The Cafe Anglais does not advertise itself in any
way. Until late years its name was in very small
golden letters on its front ; but some new glass plates
with big lettering have now been put over the win-
dows. A majority of people who did not know their
Paris used to pass its white-curtained windows without
any idea that it was a restaurant, and it still requires
a little moral courage for a stranger to walk into an
establishment which so obviously keeps itself to itself.
Once inside, however, this feeling disappears ; the
ladies in black silk who sit at a desk in the tiny hall
facing the door smile reassuringly, and either in the
triangular room to the right, where a gilt tripod gives
light in the centre of the floor, or in the two little
rooms to the left there is sure to be a table vacant.
There is the charm of perfect quiet about the Cafe
Anglais. No man dining there ever rushes away from
it to go to a theatre or a business appointment. If a
first act has to be missed, or somebody kept waiting,
it is a regrettable necessity ; but to hurry over a
lunch or a dinner at the Cafe Anglais would be a
crime as dastardly as lese-majeste.
The three downstairs rooms are all white ; the
service is absolutely silent ; the plump head-waiter
has learned the secret, which, until I became a
frequenter of the Anglais, I believed was only
possessed by the dignitaries of the Church, of being
fat without being hot ; the linen and the silver on
the tables are perfection. There are tiny details of
the service at the Cafe Anglais I always enjoy : I
*• Paris 9
like, for instance, the heart-shaped little paper slip put
on the neck of the bottle of any decanted wine, with
the cru and the year noted on it. I feel personal
satisfaction when M. Burdel, very distinguished in
appearance, with iron-grey hair en brosse , and with the
broad black ribbon of his eye-glasses stretching across
his shirt-front, walks through the rooms, bowing to a
client here, making a suggestion there. When he halts
at my table and inquires whether I have had a good
passage across the Channel, I almost purr with satis-
faction. I like the presence of my neighbours at other
little tables ; they all look as though they played some
important part in the great world, and most of them do.
The plats du jour at the Anglais are invariably
admirably prepared, and it is the one restaurant at
which I have eaten a Gigot de sept heures cooked
as it should be. The Pot age Ceremani , made from
the livers of fat fowls, is no longer on the daily bill of
fare at the Anglais, a fact which I do not regret, for
this particular delicacy used to cost £ i a plate when
served at a banquet, and I never pay as much as that
for my entire dinner. Duglere was the chef of the
Anglais, M. Burdel was one of his pupils, and a Barbue
Duglere is one of the special dishes of the house.
Potage Germiny used to be claimed as a dish of the
house both by the Anglais and the Maison Doree —
indeed, one of the MM. Verdier once told me a
detailed story of Casimir announcing to the Marquis
de St. Georges that he had invented the soup and
dedicated it to him, and of the tears of joy the Mar-
quis wept — but the Anglais can now alone assert its
right to it as a creation.
Page 6
Presented as published in 1903. Historical recipes may not meet modern food-safety standards. Cook from the modern interpretation, not the original instructions.
AI-modernized reading of the original text
The Cafe Anglais does not advertise itself in any way. Until late years its name was in very small golden letters on its front ; but some new glass plates with big lettering have now been put over the windows. A majority of people who did not know their Paris used to pass its white-curtained windows without any idea that it was a restaurant, and it still requires a little moral courage for a stranger to walk into an establishment which so obviously keeps itself to itself. Once inside, however, this feeling disappears ; the ladies in black silk who sit at a desk in the tiny hall facing the door smile reassuringly, and either in the triangular room to the right, where a gilt tripod gives light in the centre of the floor, or in the two little rooms to the left there is sure to be a table vacant. There is the charm of perfect quiet about the Cafe Anglais. No man dining there ever rushes away from it to go to a theatre or a business appointment. If a first act has to be missed, or somebody kept waiting, it is a regrettable necessity ; but to hurry over a lunch or a dinner at the Cafe Anglais would be a crime as dastardly as lese-majeste.
The three downstairs rooms are all white ; the service is absolutely silent ; the plump head-waiter has learned the secret, which, until I became a frequenter of the Anglais, I believed was only possessed by the dignitaries of the Church, of being fat without being hot ; the linen and the silver on the tables are perfection. There are tiny details of the service at the Cafe Anglais I always enjoy : I
Paris 9
like, for instance, the heart-shaped little paper slip put on the neck of the bottle of any decanted wine, with the cru and the year noted on it. I feel personal satisfaction when M. Burdel, very distinguished in appearance, with iron-grey hair en brosse , and with the broad black ribbon of his eye-glasses stretching across his shirt-front, walks through the rooms, bowing to a client here, making a suggestion there. When he halts at my table and inquires whether I have had a good passage across the Channel, I almost purr with satisfaction. I like the presence of my neighbours at other little tables ; they all look as though they played some important part in the great world, and most of them do.
The plats du jour at the Anglais are invariably admirably prepared, and it is the one restaurant at which I have eaten a Gigot de sept heures cooked as it should be. The Potage Cérémanii , made from the livers of fat fowls, is no longer on the daily bill of fare at the Anglais, a fact which I do not regret, for this particular delicacy used to cost £ i a plate when served at a banquet, and I never pay as much as that for my entire dinner. Duglere was the chef of the Anglais, M. Burdel was one of his pupils, and a Barbue Duglere is one of the special dishes of the house. Potage Germiny used to be claimed as a dish of the house both by the Anglais and the Maison Doree — indeed, one of the MM. Verdier once told me a detailed story of Casimir announcing to the Marquis de St. Georges that he had invented the soup and dedicated it to him, and of the tears of joy the Marquis wept — but the Anglais can now alone assert its right to it as a creation.