Remembrance of Things Paris

by Gourmet Magazine Editors

  “As Mr. Brand wanted to spare his friends this delicate operation, he requested that the juice be served without the mussels. It was such a success that during the days that followed each of his guests returned separately to Ciro’s and ordered the potage Billy Brand.” For the sake of discretion, it was placed on the menu as potage Billy B, and thus was born the potage Billy By which has since become a classic of the French culinary tradition.

  At Maxim’s, the soup is prepared by steaming the mussels open in a mixture of minced onion, celery, dry white wine, and pepper. The mussels are removed to be reserved for another use, and the soup is made from the liquid, which is first reduced and then reheated after the addition of fumet de poisson and heavy cream.

  The médaillon de veau Orloff is a dish often suggested for private dinner parties at Maxim’s. A sumptuous preparation most suitable to the surroundings, it is made of veal steaks cut from the tenderloin. These are seasoned with salt and pepper, lightly dusted with flour, and seared and cooked in butter. Removed from the fire, the steaks are slit and stuffed with sautéed mushrooms puréed and mixed with heavy cream, and covered with a purée Soubise (minced, blanched onions stewed in butter, simmered with a thick béchamel sauce, and passed through a sieve). The sauce poured around the meat is made with the pan juices, to which chopped shallots, dry white wine, and port are added before they are reduced by half and enriched with fond de cuisson and more butter.

  The poulet aux concombres is one of M. Meissner’s favorite recommendations and is a specialty of Chef Alex Humbert. A chicken is put on a bed of thinly sliced carrot and onion and chopped giblets in a buttered casserole, and brushed with melted butter before being roasted in a medium oven for forty-five minutes. It is turned and basted four times during this period, and a little thyme, bay leaf, and coarsely chopped tomato pulp are added after the first quarter hour. When the chicken is done, it is put in a serving dish, covered with a sauce made by simmering cream with the pan juices, and surrounded with quartered cucumbers, peeled, seeded, blanched, and stewed in a mixture of butter and cream. The chicken breast is decorated with tomato slices warmed in butter.

  However, when I go to Maxim’s I rarely eat much, having got myself so dolled up that my appestat goes down to where I am satisfied with a dozen plump belon oysters and a glass of chilled brut Champagne. From sidelong glances at other tables, I gather most of the other women are in the same state.

  Frou Frou, Zou Zou, and Margot indeed!

  April 1966

  MAXIM’S

  Joseph Wechsberg

  It’s easier to explain what Maxim’s is not than what it is. Maxim’s is not a nightclub where undressed women appear on the floor while the salad dressing is being served. The management often receives letters from all over the world asking about the “program” and what time it starts. Here it is. At nine-thirty in the evening a small orchestra on the platform begins playing what was once discreetly called “table music.” After eleven, people dance, having finished their dinner. Roger Viard (“Roger”), maître d’hôtel and dictatorial ruler at Maxim’s, doesn’t care much for the doubtful combination of dining and dancing.

  Maxim’s is not just another three-star restaurant, though it has long had the Guide Michelin’s top accolade. Few people go to Maxim’s to feed themselves. But the late Alexandre Dumaine, not exactly the Maxim’s type, once told me, “You can lunch very well there ordering the plat du jour, maybe the côte de boeuf, from the wagon.” Finally, Maxim’s is not, as some believe, an exhibition of unrestricted snobbism. If it were just that, Maxim’s couldn’t have survived for over eighty years as the citadel of Parisian chic, a rendezvous of the world’s VIPs.

  No, it’s more complex. Jean Cocteau called it “le véritable théâtre de quelques grandes actrices.” Paul Valéry compared Maxim’s with a “submarine immersed with its décor Jules Verne.” Maxim’s is the quintessence of Paris, a mixture-as-never-before of history and legend, elegance and impertinence, showplace and snob appeal. You feel it the moment you walk through the woodwork-and-gilt entrance at 3, rue Royale: It is the reflection of what was called La Belle Epoque in Paris and the Edwardian era in London. The 1900 décor must not be changed; the French government declared Maxim’s a national monument. As a heritage of the nation it may not rank with the Louvre or Versailles, but it is as Parisian as the Place de la Concorde just a few steps away. Maxim’s (and Paris) have had their ups and downs, but the ups have outshone the downs. It is no accident that Maxim’s has often been imitated, but never successfully. Underneath the glamour and the glitter there is something solid and permanent that has attracted people for generations. Maxim’s has often been lucky with its public relations. Its most famous (unpaid) press agent was Franz Lehár, who in 1905 placed an entire act of his masterpiece, The Merry Widow, in the midst of the restaurant, where he had never been. Ever since, the legend of the forbidden fruit has remained indestructible.

  Maxim’s also remains a battleground of complex social topography. The only other comparable place was Le Pavillon in New York City in its heyday, under the late, great Henri Soulé. He was totally unimpressed by fame and wealth, as many rich and prominent would-be customers came to learn, grievously. Soulé alone decided who got in and who would sit where, and though he repeatedly proclaimed that all tables were “desirable,” the customers knew very well that some tables were more desirable than others. For many years Maxim’s was arrogantly run by Albert Blaser, the rotund, tough arbiter of the social Who’s Who. Albert’s decisions were often shocking and always final. He understood that Maxim’s existence depended on its prestige as an exclusive club, with no written statutes, whose “members” liked to be among themselves. A few outsiders might be permitted, but only in “Siberia” and provided they “behaved.” This uncompromising policy is continued by Albert’s handpicked successor, the formidable Roger, who was eighteen when he began working as a commis at Maxim’s in 1937, was the youngest chef de rang at the age of twenty, became Albert’s assistant in 1952, and took over seven years later, not long before the death of Albert, the Master.

  Henri Soulé used to say, “Le Pavillon, c’est moi,” with an invisible bow to You-Know-Who. Roger could say the same about Maxim’s. He is more graceful than Albert—times have changed, after all—but he knows his sacred duty to Maxim’s and is just as severe in his decisions. The son of a Parisian physician, he lost his father when he was very young, had to work, and almost accidentally slipped into the restaurant business. He was working at Larue, once a famous restaurant in the nearby Place de la Madeleine, when he was noticed by Albert. Like his mentor, Roger learned to see a lot, to know everything, to say nothing. He will not recognize people who under certain circumstances prefer not to be recognized. He can tell you many things without telling you anything; he would have made a brilliant career at the Quai d’Orsay, where the diplomats do just that. Roger conducts Maxim’s as though it were an orchestra; he sets the tone and defines the rhythm. He is très dur (very tough) with his “players,” the personnel, and even more so with his audience, the customers.

  Not many people know that Roger leads a bourgeois life once he leaves Maxim’s and gets to his home on the rue Cambon. His oldest son is a mathematics professor who wants to have nothing to do with the restaurant business.

  “He is right,” says Roger. “It’s not easy. I cannot afford to make many mistakes. Maxim’s greatest asset is its unique ambience.” But the ambience depends on more than the ancient mahogany walls and the cut-glass mirrors surrounded by art nouveau arabesques of colored glass and carved wood. It must be painstakingly created and exactly executed. On Friday nights, when black tie is de rigueur, Maxim’s often becomes a social jungle where prominent lionesses fight for “desirable” tables and only the fittest survive. Roger nobly rises to the occasion, relying on his knowledge of human nature in general and of his customers’ personal histories in particular, as he makes the seating arrangements, which he calls “orchestrating my dining rooms.” On ot
her nights—Maxim’s is closed on Sundays—he does it only after the customers come in, not before nine o’clock. If you come earlier you will be subjected to the condescending stares of the help, and you are through as far as they are concerned, no matter how much you may overtip.

  “I want to have a beautiful salle,” Roger says dreamily. “Everybody likes attractive, well-dressed women. Mind you, they don’t have to be beautiful, but they should have that indefinable quality that makes men sit up and look at them as they walk by. Such women will be prominently seated; they are my best helpers. I receive the guests in the lobby and sometimes give them a sort of X-ray look when I don’t know them. Many don’t like it. But I know instantly where they are going to sit.” There is no appeal against Roger’s instant decision; don’t even try.

  In his demanding task Roger relies on the peculiar geography of Maxim’s: la grande salle, which is the main dining room, and the narrow, rectangular grill with the “garden” near the windows facing the rue Royale that was always known as the omnibus. There the people sit on the banquettes along the walls, as in an oversize omnibus, staring at each other. This fortunate arrangement makes Maxim’s, as its owner, Louis Vaudable, told me happily the other day, “deux maisons dans une,” two restaurants in one. At lunch, the place to sit is the omnibus, especially the “garden” (the few elegantly decadent plants arranged in the curtained windows), and not, God forbid, the salle. Within the omnibus the ambience is that of a very exclusive club. Everybody knows everybody else; people talk freely with others at neighboring tables; it’s very relaxed. Outsiders are rarely permitted there during lunch. They may sit in the salle, possibly ordering petit homard court-bouillonné à la nage (lobster cooked in broth) and sorbet aux fruits exotiques (exotic fruit sherbet), but are left there in not-so-splendid isolation.

  It’s quite different at night, when the omnibus becomes the least desirable part of Maxim’s. (Why? Don’t ask. If you feel you have to ask, don’t go there.) With certain subtle exceptions. The tables in the omnibus that you see when you come in are highly desirable, but don’t even try. They are for Roger’s client-friends. “The Duchess,” he says, “likes to sit at Number 16, where she can see everything.” British royalty traditionally had Number 16. The Duchess of Windsor, a dear client (and one of the few Roger will mention by name), was also a dear client of Henri Soulé’s. And Madame Rochas is always happy “over there,” still at the omnibus.

  The rest of the omnibus is zero at night. And even worse is the right side of the salle (as you come in), which is known as la Sibérie among the help. Yes, Siberia. Oil nabobs, the third divorced wives of department store plutocrats, and assorted lesser millionaires are seated there, take it or leave it. But the left side of the salle is only for clients or friends that Roger likes to have there. The Monday night in March—Monday is usually quiet, and March is even quieter—we were there, only two tables on the left were occupied, but many tables on the right side and even in the middle around the small dance floor were filled. Why didn’t Roger relent and let some temporary visitors to Siberia sit on the left side. Ah, I have learned not to ask silly questions. I never asked Soulé, and we were friends. And I didn’t ask Roger, and that is perhaps why we were seated at the most desirable left side table. The help was puzzled, and no wonder, no one knew us.

  Maxim’s owes its name to Maxime Gaillard, one of the waiters at the nearby Reynold’s bar, who bought the premises at 3, rue Royale in 1893 from an Italian ice-cream vendor named Imoda. Gaillard didn’t have the money to pay for it and borrowed from a neighborhood butcher and wine dealer. He dropped the e from his name to make it more English-sounding (the English clientele was very important) and opened Maxim’s on May 21, 1893. Business was pretty bad—only coachmen of hansom cabs and fiacre drivers seemed to be patronizing his establishment—and Gaillard was almost bankrupt when he had a lucky break in 1894. Irma de Montigny, vaudeville star at the Palais de Glace, had been refused a table at Weber’s, an elegant restaurant on the rue Royale, walked out, and went over to Maxim’s. Perhaps she knew Gaillard, who had once worked at Weber’s.

  Irma liked it and came back with a wealthy admirer, Baron Arnold de Contades, profession: “sportsman.” (The profession of “playboy” had not yet been invented.) Maxim’s was in business, and where is Weber’s now? In 1900 the Paris Exposition opened, and Maxim’s celebrated the event by getting a new, sumptuous décor of the Belle Epoque, with frescoes by Martens and Sonnier and other lovely features that are now much admired. (The management still has some of the receipts from bills paid for the decorations in 1900.) Poor Gaillard was no longer around though. He had died in 1895, leaving the establishment and considerable debts to one Eugène Cornuché, his headwaiter.

  Smart fellows. The year 1900 ushered in the golden age of Maxim’s and the immortal legend of wine, women, and sin. The legend and its factual background are linked to several kings and to some ladies of charmingly doubtful virtue, known as the grandes cocottes, perhaps in order to distinguish them from the many not-so-grandes cocottes. The famous protagonists in the sumptuous farce performed at Maxim’s were King Edward VII, who liked large French blondes and slim English brunettes; Leopold II, King of the Belgians, who liked them all, blondes, brunettes, even redheads; Alfonso XIIIof Spain, who once tossed five hundred (gold) francs over his shoulder to hear his favorite song. Also present were Russian grand dukes, maharajas and sultans, American millionaires, British lords, artists and spies, embezzlers and jockeys. And why? Because of les dames de chez Maxim, the ladies from Maxim’s.

  Nowadays they don’t like to talk about the Ladies. Naturally. Some of them were no ladies, sitting near the bar waiting for customers and “doing all right by themselves.” They really overdid it sometimes, and Maxim’s was almost … well, you know—but it must have been great fun while it lasted. Georges Feydeau wrote La Dame de chez Maxim, and Yves Mirande wrote Le Chasseur de chez Maxim’s. There was The Merry Widow, and not so very long ago there was Gigi. Much of it is fiction, but the grandes cocottes were fact. Many were music hall stars and former ballet beauties, and they were the big show at Maxim’s as they swept in sometime after midnight, beautifully gowned and hatted, with recently acquired jewels and even more recently acquired lovers. Every night was first night at Maxim’s. The Ladies liked jewels, excitement, and a good fight. They provoked duels that took place in the Bois de Boulogne and often ended with a “reconciliation breakfast” at Maxim’s. These people had style. I wish I had been there.

  Think of Caroline Otéro, yes, la belle Otéro, as the Prince of Wales called her, and so did Grand Duke Peter of Russia and another admirer, Kaiser Wilhelm II, who also called her “my little savage.” Maybe the Kaiser had better taste than history credits him with. La belle Otéro eventually ended up with a Baron Ollstreder, who gave her so many jewels, including the famous necklace of Marie-Antoinette, that he nearly went broke. And that was the end of the liaison, which shouldn’t surprise you. No jewels, no Otéro. Her archenemy was the beautiful Liane de Pougy, who got so angry about Otéro’s jewels that she decided to teach her a lesson. One night Liane came in wearing a simple dress. Not a single diamond. She was accompanied by her maid, who took off her coat to reveal all of the jewels belonging to Liane. Everybody gasped, and the confrontation ended with a terrific fight.

  The gentlemen were also quite spectacular. James Gordon Bennett, publisher, gambler, and master of high living; Louis Renault, André Gustave Citroën, Émile Levassor, and Ettore Bugatti, of automobile fame; Paul Poiret, who “invented” la femme moderne; Prince Murat and Prince Henri d’Orléans; Caruso and Chaliapin, who would share a soufflé for dessert; Roland Garros and Georges Carpentier; Marcel Proust (though it seems hard to fit him in); and Comte Boni de Castellane, who later married Anna Gould.

  Edward VII, King of England, would come “anonymously” with Lillie Langtry, the beautiful British actress, whom he couldn’t meet in London. He said he liked Maxim’s, where he was “known but not noticed.” Also
present was the celebrated cartoonist Sem (Georges Goursat), chronicler of Maxim’s, whose drawings can still be seen there. There were others who wrote about the goings-on upstairs, in the back rooms, and at the bar.

  In 1907 Monsieur Cornuché (who had discovered that Maxim’s needed beautiful women who would attract rich and powerful men) decided that he had had enough and sold Maxim’s to a British company. Under the new management, frivolity was frowned upon and respectability was encouraged. Out went the last of the grandes cocottes. In came such public-relations bombs as Madame Sarah Bernhardt and Dame Nellie Melba. The new Prince of Wales (later briefly Edward VIII) made his first appearance and was given his grandfather’s table, Number 16.

  The shots in Sarajevo caused, among other things, the end of the glorious epoch at Maxim’s. The kings disappeared and were succeeded by black marketeers and high-living Allied officers. A mysterious woman, later described by maître d’hôtel Hugo as “grossly mannered,” often dined with Allied officers and later delivered war secrets to the Germans. Eventually Margaret Zelle was caught and executed at Vincennes. She remains known as Mata Hari, darling of the Sunday supplements.

  Toward the end of World War I Maxim’s became the hangout of celebrated aviators: Georges Marie Guynemer, René Fonck, and Charles Nungesser. During the early 1920s, when inflation raged in Europe, spenders of American dollars and British pounds were much appreciated at Maxim’s. In London it was said that the directors of Maxim’s Limited made frequent “business trips” to Paris “to look after their investment.”

  Came the Big Depression and in 1932 the British corporation sold out to Octave Vaudable, a well-known Paris restaurateur who decided to give Maxim’s a new lease on elegant life. But it was a difficult time, and Vaudable was about to sell Maxim’s when he had a brilliant idea and hired Albert Blaser, the famous maître d’hôtel at Ciro’s. Maxim’s sent out invitations, “Albert vous recevra chez Maxim’s de midi à l’aube [Albert will receive you at Maxim’s from noon until dawn].” Albert’s presence pulled Maxim’s out of the doldrums within a month, and during the 1930s favored clients included the Prince of Wales, the King of Spain, King Carol of Romania, and the Aga Khan. It was said that “Everybody talks to Albert but Albert talks only to the Aga Khan.”