In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower by Marcel Proust

dismiss the most famous of them as mere cookshops that I
had had long ago, when I learned with regard to theatrical artists
that the hierarchy of their merits did not at all correspond to that
of their reputations. "The Ambassador," my mother told her, "assured
me that he knows no place where he can get cold beef and soufflés as
good as yours." Françoise, with an air of modesty and of paying just
homage to the truth, agreed, but seemed not at all impressed by the
title 'Ambassador'; she said of M. de Norpois, with the friendliness
due to a man who had taken her for a chef: "He's a good old soul, like
me." She had indeed hoped to catch sight of him as he arrived, but
knowing that Mamma hated their standing about behind doors and in
windows, and thinking that Mamma would get to know from the other
servants or from the porter that she had been keeping watch (for
Françoise saw everywhere nothing but "jealousies" and "tale–bearings,"
which played the same grim and unending part in her imagination as do
for others of us the intrigues of the Jesuits or the Jews), she had
contented herself with a peep from the kitchen window, "so as not to
have words with Madame," and beneath the momentary aspect of M. de
Norpois had "thought it was Monsieur Legrand," because of what she
called his "agelity" and in spite of their having not a single point
in common. "Well," inquired my mother, "and how do you explain that
nobody else can make a jelly as well as you—when you choose?" "I
really couldn't say how that becomes about," replied Françoise, who had
established no very clear line of demarcation between the verb 'to
come,' in certain of its meanings at least, and the verb 'to become.'
She was speaking the truth, if not the whole truth, being scarcely
more capable—or desirous—of revealing the mystery which ensured the
superiority of her jellies or her creams than a leader of fashion the
secrets of her toilet or a great singer those of her song. Their
explanations tell us little; it was the same with the recipes
furnished by our cook. "They do it in too much of a hurry," she went on,
alluding to the great restaurants, "and then it's not all done
together. You want the beef to become like a sponge, then it will
drink up all the juice to the last drop. Still, there was one of those
Cafés where I thought they did know a little bit about cooking. I
don't say it was altogether my jelly, but it was very nicely done, and
the soufflés had plenty of cream." "Do you mean Henry's?" asked my
father (who had now joined us), for he greatly enjoyed that restaurant
in the Place Gaillon where he went regularly to club dinners. "Oh, dear
no!" said Françoise, with a mildness which cloaked her profound
contempt. "I meant a little restaurant. At that Henry's it's all very
good, sure enough, but it's not a restaurant, it's more like
a—soup–kitchen." "Weber's, then?" "Oh, no, sir, I meant a good
restaurant. Weber's, that's in the Rue Royale; that's not a
restaurant, it's a drinking–shop. I don't know that the food they give
you there is even served. I think they don't have any tablecloths;
they just shove it down in front of you like that, with a take it or
leave it." "Ciro's?" "Oh! there I should say they have the cooking done
by ladies of the world." ('World' meant for Françoise the under–world.)
"Lord! They need that to fetch the boys in." We could see that, with
all her air of simplicity, Françoise was for the celebrities of her
profession a more disastrous 'comrade' than the most jealous, the most
infatuated of actresses. We felt, all the same, that she had a proper
feeling for her art and a respect for tradition; for she went on: "No,
I mean a restaurant where they looked as if they kept a very good
little family table. It's a place of some consequence, too. Plenty of
custom there. Oh, they raked in the coppers there, all right."
Françoise, being an economist, reckoned in coppers, where your plunger
would reckon in gold. "Madame knows the