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Newspaper Page Text
THE OMELETTE TARTAR1N
By George Cobb, Jr.
"Here! what do you mean by bring
ing me this stuff when I asked for an
omelette Tartarin?" I inquired of the
waiter who served-me in the Cafe Na
poleon. For whenever I visited Paris I went
"Sacre! Monsieur, Do You Asperse
to the Napoleon for one of Monsieur
Duhamel's famous omelettes.
The waiter shrugged his shoulders.
"Helas, Monsieur, we cannot provide
the original omelette Tartarin any
more," he said. "Only Monsieur Al
phonse, the chef, knew how to make
heem, and he is gone to' America. He
works now m the Hotel St. Charles."
This interested me, for the Hotel
St Charles is round the corner of the
downtown New York block in whieh
I live. And I had never known that
the omelette Tartarin was to be had
The waiter glanced toward the
dark-eyed Mademoiselle Dubois, at
the cash counter.
"You see, Monsieur," he explained,
"there was a quarrel between Mon
sieur Napoleon, the proprietor, and
Monsieur Alphonse, the chef, over
Mademoiselle Dubois, of the cash
counter. Each wanted to marry her.
Eh bein! Monsieur Alphonse was re
jected, and he went to America. And
Monsieur Napoleon "
"Marrier her?" I asked.
"Mais qui, monsieur. Mademoiselle
Dubois is now Madame Napoleon.
Only this is a secret, understand, be
cause it would spoil business If it
were known. But helas; one can
only obtain the omelette Tartarin in
New York now at the Hotel St.
I spoke to stout little Monsieur Na
poleon about the matter. I did not
reveal to him my knowledge of the
secret, however, though I saw the
pretty cashier look suspiciously at
"Monsieur," said the proprietor,
"verily, since Monsieur Alphonse left
me my custom has fallen off sadly.
He was the inventor of the famous
omelette Tartarin. Kings have eaten
at this little restaurant, because the
omelette Tartarin is not to be ob
tained in royal courts. Now, alas, the
omelette Tartarin is dead "
Suddenly he caught me by the
lapels of my coat, and stood holding
me thus, his head a little on one side,
and a beseeching expression on his
"Monsieur," he said, "will you not
be an ambassador of peace for me?
Monsieur, yoi are of New York. You
know the Hotel St Charles, where
that scoundrel Alphonse now cooks
for a nation of unartists, wHb can
never rise to the appreciation of the
omelette Tartann. When you return,
will you not go to the' accursed one
and beg him to return?"
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