Remove the lobsters from the pan, separate the meat from the shells, and cut the meat into ¼-inch slices. Cook the liquid remaining in the pan until it is reduced to about half, and add 1 cup cream sauce (see January. 1953), 3 tablespoons heavy cream, and 2 table-spoons cognac. Strain, making sure all the fine bits of shell are removed. Add half the sauce to the sliced lobster meat, and keep the remaining sauce warm.
Butter 2 one-quart Soufflé molds and divide the lobster mixture between them.
In a saucepan melt ¼ cup butter, add ½ cup flour, and cook, stirring, until the roux turns golden. Stir in gradually ½ cup hot milk and cook for 5 minutes, whisking constantly. Season with ½ teaspoon salt and a little cayenne pepper. Bear 5 egg yolks until light and stir into the hot sauce. Bring the sauce almost to the boil, stirring briskly, fold in ¾ cup finely grated dry Swiss or Parmesan cheese.and cool. Fold in 6 stiffly beaten egg whites.
Cover the lobster in the two Soufflé dishes with this cheese Soufflé mixture. Bake the Soufflés in a hot oven (425° F.) for 18 to 20 minutes, or until they arc puffed and golden brown. Serve the reserved sauce separately.
Paris, as you may already have discovered, lived up to its reputation for fine food. The luscious snails at L'Es cargot on rue Montorgueil surprised my American friends, who had never before seen them quite so large, and the Coquille Saini-Jacques served at the Grand Vatel, made in the traditional way with thinly sliced, scallops and bits of orange-colored roe in a wine sauce, delighted them. We had many memorable lunchcons and dinners in Paris-at Jean Casenave's friendly place, at L'Auberge de la Truite, hidden in a small court not far from the Madeleine, at the Restaurant Drouant. near the Opera on rue Gaillon, and at many others that any visitor ran find in the pages of the estimable Guide Michelin. And, of course, there was the well-known Grill Room of the Crillon, across the street from the American Embassy, where we never failed to run into some American we knew.
On Good Friday morning we rented a car and drove leisurely south, leisurely, that is, by the way most Americans count touring time. I think all of us, however, would willingly have gone a mile an hour just to have been able to take in all the freshness and charm of the blossoming countryside, and to have had more time to eat the delicious food and drink the delightful wines to say nothing of longer visits with new-found friends and for me, with old-time associates.
By noon we had reached Moret-sur Loing, where we decided to lunch at the unpretentious Le Petit Vatel, run by M. and Mme. Marcel Robinex, who had come there years ago from Normandy. We picked out two of the specialties, croussades irouvillaise, pastry shells filled with a fish mixture and richly sauced, and quenelles de brochet provincial, a smooth, delicate mixture of freshwater pike, heavy cream. and egg whites, shaped like sausages, poached, and then served in Nantua sauce. The cherry tarts that we chose for dessert reflected the Norman inclinations of M. Robinex. Very heavy sweet cream the kind so seldom found in America unless one lives near a dairy farm-was spread on flaky shells, cooked cherries were arranged on top, and the glaze that generously masked the cherries was faintly flavored with liqueur.
AtL.e Petit Vatel my friends saw the typical small restaurant where native Frenchmen gather to cat and be happy. Just such Frenchmen were seated when we arrived, leisurely discussing the fine points of conking and comparing their regional cuisines over a bountiful meal washed down with glass after glass of inexpensive, but delicious, vim du pays,
Then on to Vézelay we drove, Vézely perched high amid gently rolling fields and woodlands, with its great historic Basilique de la Sainte Marie-Madeleine, the twelfth-century church where Richard the Lion-Hearted met Philip of France before starting off on the Third Crusade. At Vézelay we stopped at the old Hotel de la Poste et Lion d'Or, which has recently been enlarged and improved to offer the weary traveler every modern comfort. Yet it still retains its old dining room and bar, its enormous fireplace, and many of its original furnishings.
We were invited that night for supper to the little town of Saint Père in the valley below Vézelay, a scant three kilometers away. M. Chapuis, an old friend whom I had not seen in almost thirty years, was our host. We approached his centuries' old house, with its formal doorway balanced on either side by long French windows, through gravel paths and box-edged gardens, both well concealed! behind a ten-foot stone wall. There was a swift, narrow brook at the front of the house that had been bridged and channeled under the right wing to reappear at the rear beside a shaded path of clipped trees leading to the kitchen garden, fruit trees, and grape vines, all planted in careful symmetry.
Seven of us sat down to a supper which M. Chapuis described as just a simple Good Friday repast. Perhaps it was simple to him, but it was exquisite to us, every detail of it-the room, the table, the food. Side by side on a great long silver platter lay brook trout sauté meunière, each fish topped with a slice of lemon sprinkled with finely chopped parsley. For me, however, the frontage blanc àla crime was the delight of the evening. These molded rounds of a cheese similar to cottage cheese had a special smoothness that only that local milk seems to give, and were served with heavy sweet cream and a sprinkling of fine sugar. Only one who has for years missed the simple food of his youth can appreciate my delight.
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