If notes were pleasing to
me, I could here seize the opportunity of making some very learned
remarks. I should, perhaps, go into a profound disquisition, but I am
about to paint the paradise of these bacchanalians; the colours are
prepared--let us finish the picture.
If they drink at Guillotin's they eat also, and the mysteries of the
kitchen of this place of delights are well worthy of being known. The
little father Guillotin has no butcher, but he has a purveyor; and in his
brass stewpans, the verdigris of which never poisons, the dead horse is
transformed into beef a-la-mode; the thighs of the dead dogs found in Rue
Guenegaud become legs of mutton from the salt-marshes; and the magic of a
piquant sauce gives to the _staggering bob_ (dead born veal) of the
cow-feeder the appetizing look of that of Pontoise. We are told that the
cheer in winter is excellent, when the rot prevails; and if ever (during
M. Delaveau's administration) bread were scarce in summer during the
"massacre of the innocents," mutton was to be had here at a very cheap
rate.
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