Not that I am necessarily unhappy when I take a solitary
meal. In this matter all depends upon the mood, and the mood frequently
depends upon influences too subtle to be analyzed. The dinner was as good
as I had a right to expect it to be. A dish on which the hostess had
evidently striven to use her best art was of orange mushrooms in a sauce
of verjuice; but the substantial one was a roast fowl--an unfortunate bird
that was just going to roost with an easy mind, when my coming upset the
arrangements of the inn and the poultry house. One fowl, at all events, had
had good reason to think it was an ill wind that blew me into the village.
It is a bad custom in rural France to kill fowls just when they are wanted
for the spit. Not only is it unpleasant to think that a creature is not
allowed time to cool before it begins to turn in front of the fire, but the
art of cooking is placed at a disadvantage by the practice. It is of no
use, however, trying to convince the people of their error, even when they
kill poultry for themselves and can choose their time: they will never do
things otherwise than in the way to which they have been accustomed. The
French are stubbornly conservative in everything except politics.
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