of tobacco, and the click of the billiard-balls. By means of these amusements, and sundry semi tasses and petits verres, he contrives to kill the first two or three hours after breakfast. Cards and dominoes are also in great request from an early hour, and present to an Englishman a curious contrast with his own national customs. In England, he is accustomed to find card-playing in the morning patronized only by the most reckless; in France it is the commonest thing in the world to see a pair of gentlemen with gray hairs and every attribute of respectability, employed, at nine o'clock, upon a game of écarte, enlivened by little glasses of brandy and the never-failing pipe. If a young Englishman in London, instead of an old Frenchman in Paris, was to addict himself to such untimely recreations, he would probably be cut off with a shilling.

When the heat and smoke of the café become too much even for French students, they drop off by twos and threes, and seek the fresh air. The Luxembourg Gardens are close by, and here they principally congregate. Amusing figures they look, too, in their present style of costume, which is a burlesque upon that of the Champs Elysées, which is a burlesque upon that of Hyde Park. The favorite covering for the head is a very large white hat, with very long nap; which I believe it is proper to brush the wrong way. The coat, is of the paletôt description, perfectly straight, without shape or make, and reaching as little below the hips as the wearer can persuade himself is not utterly absurd. The remainder of the costume is of various shades of eccentricity, according to the degree of madness employed upon its manufacture. As for the beard and mustaches, their arrangement is quite a matter of fancy: there are not two persons alike in this respect in the whole quarter: it may be remarked, however, that shaving is decidedly on the increase.

The Luxembourg Garden is principally remarkable for its statues without fingers, almond trees without almonds, and grisettes without number. Its groves of horse-chestnuts would be very beautiful if, in their cropped condition, they did not remind the unprejudiced observer – who is of course English – of the poodle dogs, who in their turn are cropped, it would seem, to imitate the trees. The queens of France, too, who look down upon you from pedestals at every turn, were evidently the work of some secret republican; and the lions that flank the terraces on either side, are apparently intended as a satire upon Britain. However, if one could wish these animals somewhat less sweet and smiling, one could scarcely wish the surrounding scene more so than it is, with its blooming shrubs and scarcely less blooming damsels, gayly decorated parterres, and gayly attired loungers, the occasional crash of a military band, and the continual recurrence of military manœuvres.

Just outside the gates, near the groves of tall trees leading to the Barrière d'Enfer, there is always something "going on" – more soldiers, of course, whom it is impossible to avoid in Paris, besides various public exhibitions, all cheap, and some gratuitous. On one side, you are attracted by that most irresistible of attractions – a crowd. Edging your way through it, as a late arrival always does, you find yourself, with the body of students whom you followed from the hôtel, "assisting" at the exhibition of a wonderful dog, who is doing nothing, under the direction of his master, in general a most repulsive-looking rascal, bearded and bloused as if hot for a barricade. The dog, by doing nothing, is not obeying orders; on the contrary, he is proving himself a most sagacious animal by having his own way in defiance of all authority. This the master attributes, not to the stupidity of the dog, but to the absence of contributions from the spectators. A few sous are showered down upon this hint; which proceeding, perhaps, brings out the dog's talents to a slight extent; that is to say, he is induced to lie down and pretend to be asleep; but it is doubtful, at the same time, whether his compliance is attributable to the coppers of his audience, or the kicks of his spirited proprietor. This is probably the only performance of the wonderful animal; for it is remarkable that whatever the sum thrown into the circle, it is never sufficient, according to the exhibitor, to induce him to show off his grand tricks, so high a value does he place upon his own talents.

Who, among a different class of the animal creation, does not know what is called a "genius," who sets even a higher value upon his talents, who is equally capricious, and who certainly has never yet been persuaded to show off his "grand trick?"

You are probably next attracted by a crowd at a short distance, surrounding an exhibition, dear to every English heart – that of "Punch." The same familiar sentry-box, hung with the same green baize, hides the same mysteries which are known to every body. But the part of "Hamlet" – that is to say, "Punch" – though not exactly omitted, is certainly not "first business." His hunch has lost its fullness; his nose, its rubicundity; and his profligacy, its point. He is a feeble wag when translated into French, and has a successful rival in the person of one Nicolet – who, by the way, gives its name to the theatre – and who is chiefly remarkable for a wonderful white hat, and a head wooden enough, even for a low comedian.

Nicolet is supposed to be a fast man. His enemies are not policemen and magistrates, as in the case of "Punch," but husbands – for the reason that his friends are among the wives. This seems to be the "leading idea" of the drama of Nicolet, in common, indeed, with that of every other French piece on record. If it were not considered impertinent in the present day to draw morals, I might suggest that something more than amusement is to be gained by contemplating the young children among the crowd, who enjoy the delinquencies of this Faublas for the million, with most precocious sagacity. It is delightful, in fact, to see the gusto with which they anticipate innuendoes, and meet improprieties half way, with all the well-bred composure of the most fashionable audience.

It is not customary among the students to wait for the end of Nicolet's performances. The fashionable hour for departure varies; but it is generally about the period when the manager's wife begins to take round the hat.

Any one who accompanies a party of students in their morning rambles, will most probably find himself, before long, in the "Closerie des Lilacs," which is close by the same spot. The "Closerie" is associated in name with lilacs, probably from the fact that it contains fewer flowers of that description than any other place in the neighborhood. It is a garden somewhat resembling Vauxhall; and at dusk there is an attempt made at lighting it up, especially on certain evenings in the week which are devoted to balls. These balls do not vary materially from any other twopenny dances, either in London or Paris; but as a morning lounge, the place is not without attractions. One of them, is the fact that there is no charge for admission, the proprietor merely expecting his guests to convenue something – a regulation which is generally obeyed without much objection.

Throughout the whole day may here be seen numerous specimens of the two great clashes of the quarter – students and grisettes, some smoking, and drinking beer and brandy in pretty little bosquets, others disporting themselves on a very high swing, which would seem to have been expressly constructed for the purpose of breaking somebody's neck, and to have failed in its object, somehow, like many other great inventions. Ecarte is also very popular; but the fact that its practice requires some little exertion of the intelligence, so very inconvenient to some persons, will always prevent it from attaining entire supremacy in a place so polite as Paris. To meet this objection, however, some ingenious person has invented an entirely different style of game; an alteration for which the Parisians appear deeply grateful. A small toad, constructed of bronze, is placed upon a stand, and into its open mouth the player throws little leaden dumps, with the privilege of scoring some high number if he succeeds, and of hitting the legs of the spectators if he fails. At this exciting game a party of embryo doctors and lawyers will amuse themselves at the "Closerie" for hours, and moreover exhibit indications of a most lively interest. The great recommendation of the amusement, I believe, is, that the players might be doing something worse; a philosophical system of reasoning which will apply to most diversions – from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter.