Madame Rigou made the butter herself twice a week.

Cream was a concomitant of many sauces.

The vegetables came at a jump, as it were, from their frames to the saucepan.
Parisians, who are accustomed to eat the fruits of the earth after they have had a second ripening in the sun of a city, infected by the air of the streets, fermenting in close shops, and watered from time to time by the market-women to give them a deceitful freshness, have little idea of the exquisite flavors of really fresh produce, to which nature has lent fugitive but powerful charms when eaten as it were alive.
The butcher of Soulanges brought his best meat under fear of losing Rigou's custom.

The poultry, raised on the premises, was of the finest quality.
This system of secret pampering embraced everything in which Rigou was personally concerned.

Though the slippers of the knowing Thelemist were of stout leather they were lined with lamb's wool.