A hungry man seeking his luncheon went, not long ago, to a certain French restaurant noted for its rare combination of admirable cookery and reasonable charges. There, moved by a happy inspiration, he ordered and ate a casserole of chicken. It was exceedingly good - so good that he went home and described the dish to his wife with an eloquence that moved her to do her best to reproduce the dainty.

She sought through countless cook-books for the directions she needed, and found recipes many for casseroles of various sorts. Some were in the shape of meat-loaves, some took the forms of moulds of rice or potato filled with minced chicken, fish, or meat. Dish after dish she prepared, following with what consistency she could the combined directions of the cook-books and her husband, but in vain. The casserole eluded her efforts. To complete her discouragement, none of the notable cooks consulted could offer any satisfactory suggestions.

At last, however, one of the least of them, who had never before had anything approaching an original idea, was visited by a lucky thought. This she at once proceeded to put into practice. Selecting for her companion a bon-vivant who possessed a fine talent for culinary analysis, she went to the. restaurant where the chef-d'ceuvre had been found and ordered casserole of chicken. The two ate and studied and compared impressions and devised formulae, and finally exercised financial blandishments upon the head-waiter and the chef.

When the seekers for knowledge left the restaurant they bore with them lightened purses, satisfied appetites, and an air of triumph. But the most valuable acquisition was a bit of paper, upon which was jotted down, in kitchen French and in the chef's own Gallic handwriting, the outline of the longed-for recipe, and here it is, reduced to the American kitchen idiom.

Select a plump spring chicken, clean it, and truss it as for roasting. Place in a casserole two tablespoonfuls of butter, a carrot, and an onion (both cut into slices), two bay-leaves, and a sprig of thyme. Set the casserole on top of the stove for about ten minutes, or until the vegetables are lightly browned in the butter. Pour in then a pint of well-seasoned consomme, cover the casserole closely, put it into the oven, and braise the chicken for three-quarters of an hour. If it is not young and tender it will require longer. Ten minutes before the time is up add two tablespoonfuls of sherry or madeira, and cover again. At the end of the three-quarters of an hour drop into the gravy a dozen or more small potato-balls which have been cut from the raw potato with a Parisian cutter and then browned, or saute in butter. At the same time add an equal number of French champignons. Season the gravy with pepper and salt, and leave the cover off the casserole that the chicken may brown. This should take ten or fifteen minutes. After removing it from the oven, sprinkle finely minced parsley over the chicken, and send it to table in the casserole.

The genuine French casseroles are hard to find in this country, and the imported ones are very expensive. For the benefit of those who do not possess these utensils already, it may be stated that any deep earthenware pudding-dish with a closely fitting cover will serve as a substitute. There is a little curio-shop in New York where a feature is made of Mexican and Moorish pottery, and here may be found delectable covered pudding-dishes, of a light terra-cotta ware, which are cheap, artistic, and will stand any amount of heat. These are more ornamental than the imported casseroles, and infinitely preferable to the ugly earthenware saucepans sold by that name. The only essential difference lies in the handles, the Mexican dish having a pair of them instead of the single short one found on the regular casserole.