What applies in the main to the scenery applies in the main to the
food. France has the reputation of breeding the best cooks in the
world - and maybe she does; but when you are calling in France you
find most of them out. They have emigrated to America, where a
French chef gets more money in one year for exercising his art
- and gets it easier - than he could get in ten years at home - and
is given better ingredients to cook with than he ever had at home.
The hotel in Paris at which we stopped served good enough meals,
all of them centering, of course, round the inevitable poulet roti;
but it took the staff an everlastingly long time to bring the food
to you. If you grew reckless and ordered anything that was not
on the bill it upset the entire establishment; and before they
calmed down and relayed it in to you it was time for the next meal.
Still, I must say we did not mind the waiting; near at hand a
fascinating spectacle was invariably on exhibition.
At the next table sat an Italian countess. Anyhow they told me
she was an Italian countess, and she wore jewelry enough for a
dozen countesses. Every time I beheld her, with a big emerald
earring gleaming at either side of her head, I thought of a Lenox
Avenue local in the New York Subway. However, it was not so much
her jewelry that proved such a fascinating sight as it was her
pleasing habit of fetching out a gold-mounted toothpick and exploring
the most remote and intricate dental recesses of herself in full
view of the entire dining room, meanwhile making a noise like
somebody sicking a dog on.
The Europeans have developed public toothpicking beyond anything
we know. They make an outdoor pastime and function of it, whereas
we pursue this sport more or less privately. Over there, a toothpick
is a family heirloom and is handed down from one generation to
another, and is operated in company ostentatiously. In its use
some Europeans are absolutely gifted. But then we beat the world
at open-air gum-chewing - so I reckon the honors are about even.
This particular hotel, in common with all other first-class hotels
in Paris, was forgetful about setting forth on its menu the prices
of its best dishes and its special dishes. I take it this arrangement
was devised for the benefit of currency-quilted Americans. A
Frenchman asks the waiter the price of an unpriced dish and then
orders something else; but the American, as a rule, is either too
proud or too foolish to inquire into these details.
