LATER THAT NIGHT, staring at some crayfish shells and pigeon bones in the kitchen, I feel sad about the meal being over, but I also feel like my friends and I managed to do something constructive. We know where tonight's food came from. We know its history and how it was captured and prepared.
I flip through Le Guide to a picture of Escoffier. His arms are folded solidly across his gut, which is buttoned inside a black wool dinner jacket. He's got a bushy mustache and squinty eyes that seem to be gazing into my kitchen to see if I've got anything good to eat. In the introduction, he writes, "The only profit I wish to draw from this book, and the only reward I crave, is to see, in this respect, my advice listened to and followed by those for whom it was written." As I look at Escoffier and Escoffier looks back, I know that tonight he likes what he sees.