A Gastronomic Garland

CHARLES G. SHAW

THAT really first-rate restaurant cooking is not to be had outside Paris—or its immediate environs —is assuredly a firm belief instilled in the minds of many. That the chefs of the French capital stand, out of all the world, alone is a further not unaccepted fact. Feverishly that gourmet who will smack his lips at the mere thought of a Caille a la Souvar off from Larue's or a canard au sang from the Tour d'Argent, will, on the other hand, gape in open-mouthed horror at the very notion of sitting down to an American-cooked meal. And yet, were this same fastidious fellow to be whisked away, blindfolded, on a magic carpet, from France to the ,U. S. A. and fed some of the specialties from certain of our more worthy establishments, he would, without hesitancy and with equal gusto, pronounce them every bit as ambrosial. His field, moreover, would be no limited one.

To name more than a small fraction of the country's choicest eating resorts in an article of this length would be obviously attempting the impossible. And hence—out of a nation-wide selection—I shall touch upon only a chosen few, together with their major and more memorable dishes. That I shall fail to set down numerous others dear to one's heart and esophagus I regretfully concede; but with the apology that it has been necessary due to limited space and not because I have deemed them unworthy of mention. But enough. Let us consider those at hand.

In New Orleans, at the famed and ancient Antoine's, surrounded by a low-ceilinged, dimly-lighted chamber, I would direct the seeker of luscious things to the oysters baked on steaming embers and cloaked in thin curls of the crispest bacon known to mortal, with the slightest garniture of chopped chives. At the Villa Marguerita, couched behind the beveled-windows of Charleston's noble Battery, I would make a note of the glazed Virginia ham, with candied sweet potatoes and the guinea fowl, grilled in its own gravy. At Los Angeles' Victor Hugo, the hors d'oeuvres are not to be missed —a veritable feast in themselves, embracing an array of hand-picked anchovies, chopped and pickled beets, stuffed eggs, thon a Vhuile, and a fetching arrangement of sliced peppers, while at Hackney's inlet resort, on the northern end of Atlantic City's Boardwalk, one will readily acclaim the broiled live lobsters, bathed in a sauce of butter (with celery on the side) to be among the finest ever encountered.

In Philadelphia stands a sea-food house, called Boothby's, where the last word in minced clams, "panned and peppered with onions", are to be had for the asking, and in a Washington retreat, known as Harvey's, the pot roasts and kidney pies can be spoken of as nothing less than tangible dreams. Mitrovitch's, below the level of San Antonio's sidewalks, heralded far and wide for its flaked shrimps steeped in a garb of mayonnaise, too, should be catalogued along with Durgin and Park's, in the market district of Boston, a meeting place for those who would enjoy the finest planked shad or a done-to-a-turn double sirloin.

In Chicago there is the Marshall Field Grill, celebrated for its meats and fish; in Connecticut, the Wallingford Inn, for its chicken and waffles, Morey's in New Haven, for its Southdown chops and the Port of Missing Men, at Ridgefield, for its fowl and vegetables. In Baltimore there is the Hotel Rennert that ladles out the grandest sausages and buckwheat cakes made by man; in San Francisco, Frank's and Tate's—both houses of gastronomic fitness; in Pittsburgh, the White Horse, distinguished for its Baked Alaskas; and the new Chamberlain at Fort Munroe, where the Norfolk spots will cause the most phlegmatic to enthuse. At Mrs. Pickett's, in Atlanta, Georgia, one is served amidst a spectacle of other dainties, the tastiest home-made pies and puddings imaginable, while at the Patio, in Santa Barbara, beneath a starsplashed sky, the perfect touch in California cookery is artfully blended with its Spanish counterpart.

And still what a horde remains unchronicled!

In New England, at a certain wayside inn, well off the beaten track of Sunday motorists, may be daily relished mutton quite as marvelous as any to be gleaned in all Wales; in a Virginia shack on the waterfront, shellfish as fine as any to be had in Brittany; in New Jersey, in a smokedrenched hall, sauerkraut the equal of Bavaria's best; in Florida, beneath nodding palm trees, broiled pompano, than which none tastier exists.

That a deluge of mock restaurants (in the shape of drug-store-sandwichbars, cafeterias and automats) have flooded the country within recent years is granted. That a still larger number of such blotches upon the American scene will unquestionably drape the future is likewise granted, which fact, however, should in no way detract from the merits of the Genuine Article.

Richest of all in the country's gastronomic haunts naturally is New York, which city gives birth to a different crop every season, boasting new and succulent specialités by the score. True enough, a first-rate eating house is not made over night, it often requiring a span of years to achieve the proper seasoning, and while many a New Yorker will bemoan the fact that such glamourous haunts as Martin's, Delmonico's and Rector's are no more, many others of grade A calibre have come into being since the passing of those famous in former days.

Among these, I would particularly note the Polignac, cosy in its East Fifty-first Street setting, under the direction of the painstaking Peter and famed for its guinea hen Smitaine with raisins and wild rice; the Marguery, at 270 Park, super-mart and dazzling, which boasts a crepes Suzette and noisette of Venison Grand Veneur unequalled the world over; and the Colony on Madison, costly, true enough, hut then cost pales into insignificance when one considers its souffles San Faustino, its bisque of green turtle and Coeur Flottant, Merteilleux.

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For those who would seek adventure in cuisine, who would unearth a new sauce rather than behold the most dazzling debutante in all her diaphanous glory—for those who would eschew the formal raiment of evening, I must not omit the name of Lüchow, still intrenched in its time-honored quarters in Fourteenth Street—spacious, cheery, and festive—where, to the strain of a Strauss or Lehar waltz, one dines on a masterful Gedämpfte Rinderbrust or Prager Schinken mit Kartoffelsalat, topped off by a quince jam pancake fit for Olympus. Also there is Billy the Oysterman's, a few blocks uptown, with its Home Baked soft clam pie and filet of flounder ála Billy; Cavanaugh's, further west, where the choicest of oyster stews and tenderloins are to be had; the Three Star Chop House, in Forty-seventh Street, patronized for its sauerkraut juice cocktails, its steamed roast beef hash and toasted cheese and bacon; Dinty Moore's, a block south, famed for its double lamb chops and extra porterhouse steaks; Halloran's, on Sixth, that dishes out a more than gustful sugar cured ham; Ye Olde Dutch Tavern, in John Street, sought after for its beef ála mode with potato pancakes, and further down the street —Farrish's, for its lamb kidneys; Engel's new rathskeller, on West Forty-third, frequented for its lentil soup (with frankfurters) and Hamburger steak smothered in onions; Ye Olde Chop House, in Cedar Street, prominent for its grilled Woods Hole clams, the Cafe Thomas for its pot pies, and last, but by no means least, Broad's in East Third Street, the home of chowders and delectable roasts of all sorts.

Of a still different character must be included yet another type, embracing the Lafayette, that adorns a comer of University Place, the site of old Martin's (the first New York restaurant to specialize in French cooking), acclaimed throughout the land for its escargots a la Parisienne, and just around the corner, its elder brother—the Brevoort House, where the lettuce and beef salad puts to shame the feebleness of words; the Caviar—to be visited for its mushrooms with sour cream and bliny; the Beaux Arts, overlooking Bryant Park, for its moules marinieres, frogs' legs provençale and pêches flambées; the Fraunces Tavern, in Pearl Street, for its crab flakes; not to forget Mori's, down in Bleecker. best known for its onion soup and guava preserves.

Then, too, there is the Voisin, another Park Avenue retreat, where the pastry (and what pastry!) wagons are so high it requires a brace of waiters to move them; Le Mirliton, to be applauded for its roast duck and tea biscuits; the Crillon, on Lexington, for its squab chicken en casserole au beurre and its unbelievable alligator pears; L'Aiglon, for its aiguillette of Salmon Florentine; the restaurant Cyrano for its Whitebait Panachees and crepes Bar-le-Duc; the Meadowbrook, for its baby lamb steak saute, Mascotte; the Divan Parisien, for its breaded escalope of veal Maréchale, Sherry's, for its coupes aux fraises; and Pierre's for its marrons glacés.

In the matter of top-notch hotel cooking there is, of course, the Ritz, whose hachis de volaille is in a class by itself, the Madison, notable for its vol-au-vent of chicken á la reine, the Ambassador, whose creme de sante and tomate en Surprise cause the mouth to water at their very mention, the St. Regis, illustrious for its tournedos and patisserie, the Park Lane, for its Cassolette of Sweetbread Vendôme, the Vanderbilt for its tempting desserts, and the Plaza, for years eminent as a place to go for toothsome filets.

Of the vast Italian batch, I put at the top of the list Moneta's, located in Mulberry Street, a popular hang-out for newspaper men during the luncheon hour, where the fairest of raviolis and spaghettis are prepared by the ever-attentive Papa himself in the cleanliest kitchen it has ever been my lot to inspect. For Mexican delights I name the Restaurant Fornos, should one crave superb tamales, tortillas, or chile con carnes; and the CeylonIndia for its innumerable highlyspiced Singhalese curries.

And still another group remains, a group already considerable in numbers, yet increasing every day, to wit: those shielded by locked and bolted doors, the names of which, for the sake of discretion, I must, alas! withhold.

As for the nearby metropolitan roadhouses, whose aim is perfection in food rather than jazz, there is, first and foremost, Henri's at Lynbrook, a rambling rustic mansion, specializing in French cuisine and possessing one of the best chefs in all the Western Hemisphere, where a repast equal to any in the city of the Seine may be obtained. Among its countless offerings are potage Parmentier, tranche de saumon froid, ravigote and any of a hundred Elysian casseroles. A few miles to the north lies the Beau Sejour, just off the Motor Parkway, renowned for its broilers and lamb steaks, and at Sheepshead Bay there is Villepigue's, chiefly visited for its soft shell crabs and jumbo lobsters, as well as the Valley View Farm, at Hawthorne, a tavern whose preparation of hams would be difficult to match anywhere in Europe.

Withal, a highly varied and palatetickling galaxy, embracing every known brand of the nation's culinary art. A garland of gastronomy, in truth, fit to adorn the most finical of appetites.