The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1910-01-24


 reverently they applied themselves to the
 Elysian-like dishes borne to them from that land of pleasant odors-the kitchen; softly, in low serious tones. they conversed with Monsieur Casserole, the proprietor, who lowered over them with thin hands clasped and the hope that all was we'll Scornfully, rightly indignant that mercenary matters should have thei. place in dinner at the Cote dor, they laid the amount of their score on the counter in front of Madame Casserole, who sat there in her little cage year after year, sm- ing benignantly upon all over her encored chin Ah what a cafe was that!
 It was not, first of all, a place to eat; it was rather a quiet nook where. over an incidental cor dial one might dream oneself back across the sea and under the sidewalk awnings of the gay city, In the shade of the absinthe frapee.
 Into the sacred precincts of the Cote dor night stranger roamed. and Monsieur Casserole will tell you that he slipped delightedly his wine, and fingered, 10th to go the delicious omelet souffle. Then with nod he summoned the pro- prietor and spoke most pompously.
 ''This omelet,' said the stranger indicating an empty dish. "has pleased me more than can say. I am most anxious to go into your kitchen and in person thank the master of cookery who made It"s
 Sacre bleu what a wild indignity to propose. To suggest thus calmly journey, the great of the earth might we'll have taken with trepidation to imagine thus coolly the Interruption of Adolphe in his own stronghold; to risk thus ruthessly the
 
 eaten. And for what. pray? For the paltry ex- cuse of saying to him whose cookery had brought an emperor's smile For your omelet thank you" Mon Dieu! Monsieur Casserole, usually SC polite stifened almost rudely, as he informed his unknown guest:
 "What Monsieur suggests is quite impossible And so it was.
 There had been those who had been granted such audiences. The number of the worthy was five, and all of these, long before the honor had sought them out, had known the master by his works, had worshipped from afar, and had sent. now and again, by the dignity of Monsieur Casse- role words of adoraton and fealty There was Dupree who had dreamed of seeing his paintings in the Salon. but who saw them only as stirring scenes for Third Avenue melodrama; also little Margaret Gates who wrote for the magazines, only most of them didn't know it yet, and whom Dupree would have married had she not already been mar red to her Art, as well unfortunately possessed of a chin that would not allow her to sue for divorce even in the hungry days when she might easily have obtained it on the ground of non- support. And there Masters. the lean medical student who dreamed of feats of surgery, carving cadavers by day and the coteettes of the Cote dor by night and Hargrave hack of hacks, who ground out jokes-clipped them from Western newspapers. his enemies said-for comic operas that brought other men fame. And lastly Betty Martin-those who follow the society column in one of the big dailies that name, not in the list or those
 
 story. Such the roll of the privileged
 Such was the roster of the five who, dining to- rether late one evening in the Cafe Cote dor, all unsuspecting of the honor that was about to fall upon them came finally into the presence of the cook who had sent them daily for months beautiful evidence of his ability to fulfill the glowing prom lse of the Cote d'Or's card
 Adolphe stood in the center of his kitchen, mass ye bald below his snowy cap, his cherubic face undecided between smile and frown as the proper badge of greatness, but leaning slightly toward the 1atter-in the midst of the tools of his trade in the center of his marvellous kitchen-ah, that kitchen!
 voice. Afterwards they told another that at sound of his they reminded of the liquid sroothness of his boui1labaisse
 ssYou think am great" he said, and they made no attempt to deny 1t; "you call me master of cooks and not for moment have you guess the secret of my power. It lies here, and he lifted fold of his spotess apron, while the five marveled, There, in this, my apron. To you may be, an apron, nothing else. To me-parbleu! all what you say-divine fire! Twenty year ago he give 1t to me-he, my teacher the great master, Bertrand de Bouil1on himself, of Paris. From himself he took it, and to me it was given. Never am I without 1t. At night I carry it to my home, and Nanette femme makes it white for the morrow. As the painter or the sculptor has his model to furnish the pattern-ah, the inspiration to me is the apron of Bertrand de Bouillon. Without it-morbleu! that which cook you would not eat. For my flets, my omelets, my escargots, thank not Think not of Of him only think-of Bertrand de Bouion, he of the far-off Paris, who made known to the littlest thing I know; who gave his apron that I might wear it to his glory and that of France. Ventre-bleu! what man was thati"
 They talked more that night of Art, but the theme of their discourse always this wonder fuI apron this gift of Bertrand de Bouillon, the mighty chef of whom they had heard. They specu- lated the texture of this bit of cloth upon which huns the destiny of their precious cafe and the personality of the wife Nanette, to whom it intI usted each night that she might re- store it to whiteness while its wearer slept. gath