decorate desserts with nut-meats, flowers and fruits, and in so doing add a bit to the gayety of the table, satisfied that the trifling extra expense, time and energy incurred is more than compensated for in the pleasure the results afford. A fair trial of this pleasant idiosyncrasy of the French is convincing that the appearance of a dish has more bearing on the relish of a meal than we over here have fully realized.

They are particular, however, to be consistent in the use of garnishings. Flowers and fruits are reserved for sweet dishes, except in the case of nasturtiums, which they regard as much a vegetable as a flower and use freely with meats.

A stew or a creamed dish is merely a more or less indifferent something to eat when it is dished up any old way and set upon the table. But if it is heaped daintily on a pretty platter, surrounded by a ring of brown mashed potato, its sides decorated by dainty shapes of toasted bread, perhaps buttered and sprinkled with minced parsley, it has become something to awaken the slumbering or indifferent appetite and at practically no extra expense of time or money.

If the yolks of two hard boiled eggs are minced and mixed with part of the raw white of one, the paste then formed into balls like marbles and dropped into boiling water, one has little yellow spheres to lend an enlivening color note to clear soups. Two or three of these dropped into each plate just before serving makes a pleasing change from the usual croutons.

Sprigs of fresh chickory make the daintiest of garnishes for cold meats, and a few of the tender green stalks will add to the appearance of practically any salad. As for water-cress and pepper-grass and, of course, parsley, minced and otherwise, no French chef would think of preparing a meal without a plentiful supply of them on hand.

It isn't essential that every dish should be turned into an elaborate work of art, as if it were to be entered at the annual exhibition of the Société des Chefs de Cuisine, but neither is there any reason, even with modest means at command, for giving cause for that old slogan of the great American dinner table: “It tastes better than it looks.”

SAUCES, SIMPLE AND OTHERWISE

Brillat-Savarin, who would be remembered as a wit had he not been even more brilliant as a chef, paid his respects to the English by saying they were a nation of a hundred religions and only one sauce. Being a true Frenchman he believed a reversal of the numbers better for the soul. It is certainly better for the appetite.

To be sure the proper mental sauce for a good dinner is wit, and the best physical one, hunger, but as we all of us have more or less of an Epicurean strain in us and do not eat solely to satisfy bodily needs, it is well that the American cook who essays to bring variety to her board should have some knowledge of those Gallic creations, the sauces, by which she is enabled to transform plain dishes into seemingly pretentious ones, even though she never attain that sauce that Balzac knew, “in which a mother might unsuspectingly eat her own child.”

In the first place every French chef keeps three kinds of what he calls roux on hand, ready for making meat and fish sauces. These are made by cooking together eight ounces of butter and nine ounces of flour. That intended for use with brown meats is stirred together till it becomes a medium brown in shade; white roux is cooked only sufficiently to banish the raw taste and not allowed to color, while pale roux is kept over the fire just long enough to attain a deep cream color. These are mixed with milk, soup stock, water or gravy as the case may be when a sauce for fish, meat or vegetables is needed.

For instance, to make Sauce à la Crème, for use with white entrées, take two tablespoonfuls of the white roux in a saucepan with a cup of milk and a tablespoonful each of finely chopped parsley, shallots and chives. Boil fifteen minutes, pass through a colander into another saucepan, add a small lump of butter, more finely chopped parsley and salt and pepper. Mix well with a wooden spoon and it is ready for the table.

To make a favorite Sauce Piquante, cut two onions into slices, also a carrot and two shallots and put into a saucepan with a scant tablespoonful of butter. While heating over a moderate fire, add a sprig of thyme, a tablespoonful of minced parsley, a bayleaf and two or three cloves. When the onions are golden brown add a tablespoonful of flour, a little plain stock and a tablespoonful of vinegar. Boil again, pass through a sieve and season with salt and pepper.

A simple sauce is that Maître d'Hôtel, which is rarely made at home though so generally liked. Put a lump of butter into a small saucepan over a moderate fire and add to it chopped parsley and chives, or parsley alone. Season with salt and pepper and a little lemon juice and while it is sizzling pour over the hot steak or fish.

Sauce d'Anchois, than which there isn't anything better with baked fish, is also easy to make. Take three or four anchovies and mash them up well with two tablespoonfuls of butter. Now make about a pint of brown sauce with brown roux and milk, and stir the anchovy butter into it. Just before taking from the fire add the juice of half a lemon or more, according to taste.

Sauce Bearnaise was a favorite of Henry of Navarre, and it is excellent with steaks, chops and, particularly, roast beef. To make it beat the yolks of three or four eggs in a saucepan, add a tablespoonful of butter and a little salt. Stir over a slow fire till the eggs begin to thicken, then remove and stir in two more tablespoonfuls of butter, stirring till the butter is dissolved. Season with chopped fine herbs and parsley and pour in a teaspoonful of French vinegar.

In many parts of France they have a favorite dressing for boiled fish called Sauce Ravigote. To make it mix half a pint of stock in a saucepan with a small amount of white wine or cider, then chop fine herbs such as chervil, tarragon, chives and parsley, or whatever other herbs are in season, to the amount of about three tablespoonfuls, and mix with the stock, adding salt and pepper. Stew gently for about twenty minutes, then blend a tablespoonful each of flour and butter, stir into the sauce and continue to stir till thick. Just before serving squeeze in the juice of half a lemon.

The word “Ravigote” means, literally, “pick me up,” and it is applied to minced tarragon, chervil, chives and parsley, the herbs being kept separate and served with salad on four little saucers. Ravigote butter, made by kneading butter with the four herbs and adding pepper, salt and lemon juice, spread between thin slices of bread, makes delicious sandwiches.

To make the very generally liked Sauce Blanquette, which is used to raise cold meats to the dignity of a fricassée, take about four ounces of pale roux, thin slightly with boiling water added by degrees, then put in a bunch of sweet herbs, cooked button mushrooms and small onions and pepper and salt to taste. Put in whatever cold meat you have, cook till it is well heated and serve.

The following is called Sauce d'Havre, and through the use of it it will be discovered that the taste of curry is an agreeable one in many another case than in connection with the veal and rice arrangement to which most American cooks restrict it. Peel and slice four onions and two apples and