"And for fish, ah, le voilà. Grey Mullets Meunière, or do you prefer Escalopes de Mostele écossaise just brought in fresh this morning, with a little dry hock? And after that what shall we suggest? Ah! I know, my superb dish, a 'Caneton à la presse.' But gently, gently, messieurs, you cannot pass over my Poussins Picadilly, and to please the palate a demi-bouteille of my special '84 Beaune, it is superb, it will clear the brain." And so the worthy man would go on. To watch him carve a 'Caneton roti a l'anglaise' was a marvel of dexterity and skill, and was considered one of the sights of Paris. It was a masterpiece of carving. Transfixing the bird by means of a large fork, with half-a-dozen rapid strokes of the knife, never exceeding one stroke for each limb, slish slash, slish slash, and the bird would apparently fall to pieces completely dismembered. "Ah!" he would exclaim, "no chef in England or Germany can perform a feat like that. There is one God and one Joseph, and the latter is the king of chefs, n'est-ce pas?" and smiling in conscious triumph he would place the disarticulated fowl before his astonished guests. "Ah, where would Paris be without its restaurants, and where would the restaurants be without their chefs?" "Where indeed," replied Pierre and Paul in one breath, as they gazed in astonishment at the great man in his white cap jauntily placed on his head, as he stood before them with his arms folded, awaiting the applause which he knew was sure to follow. "Yes," replied Joseph, "if only the Emperor Napoleon III. had permitted me to cook for him, how different would have been the result. He would have led his brave army straight to Berlin. Victory would have followed victory." "And then?" asked Paul amused. "Why, monsieur, of course we should have dictated terms at Berlin, instead of being massacred by the hated Prussians at Sedan." "But never mind, a time will come--a time will come--les Bosches nous les aurons, mon Dieu! Nous avons plus que quinze centmille braves--brave comme des lions--Diable! "But messieurs, they are not eating, and they are positively allowing the Mousselmes de Volaille a l'Indienne to get cold," and the great man nearly wept in despair. "Mille tonnerres!" he would exclaim, "Les messieurs have eaten their pudding glacé amilcar without blending the flavour with my special brand of Veuve Clicot. Mais c'est terrible!" and he ran off to order the sommelier to fetch the bottle. "And now," he said, "I will call the garçon to fetch you each a cup of my extra special coffee. Such coffee, messieurs, you will not obtain in any other house in Paris. I have spent years in experimenting with the different varieties of coffee beans to discover the most perfect blend." "Can you give us the recipe?" enquired Pierre and Paul together.