MAISON BEAULIEUAB ÉDITIONS · CUISINE & LETTRESMAISON BEAULIEUAB ÉDITIONS · CUISINE & LETTRESOn the Boulevard des Italiens, within the sanctum of the private cabinet known as “Le Grand Seize,” there took place in 1867 the legendary Dinner of the Three Emperors—Tsar Alexander II, the future Emperor William I, and Bismarck—orchestrated by Dugléré, “the Mozart of the kitchen.” Sixteen courses, eight peerless vintages drawn from the cellar by sommelier Claudius Burdel. The restaurant closed its doors in 1913; its legend remains immortal.
On June 7, 1867, as Paris sparkled beneath the brilliance of the Exposition Universelle, Adolphe Dugléré orchestrated for the masters of the earth the most sumptuous banquet of the century.
On that evening, Paris was no longer mere stone and mortar: it was a roaring furnace of revelry, an endless pageant of gilded landaus and rustling silks drawn toward the Exposition Universelle like moths to a blinding beacon. At Number 13 Boulevard des Italiens, at the sharp angle formed with the Rue de Marivaux, the Café Anglais turned an austere, almost monastic façade toward the clamor of the thoroughfare. Yet behind those discreet casements lay concealed the inner sanctum of Tout-Paris—the private realm where ministers whispered state secrets behind closed doors and celebrated courtesans yielded to their admirers beneath the luster of crystal girandoles. At the head of the thick, carpeted grand staircase, one padded door commanded an almost religious awe: that of cabinet number 16, known to initiates simply as “Le Grand Seize.” Draped in cherry damask, paneled in beveled mirrors, and crowned with chandeliers dripping with crystal pendants, this sanctuary awaited the arbiters of Europe’s fate.
Deep within the subterranean kitchens, far removed from the salon’s glittering whispers, one man remained unshaken. Adolphe Dugléré, his brow encircled by an immaculate white toque, commanded a brigade standing rigidly at attention amidst a battlefield of tinned copper stewpans. The beloved disciple of Antonin Carême, hailed by gourmets as “the Mozart of the kitchen,” Dugléré was a geometer of the palate, an uncompromising poet who brooked not the slightest imperfection. On this seventh of June, 1867, he had been charged with nothing less than dazzling a coalition of empires. At the table of the Grand Seize were to gather Tsar Alexander II of Russia, his son the Tsarevitch—the future Alexander III—the aged King William I of Prussia, and his formidable prime minister, Count Otto von Bismarck. Four titans whose private humors could plunge the continent into the abyss of war or preserve the peace of the civilized world.
At nine o’clock precisely, the sovereigns entered the salon, which was steeped in the heavy, perfumed warmth of melting wax and orange-flower water. Protocol bowed instantly before the splendor of the table, glittering with vermeil plate commissioned especially for the feast. The service commenced at a dizzying pace: sixteen courses unfolded in procession, borne by footmen in white lisle-thread gloves whose steps made no sound upon the deep pile of the carpet. The guests first tasted the Potage Impératrice, an exquisite velouté of sweet almonds and poultry finished with cockscombs, followed by the Consommé Fontanges perfumed with fresh chervil. Then came Dugléré’s marine triumph: fillets of sole resting on a bed of concassé tomatoes, sweet shallots, and fines herbes, poached in clarified white wine whose reduced juices were whipped with cold butter before the captivated gaze of the Prussian monarch.
The salon grew warm as the dishes succeeded one another: roast saddle of mutton with purée bretonne, Rouennaise ducklings bound in their own blood, royal quails nestled in pastry nests, and the celebrated Pommes Anna—born within these very walls—golden, crisp, and drenched in hazelnut-scented butter. Yet amidst this profusion of magnificence, Tsar Alexander II suddenly drew together his heavy, autocratic brows. Turning toward the chief maître d’hôtel, the legendary Claudius Burdel, the Emperor of All the Russias asked in a glacial tone: “Tell me, my dear Burdel, where then is the foie gras? A feast worthy of Paris cannot be deprived of it.” A silence like lead dropped upon the damask cloth. Burdel, without lowering his eyes, bowed his torso with consummate distinction: “Sire,” he replied evenly, “the geese of Strasbourg have not yet tasted the first frosts of autumn. In French gastronomy, we do not insult Your Majesties’ table with preserves.” The Tsar smiled; Prussia exhaled; Dugléré had won his first skirmish of the evening.
If Dugléré’s cuisine conquered the palate, the true lifeblood of that night flowed from decanters of Baccarat crystal. Claudius Burdel was far more than the steward of the Grand Seize; he was the keeper of a mythical cellar carved straight from the limestone beneath Paris. At every stage of the banquet, he drew from these vaults miraculous bottles, liquid witnesses to the finest hours of the French soil. An iced Roederer—poured into clear crystal vessels expressly blown for the Tsar so that his eyes might assure him no poison lingered within—soon gave way to a Chambertin 1846 whose deep garnet tears seemed to catch and hold the very flames of the candelabra.
Then followed Château Margaux 1847 and Château Latour of the same comet vintage, miracles of austere nobility and melted tannins. Seated across from Alexander II, Bismarck surveyed the room with an impenetrable gaze. Between two mouthfuls of ortolans roasted upon croutons, the Iron Chancellor lingered over his glass of Château d’Yquem 1847, an amber-gold nectar redolent of candied apricot and beeswax. Beneath the silk of courtly dialogue, rivalries simmered, barely veiled. The Prussian chancellor measured the Russians and weighed the vulnerabilities of this Imperial France—a nation so refined, so besotted with her own luxuries that she failed to perceive the gathering storm clouds of 1870. In scarce three years, Prussian artillery would shatter Napoleon III’s illusions into dust; but on this night, the genius of France held them all captive at the tips of their forks.
As the bells of Saint-Roch chimed four in the morning, the banquet at last drew to its close. Goblets of fine champagne and maraschino liqueur grew warm amidst frosted orange rinds and slices of Victoria pineapple. Tsar Alexander II, his countenance flushed by grand crus and the pleasures of the board, commanded that Adolphe Dugléré be brought up to the salon. The chef appeared, pale with exhaustion, his white apron tied securely about his weary hips. The monarch rose, clasped the artisan’s hands in his own, and bowed with genuine Slavic fervor: “Dugléré, you are no mere cook. You are a wizard who has turned this night into an immortal poem.” King William nodded his head in silent, reverent assent.
The bill, no less legendary than the feast, amounted to four hundred francs per head—a staggering sum, equal to many months of grueling labor for a Parisian artisan of that era. Yet History does not count its pennies. When the monarchs finally crossed the threshold of the Café Anglais, the pale gray light of daybreak was beginning to bathe the wet cobblestones of the Boulevard des Italiens. Street-sweepers were already plying their gorse brooms before the shuttered shopfronts. The sovereigns climbed into their carriages under the watchful escort of Cossacks and Uhlans, leaving behind them the fragrant drift of Havana cigars and the lingering ghosts of Périgord truffles. The Café Anglais would vanish in 1913, sacrificed to the modern realignment of the boulevards; yet the memory of that fabled evening would drift forever over Paris, the supreme twilight of an art of living the world would never see again.