Là-Bas, Joris-Karl Huysmans

Although not quite as well known as À rebours, Là-Bas is nearly as entertaining. In it, we are introduced to Durtal, a thinly veiled stand-in for the author, who would later become a recurring character in a series of novels chronicling Huysmans' conversion to Catholicism. At this point, however, Durtal is a paradigm of fin de siècle world-weariness and boredom; and in an effort to escape the hollow banality of the modern world, he does what anyone else would do: he embarks upon a study of medieval occultism and researches the life of famed 15th century child-murderer Gilles de Rais. Needless to say, his investigations come to reveal that Satanism is alive and well in 19th century Paris.

In this scene, over a cozy pot-au-feu at the bell-ringer's house, Durtal and des Hermies, his friend and chief verbal sparring partner, debate the relative merits of restaurant dining. Ever the provocatuer, des Hermies provides a decidedly unappetizing account of a restaurant that he nonetheless frequents "once a month or so," all in the interest of observing how rapidly its patrons are deteriorating from the sub-par cuisine.

“Can we help you finish laying the table?” suggested des Jermies.

But Carhaix’s wife refused.

“No, no, sit down. Dinner is nearly ready.”

“That smells good,” said Durtal, inhaling the odour of a bubbling pot-au-feu, in which the odour of celery added piquance to the smell of the other vegetables.

“Dinner is served,” boomed Carhaix, reappearing in a clean blouse, his face gleaming from a good scrubbing.

They sat down. The glowing stove roared. Durtal, almost fainting, felt the sudden sense of nervous relaxation which a frozen soul experiences when immersed in a warm bath; one was so far away from Paris here at the Carhaix’s, so far out of this century!

The lodge was extremely poor, but so welcoming and comfortable! Even the table was laid country-style, the polished glasses, the covered dish of semi-salted butter, the cider pitcher, the old-fashioned lamp, which had seen better days, and which emphasized the homely atmosphere by casting reflections of tarnished silver over the white expanse of the table-cloth.

“The next time I come, I must remember to stop at that English delicatessen and buy a jar of that deliciously dependable orange marmalade,” said Durtal to himself, who, by mutual agreement with des Hermies, never dined with the bell-ringer without furnishing a share of the provisions.

Carhaix prepared the pot-au-feu and a simple salad and provided some of his own cider. So as not to be a burden, des Hermies and Durtal brought the wine, coffee, liqueurs, desserts and arranged matters such that their contributions compensated their hosts for the soup and the beef, which would otherwise have lasted them for several days, that were consumed.

“Just right!” noted Mme Carhaix triumphantly, serving to each in turn a bouillon the colour of mahogany whose iridescent surface was looped with rings of topaz.

It was succulent and unctuous, robust and yet delicate, flavoured as it was with a broth made from chicken liver.

Everyone was silent now, their heads lowered over their plates, their faces shining from the steam of the savory soup.

“Now is the moment to repeat one of Flaubert’s favorite commonplaces: ‘You never eat like this in a restaurant,’” remarked Durtal.

“No maligning of restaurants,” said des Hermies. “They afford a very special delight to those who know the right way to inspect them. Only the other night, coming back from a house call, I dropped in on one of those establishments which do a set menu for three francs: soup, a choice of one or the other of the day’s specials, side salad and pudding.

“Now I eat at this restaurant once a month or so. It has an unvarying clientele: irritable stuffed-shirts, officers in mufti, Members of Parliament, civil servants.

“While fiddle-faddling about with the sauce au gratin which accompanied a redoubtable sole, I examined the habitués seated around me. They had singularly changed since my last visit. They had become either bloated or emaciated; their eyes were either hollow, with violet rings around them, or puffy, with crimson pouches under them; the fat ones had turned yellow and the thin ones were becoming green.

“It was obvious that the terrible concoctions served in this place, far deadlier than any of the lethal potions employed by the popes of Avignon, were slowly poisoning the customers.

“You can imagine how interested I became. I immediately carried out a toxicological investigation on my own person, paying careful attention to what I was eating. The ingredients were frightful: a mixture of tannin and coal dust, used to mask the smell of fish which is no longer quite fresh, not dissimilar to the stench of decomposing human tissue; marinated meats, painted with sauces the colour of sewage; wines adulterated with fuscin, perfumed with furfurol, provided with artificial body by the addition of molasses and plaster!

“I have promised myself to return every month in order to chart the customers’ decline…”

“How dreadful!” cried Mme Carhaix.

“Good God!” exclaimed Durtal. “What a black sense of humour you have!”