Editors are not generally known for the pleasure they bring into writers` lives, and so when I was asked if I would like to participate in a re-creation of Babette`s feast, I was understandably suspicious.
At the time, all I knew of ”Babette`s Feast” was, (1) it had won, in what many considered an upset over the highly regarded ”Au Revoir Les Enfants,” this year`s Academy Award for Best Foreign Film; (2) it was based on a short story by Isak Dinesen, and (3) it contained a dinner party scene.
”You can even take a friend,” said the editor.
And so the two of us arrived, shortly before the appointed 7 p.m. dinner hour, at Cafe Provencal in Evanston. We were led through the cozy dining room and into a small, windowed room. Outside, the sun was setting. Inside, a table seemed to groan under the weight of a neat and sumptuous array of flowers, plates, glasses, silverware and candles.
Our dinner companions, some of whom were already on hand, represented a distinguished collection of food critics, movie publicists, radio-TV personalities and magazine writers. And me.
We were, it goes almost without saying, a crowd that collectively had had enough free meals to feed a small nation for a month.
”Oooooooh, look at all the glasses,” said one woman, licking her lips.
Though most of the people in the room could lord it over me in the practiced palate department, I did have an advantage over most. I had seen the movie, at an advance screening on Mother`s Day.
Though I will leave the analysis, symbol-search and (STAR)(STAR)(STAR)
(STAR )`s to the critics who will review ”Babette`s Feast” when it opens at the Fine Arts Theater on Friday, it is necessary to know something of the film in order to grasp the significance of what took place at Cafe Provencal. Babette is a woman who shows up one rain-swept night in 1871 at the home of two spinster sisters in a tiny village on the Swedish coast. She has fled the riots in Paris and offers her cooking and housekeeping services in exchange for a place to stay. The sisters, daughters of the village`s late priest/prophet, whose austere Lutheran sect renounces earthly pleasures, are the keepers of his dwindling congregation. They reluctantly agree.
For the next 14 years, Babette works for the women. She then learns she has won 10,000 francs in the French lottery and offers to cook for the sisters and other members of the congregation-most of whom have lived their 70 or so years on a steady diet of bread and salty fish-a French meal in celebration of the 100th anniversary of their father`s birth.
Soon, Babette is overseeing the delivery of an astonishing boatload of foodstuffs. In a rare act of accord, the diners agree not ”to say a word about the food or drinks,” remaining strong in the face of temptation and true to the teachings of their master. Dinner is served and . . . why spoil the movie?
There was none of that fighting-temptation nonsense transpiring at Cafe Provencal. Even those who had not seen the film knew enough about the menu to be giddy over anticipated gastronomic delights. When the last guest arrived, all 17 people took their seats and it began, with Sandeman Royal Esmeralda Rare Amontillado Sherry.
”This is the first time I`ve had sherry,” I admitted.
My companions at the end of the table regarded the comment with disgust.
The first course arrived: Potage a La Tortue, which is turtle soup made from, mind you, boneless loggerhead turtle meat. I tried a different tack.
”My, my,” I said. ”This potage is delightful.”
It was good and, judging from the recipe that came with a pile of press material, difficult to make. Where does one get 11 pounds of cracked veal bones?
Next came Blini Demidoff au Caviar Russe, a rarified pancake deal that, I was pleased to note in the nearby recipe packet, was invented by Price Anatole Demidoff, ”one of the most celebrated gastronomes of the Second Empire.” His creation has been ”served for centuries” and was accompanied by Champagne Veuve Clicquot Brut.
”Ah, some sort of lemonade,” I said. That was a line used in a similar situation by one of the film`s cute and ancient actresses.
No one at my end of the table had seen the film, I had forgotten, and so my attempted bon mot produced not smiles but sneers.
The woman across from me said she never ate caviar and passed her plate to my companion who, on the rare occasions she`s flush enough to indulge herself, east and likes caviar. She gobbled it up.
There was a lengthy pause after this course and I knew why. The next plate to be delivered would contain the piece de resistance; the main course, in other words. It was called Caille en Sarcophage avec Sauce Perigourdine. Even in English, it was exotic: Quail Stuffed with Foie Gras Baked in Puff Pastry Nest with Truffles. But I confidently awaited its arrival.
In the movie, one of the guests chews the head of the cooked quail and I was prepared to do the same thing and was anticipating the results.
”What are you doing?” some one would shreik.
”My good man (or woman, as the case might have been), were you brought up in a fast food franchise?” I would respond. ”This is how one eats quail.”
Alas, the moment never came. The tiny bird arrived without its head.
”It`s impossible to buy a quail with its head in America,” said the restaurant`s publicist.
A glass was filled with red wine, Clos de Vougeot. It was incredibly good but obviously quite dear because, after I quickly polished it off, no amount of suggestively thirsty stares at the waiter could bring more wine to my glass.
Water was poured and that`s what the table drank through the next courses-La Salade, Les Fromages (slices of Cantal, Fourme d`Ambert and Blue d`Auvergne cheese), Baba au Rhum et Fruits Confit (rum cake with candied fruits) and Les Fruits Frais (fresh fruits).
Throughout these final courses, conversations got looser. I could hear snippets from the far end of the table, where Donald Regan`s new book was a loudly debated topic. At my end, local theater was being discussed and though I tried again and again to bring up the matter of Baba au Rhum and who might not be finishing theirs, I settled for one dessert.
A few people were beginning to rub their stomachs when the Cafe (coffee)
arrived. Every one took a glass of Hine Cognac. Some took more than one. The chef came out of the kitchen and we applauded his efforts. Three hours into dinner, the first people said, ”Thank you, we have to go,” and shortly the room emptied.
One by one and two by two, the 17 people who had shared Babette`s feast made their way to babysitters and suburban-bound trains. They looked full and pleased, if not as overwhelmed as those departing the feast in the movie. The difference was that none of us had lived a life of ale cake and fish. The tastes we had been given this night, as delectable as they were, had not been totally unfamiliar.
There will be a lot of opinions on this meal. Just as New York`s Petrossian restaurant did when ”Babette`s Feast” opened in Manhattan, Cafe Provencal will be recreating Babette`s Feast on a reservation only basis once the film opens. The tariff will be $90, $120 with one glass of each of the liquors (tax and tip not included).
I`m fairly sure-editors and my owns tastes being what they are-that I will probably never again have the foods that were this night put before me. That is why, perhaps, I was so effusive in my thanks, especially after catching a glimpse of the bill, which came frighteningly close to $1,700 (and was paid by the movie`s representatives).
After the dinner in ”Babette`s Feast,” the diners leave the sisters`
house and, under a star-studded sky, join hands and sing the praises of the Lord. The sky above Evanston contained a suitable number of stars. But a song in praise of an editor.
