THE ANCIENT CABARETS OF PARIS

Many of Them Have Survived Two Years of the War

ROGER BOUTET DE MONVEL

I WANT to talk about the Parisian cabarets, not so much the cabarets in your American sense of the word—a sense that primarily means dancing—but about the bistros, the real cabarets, where the proprietor often waits on you in his shirt-sleeves, and where the good people of the quarter come on Sundays to drink each other's health. Before the war these cabarets could be recognized by their window fronts, by their golden vine-branches above the dopr, and by their iron bars, surmounted by a pine cone, reminiscent of the Bacchic cult. In certain quarters of Paris there are—after two years of war—still some left whose fagades remain unchanged. On the Rue des Blancs - Manteaux there is the famous Cabaret of "L'Homme Arme"; on the Rue des Halles, that of "L'Enfant Jésus"; another, on the Rue Montmartre, has written on its signboard,

"A la Grace de Dieu"; and there are always the cabarets of "La Biche,"

"La Colombe," "La Coquille d'Or" and "Le Soleil d'Or."

They have been there for centuries, intact, so to speak, with their antique devices, their shaky fagades, each having entertained its generations of drinkers.

Alas! Many of the others have believed it their duty to assume a modern air, and, renouncing their traditional ornaments, they have replaced the bars and vine-branches by mirrors. They have kept only the counter, the famous counter, where so many friends have come to treat each other to a glass in passing, and behind which the proprietress of the place, surrounded by her phials and flagons, sat enthroned. The kitchen also remains, for, if one drinks before the counter, one generally lunches and dines in the back-shop, and though the dishes are simple, they have, nevertheless, a relish likely to content the most particular of palates.

I confess that I have never yet had occasion to sample the cooking of "L'Homme Arme," of "L'Enfant Jesus," or of "Le Soleil d'Or," but since the war I have chanced to seek refuge in similar places, nor have I been so badly off there. Everything depends on being acquainted with them, and in knowing how to ask for the right thing. To demand a homard Thermidor or peches Melba from the first waiter to put in an appearance, would be to expose one's self to grave mortifications; just as it would be a mistake to try to find a real cabaret around the Madeleine or the Opera.

SOME day, then, when you are tired of the Cafe de Paris, or when you feel moved to explore unknown regions, wander a little around the Bastille. I don't recommend to you "Les Quatre Sergents de Rochelle," an overpraised place, and much inferior to its former reputation; but, if I were you, I should stop at the "Yendanges de Bourgogne," at the corner of Rue Saint-Antoine and Rue Lerdiguiere. Oh! The appearance of the place is unassuming, and you will find no one there but small tradesfolk, in whose bearing there is manifestly nothing to dazzle you. Never mind, go in just the same. First there is a private dining-room, which is worth visiting. This gallant rendezvous looks like a cutthroats' den, and rather reminds one of the stage-setting for a fifth act at the Theatre de l'Ambigu. However, one gets used to it, and I remember having dined there repeatedly with very good cheer. I have also dined in a miniature cabaret, cut into the staircase, where the most elementary prudence demands that one should remain seated. In an upright position it is quite evident that one's head would be broken against the ceiling. Were I to admit it, this little cabinet has left me other souvenirs, of a not unpleasant sort. Finally, at the "Vendanges de Bourgogne," I am even acquainted with a room remarkable for its tapestries. Here can be seen a group of men, women and children in Louis Quinze costumes, all very grotesquely done; but one is moved very quickly by realizing that this is the portrait of the tavern keeper and his family, disguised for the occasion as marquises and shepherdesses. In a corner, a gentleman, wearing a three-cornered hat, is playing the guitar. Wellinformed people have assured me that this gentleman was once the most faithful customer of the place; that he came there morning and night, and ate like a Gargantua, until the day when he fell dead with his nose on his plate, the victim of a stroke. The grateful tavern keeper decided to reserve a place for him among the members of his family, and to perpetuate in this way such a beautiful example.

removes us somewhat from our subject, which is the cooking. I shall tell you, then, that at the "Vendanges de Bourgogne" the oysters are good; but, if I were choosing, I should ask for soles au vin blanc. Nowhere else have I found this dish so savory. After the soles an vin blanc, I should ask for a Chateaubriand aux pommes de terre soufjlees —after the Chateaubriand, some frontage de Brie, usually it is perfect—after the cheese, some tarte de la inaison, the tart is exquisite, positively exquisite!—and at last I should season all by a little glass ofKirsch—it is first class, if they still have the same. As for wines, in spite of the establishment's signboard, don't expect anything marvelous. They are good, and that's all. It is just as well to see things as they are.

A LAST bit of advice. Let Justin wait on you. Justin is the older waiter here (there never were more than two), and besides he is a most cordial and respectable old fellow. Excellent Justin! I don't know his past history, and I often ask myself at the end of what series of adventures he happened to end up in the Bastille quarter. On this score our man remains mute; but by his bearing, his speech, and by a certain cut of hair and beard, it is evident that Justin has known better days. Nevertheless, in spite of the poverty of the setting, arid of the unassuming character of his customers, he has preserved a well-bred air, with his Bourbon nose, his traditional whiskers, and that which remains of his hair, some white strands, which he still knows how to turn to an astonishing account, thanks to ingenious stratagems. Notwithstanding a warm welcome, a charming bonhomie, Justin is naturally inclined to pompousness, I might even say to magniloquence. He expresses himself with polish and ceremony, and his behavior is like his language. He is benevolent, but he is dignified, very dignified, and very justly proud of the function which he exercises. Let us salute in this faithful servant the valet of tradition, the valet a la française, the one of whom it might be said that he still serves for honor.

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BUT here we have been rambling from the culinary question. We were considering wines. Now, if I were in your place, and were looking for wines, I should simply leave the Bastille quarter. On the Rue de la Banque, number 20, I know a cabaret, which bears the sign: "A la renommée des vins d'Anjou." It isn't a palatial affair. You will find the eternal zinc counter, marble tables, and no flowers on the tablecloth. But I beg of you to taste the offerings of the establishment; order a buisson d'ecrevisse, and eat some poulet à l'cstragon. If you don't declare yourself satisfied, it will astonish me very much. A confidential hint. The place is managed by a most hospitable woman, and the cooking is done by a large person, named Marie. She is an excellent creature, very sensitive to compliments, and very deserving of them. There is, indeed, a man in the case, .but he is reduced to a perpetual state of intoxication. What can you do about it! It is evident that one's existence cannot be passed with impunity at "La renommée des vins d'Anjou."

NOT far from here, near the Halles, on Rue Monorgueil, there is another cabaret, very well known, and much frequented, especially since the war. I do not know its number, but every coachman who knows how to live will lead you, with his eyes shut to "L'Escargot d'Or." I shall begin by telling you that all is perfect there, and add that if you don't want to meet anyone, this isn't the place to go. Women have hardly dressed themselves for two years, men have renounced dress-clothes, and the large restaurants are flapping with only one wing. The people of fashion who remain, meet each other at cabarets, and "L'Escargot d'Or," just as not a few others of the same sort, have inherited the habitues of Paillard and of Larue. A confidential hint. "L'Escargot d'Or" is managed by a woman, and the proprietor is drunk from morning to night. Ah! The calling of tavernkeeper is not without its dangers.

FOR a change of quarter, I recommend to you the establishment of Monsieur Baty, at the corner of the Boulevard Respail and the Boulevard Montparnasse, a distant region, but one which has its charm.

The wines of Chinon and of Vouvray are remarkable, and I assure you that it is a place of marvelous dining, especially on fine days, when one is seated on the pavement, out in the open. And then there is Madame Adele, who perches high up on Montmartre, Place du Tertre. No one knows better than she how to fix les haricots verts or the bocuf Bourguignon. At the end of the repast, if the spirit should move her, it may be that to crown the feast she will sing for you "La Mere Godichon," or "Les Pompiers de Nanterre." Unfortunately the spirit seldom moves Adele; she is even of a somewhat capricious disposition, and there is nothing to guarantee that she won't shut the door in your face. This is a great pity, for there, at least, you would have a chance to meet absolutely no one.

I HAVE chosen as the title for this article, "The Cabarets of Paris." I am, of course, perfectly well aware that the title is open to the gravest misconception in America where the word "cabaret" is almost invariably used to denote dancing, even a theatrical entertainment. With us in Paris the true meaning of the word cabaret is a wine shop; that is to say, a little restaurant where wines and a moderate dinner or luncheon may be secured. Curiously enough, it was at the larger restaurants in Paris—in no sense of the word cabarets—that dancing and vaudeville entertainments were first introduced. I have in mind the Cafe de Paris, and other restaurants of a similarly ambitious character. It was shortly after such a departure on the part of the Cafe de Paris that Americans in Paris began calling such restaurants "cabarets."

I need hardly say that since the end of July, 1914, when the Great War began, all such entertainments have been abandoned in Paris. A new spirit—a spirit of economy and self-denial—has been instilled in the breasts of every Frenchman.