had the pleasure of seeing adopted; despite the fact that the discovery of new dishes grows daily more difficult.
But novelty is the universal cry—novelty by hook or by crook! It is an exceedingly common mania among people of inordinate wealth to exact incessantly new or so-called new dishes. Sometimes the demand comes from a host whose luxurious table has exhausted all the resources of the modern cook's repertory, and who, having partaken of every delicacy, and often had too much of good things, anxiously seeks new sensations for his blase palate. Anon, we have a hostess, anxious to outshine friends with whom she has been invited to dine, and whom she afterwards invites to dine with her.
Novelty! It is the prevailing cry; it is imperiously demanded by everyone.
For all that, the number of alimentary substances is comparatively small, the number of their combinations is not infinite, and the amount of raw material placed either by art or by nature at the disposal of a cook does not grow in proportion to the whims of the public.
What feats of ingenuity have we not been forced to perform, at times, in order to meet our customers' wishes? Those only who have had charge of a large, modern kitchen can tell the tale. Personally, I have ceased counting the nights spent in the attempt to discover new combinations, when, completely broken with the fatigue of a heavy day, my body ought to have been at rest.
Yet, the Chef who has had the felicity to succeed in turning out an original and skilful preparation approved by his public and producing a vogue, cannot, even for a time, claim the monopoly of his secret discovery, or derive any profit therefrom. The painter, sculptor, writer and musician are protected by law. So are inventors. But the chef has absolutely no redress for plagiarism on his work; on the contrary, the more the latter is liked and appreciated, the more will people clamour for his recipes. Many hours of hard work perhaps underlie his latest creation, if it have reached the desired degree of perfection.
He may have forfeited his recreation and even his night's rest, and have laboured without a break over his combination; and, as a reward, he finds himself compelled, morally at least, to convey the result of his study to the first person who asks, and who, very often, subsequently claims the invention of the recipe—to the detriment of the real author's chances and reputation.
This frantic love of novelty is also responsible for many of
