My Home at the Queen Pedauque Cookshop—I
turn the Spit and learn to read—Entry of
Abbe Jerome Coignard.
My name is Elme Laurent Jacques Menetrier. My
father, Leonard Menetrier, kept a cookshop at the
sign of Queen Pedauque, who, as everyone knows,
wag web-footed like the geese and ducks.
His penthouse was opposite Saint Benoit le Betourne
between Mistress Gilles the haberdasher at the Three
Virgins and M. Blaizot, the bookseller at the
sign of Saint Catherine, not far from the Little
Bacchus, the gate of which, decorated with vine
branches, was at the corner of the Rue des Cordiers.
He loved me very much, and when, after supper, I lay
in my little bed, he took my hand in his, lifted one
after the other of my fingers, beginning with the
thumb, and said:
“This one has killed him, this one has plucked
him, this one has fricasseed him and that one has
eaten him, and the little Riquiqui had nothing
at all. Sauce, sauce, sauce,” he used to
add, tickling the hollow of my hand with my own little
finger.
And mightily he laughed, and I laughed too, dropping
off to sleep, and my mother used to affirm that the
smile still remained on my lips on the following morning.
My father was a good cookshop-keeper and feared God.
For this he carried on holidays the banner of the
Cooks’ Guild, on which a fine-looking St Laurence
was embroidered, with his grill and a golden palm.
He used to say to me:
“Jacquot, thy mother is a holy and worthy woman.”
He liked to repeat this sentence frequently.
True, my mother went to church every Sunday with a
prayer-book printed in big type. She could hardly
read small print, which, as she said, drew the eyes
out of her head.
My father used to pass an hour or two nightly at the
tavern of the Little Bacchus; there also Jeannetae
the hurdy-gurdy player and Catherine the lacemaker
were regular frequenters. And every time he returned
home somewhat later than usual he said in a soft voice,
while pulling his cotton night-cap on:
“Barbe, sleep in peace; as I have just said
to the limping cutler: ‘You are a holy
and worthy woman.’”
I was six years old when, one day, readjusting his
apron, with him always a sign of resolution, he said
to me:
“Miraut, our good dog, has turned my roasting-spit
during these last fourteen years. I have nothing
to reproach him with. He is a good servant, who
has never stolen the smallest morsel of turkey or
goose. He was always satisfied to lick the roaster
as his wage. But he is getting old. His
legs are getting stiff; he can’t see, and is
no more good to turn the handle. Jacquot, my boy,
it is your duty to take his place. With some
thought and some practice, you certainly will succeed
in doing as well as he.”
Miraut listened to these words and wagged his tail
as a sign of approbation. My father continued:
