Here is an honest, unsophisticated country inn, frequented largely by country people. Monsieur Bergerand, its proprietor, belongs to a noble generation of painstaking chefs, and he is absolutely devoted to the ideal of scrupulous quality. It is a privilege to sit in his old-fashioned dining room, especially on a Sunday when it is filled with ruddy-faced Burgundian families in their best clothes. They have wit and charm, these robust people, and an earthy humor. La gastronomie joviale reigns here, in a most inspired form! Depending upon the season, Monsieur Bergerand can serve you woodcock, quail, partridge, truffles, trout, or tripe à la mode. He is famed for his chicken pâté in crust, for ham, for fish or pullets cooked in authentic Chablis, and for a most remarkable orange soufflé. Above all, his way of cooking that old faithful, coq au vin, is noteworthy (a recipe follows later). And it is a momentous experience to taste the gamut of white wines of Chablis, four or five of them in a crescendo of excellence, at Monsieur Bergerand’s hospitable board. Even without oysters!
In these still troubled days when food is none too plentiful, perhaps you are wondering how people like Monsieur Bergerand and Monsieur Huré can achieve such culinary splendor. The secret lies, I think, in their patient ability to make the absolute best out of whatever they have. As an illustration of this admirable Latin quality, may I cite a revealing experience in the chill February of 1944, when I visited a group of French Intelligence officers in Italy. They were quartered in the deserted town of Venafro. They invited me to stay for lunch, which I anticipated with no particular relish, since both French and Americans were living on canned rations at the time. To my stupefaction, the luncheon tasted like something from Lapérouse.
We began with a rich, undefinable brown soup. Then came a potato soufflé, crowned with a crackling cheese crust, scented with bacon. Finally there appeared at each place a small individual cabbage, stuffed with real meat and permeated with the perfume of fragrant herbs. This was more than my curiosity could stand, and I asked to meet the cook, ostensibly to congratulate him. He was a genial fellow, quite willing to divulge his secrets. He cleared up the mystery of the soup at once. It was based on American peanut butter, using dried peas and bacon rinds as foils. The soufflé was made from dehydrated potatoes, boiled, mashed, and whipped into a fluff by the expenditure of much muscular force. The delectable cheese crust came from little cans of cheese and bacon which were rescued from boxes of K rations, then grated and sprinkled atop the whipped potatoes.
But what about that stuffed cabbage? Eh bien, that was a little special, admitted the chef. First of all, he found the cabbages in an abandoned Italian garden. The herbs and spices he already had in his traveling kitchen. But that meat stuffing? “Eh bien, that comes from those cans of Mayott et Bayons which the Americans give us,” he explained. I failed to understand, and he became more explicit. “Voilà les Mayott et Bayons,” he said, showing me some cans of that dreary C Ration known as Meat and Beans. “It’s all quite simple. I open the box, and then with a knife I push the bayons to that side and keep the mayott on this side. After a good many boxes, I have enough mayott to stuff my cabbages. C’est tout!”
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