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title: 'The Day book. (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917, June 25, 1914, NOON EDITION, Image 19',
meta: 'News about Chronicling America - RSS Feed',
Image provided by: University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library, Urbana, IL
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".".':.,i,-"'T.ui. .' -mcwaiKi iTia.f T -
t'And tell Mm we shall all be good
s friends again," continued Madame
Napoleon, or, rather, Mademoiselle
Dubois, as she must still continue to
Jf Well, I accepted the commission. I
s felt sorry for Monsieru Napoleon and
the disappointed kings, and I thought
that to forego my own chances of
r tasting the omelette Tartarin at the
" St Charles was an act of distinct
" self-abnegnation. The first evening
" I had to spare after my arrival in New
'" York I went to the St. Charles and
ordered an omelette Tartarin.
It was no more the omelette Tar
tarin of the Cafe Napoleon than the
present omelette of the Cafe Napo
v leon was like the wonderful creations
'" of yesteryear. I could not under-
,l stand it
"' "Is not Monsier Alphonse your
lJ chef?" I inquired of the headwaiter.
"Yes, sir," he answered. "Fine
chef, too, he's supposed to be. He's
f got a gold medal from the late king
1 of Belgium for his omelette Tartarin.
a' Didn't you find it distinguished, sir?"
"No!" I shouted. "I've eaten bad
:j omelettes in most countries of the
world, but for sheer unsavoriness I've
' never tasted one as bad as the one
I've had here tonight Bring your
chef to me at once."
The waiter looked as if he was go-
ing to burst into tears, but apparently
ar he thought better of it, and, being im-
pressed by my manner, he summoned
1 the chef, who presently made his ap
pearance. He was a stout, black
"' "bearded brigand, with a furtive look
3 in his eye that I hardly liked.
2 "What's this about my omelette?"
'"he began truculently.
"Monsier Alphonse," I said, "you
W are a fake and a fraud. Either you
care not the original Monsier Al-
1phonse, or else you have lost your
mind, or else your skill has-deserted
! 'ycm, or else the Great American Hen
airhas been smitten with the craze for
r turning out -an inferior product.
Come, out with your confession.
er What's the matter?'-' j
"Sacre, monsier, do you asperse
my omelette?" he began.
"Your omelette is as degenerate as
yourself," I answered. "It may de
ceive the gay millionaires of the
Great White Way, but it doesn't go
down I mean this literally with
one who has enjoyed the correct arti
cle at the Cafe Napoleon. Now,, lis
ten, Alphonse! Monsier Napoleon
wants you to return. He is pining for
"Ah, mon Dieu, the scoundrel stole
my sweetheart,"" said tV chef. ,rSince
then I have vowed never, never to
cook the correct omelette Tar
"Alphonse," I answered, "you are
a married man!"
"Monsieur!" he gasped. "How do
"By th& furtive look in your eye," I
answered. "By the come-home-early
atmosphere that you are shedding
around this former home of bright
bachelordom. Come, Alphonse, out
"Monsieur, I am married three
months," he answered. "I adore, I
"Never mind that! How about
Mademoiselle Dubois, now Madame
"Monsier, a passing infatuation,
truly. I never cared for her. It was
merely that "
"Theji you will take your wife to
Paris and restore the Cafe Napoleon
to its former splendor," I to'td him.
"Come! They will embrace you.
They will double your salary. They
will love you as the long-lost prodi
"Alas, monsier, it is impossible,"
he answered, sadly.
"Alphonse," I said, "there is Some
mystery about that omelette Tar
"Monsieur, I will confess," lie
blurted out. "It was not I who made
it It was Mademoiselle Dubois."
"What!" I exclaimed.
"Truly, monsieur. And I had to
pretend to love her, that she shduld