Cakes & Ale / A Dissertation on Banquets Interspersed with Various Recipes, More or Less Original, and anecdotes, mainly veracious

Nebuchadnezzar v. Sydney Smith—Salt?—No salad-bowl—French origin—Apocryphal story of Francatelli—Salads and salads—Water-cress and dirty water—Salad-maker born not made—Lobster salad—Lettuce, Wipe or wash?—Mayonnaise—Potato salad—Tomato ditto—Celery ditto—A memorable ditto.

If Sydney Smith had only possessed the experience of old King Nebuchadnezzar, after he had been “turned out to grass,” the witty prebend might not have waxed quite so enthusiastic on the subject of “herbaceous meat.” Still the subject is a vast and important one, in its connection with gastronomy, and lends itself to poetry far easier than doth the little sucking pig, upon whom Charles Lamb expended so great and unnecessary a wealth of language.

But look at the terse, perfunctory, and far from satisfactory manner in which the Encyclopædia attacks the subject. “Salad,” we read, “is the term given to a preparation of raw herbs for food. It derives its name from the fact that salt is one of the chief ingredients used in dressing a salad.” This statement is not only misleading but startling; for in the “dressing” of a salad it would be the act of a lunatic to make salt the “chief ingredient.”

Long before they had learnt the art of dressing the herbs, our ancestors partook of cresses (assorted), celery, and lettuces, after being soaked in water for a considerable period; and they dipped the raw herbs into salt before consuming them. In fact, in many a cheap eating-house of to-day, the term “salad” means plain lettuce, or cress, or possibly both, absolutely undressed—in a state of nature, plus plenty of dirty water. Even the English cook of the end of the nineteenth century cannot rid himself, or herself, of the idea that lettuce, like water-cress, knows the running brook, or the peaceful pond, as its natural element. And thirty years before the end of that century, a salad bowl was absolutely unknown in nine-tenths of the eating-houses of Great Britain.

There is no use in blinking the fact that it is to our lively neighbours that we owe the introduction of the salad proper. Often as the writer has been compelled, in these pages, to inveigh against the torturing of good fish and flesh by the alien cook, and the high prices charged for its endowment with an alien flavour, let that writer (figuratively) place a crown of endive, tipped with baby onions, upon the brows of the philanthropist who dressed the first salad, and gave the recipe to the world. That recipe has, of course, been improved upon; and although the savant who writes in the Encyclopædia proclaims that “salad has always been a favourite food with civilised nations, and has varied very little in its composition,” the accuracy of both statements is open to question.

“Every art,” observes another writer, “has its monstrosities; gastronomy has not been behind-hand; and though he must be a bold man who will venture to blaspheme the elegancies of French cookery, there comes a time to every Englishman who may have wandered into a mistaken admiration of sophisticated messes, when he longs for the simple diet of his native land, and vows that the best cookery in the world, and that which satisfies the most refined epicureanism, sets up for its ideal—plainness of good food, and the cultivation of natural tastes.”

And yet the French have taught us, or tried to teach us, how to prepare a dish of raw herbs, in the simplest way in the world!

“Now a salad,” says the same writer, “is simplicity itself, and here is a marvel—it is the crowning grace of a French dinner, while, on the other hand, it is little understood and villainously treated at English tables.” Ahem! I would qualify that last statement. At some English tables I have tasted salads compared with which the happiest effort of the chef deserves not to be mentioned in the same garlic-laden breath. And “garlic-laden breath” naturally reminds me of the story of Francatelli—of which anecdote I do not believe one word, by the way. It was said of Franc., whilst chef at the Reform Club, that his salads were such masterpieces, such things of beauty, that one of the members questioned him on the subject.

“How do you manage to introduce such a delicious flavour into your salads?”

“Ah! that should be my secret,” was the reply. “But I will tell him to you. After I have made all my preparations, and the green food is mixed with the dressing, I chew a little clove of garlic between my teeth—so—and then breathe gently over the whole.”

But, as observed before, I do not believe that garlic story.

O salad, what monstrosities are perpetrated in thy name! Let the genteel boarding-house cook-maid, the young lady who has studied harmony and the higher mathematics at the Board School, spread herself over the subject; and then invite the angels to inspect the matter, and weep! For this is the sort of “harmony” which the “paying guest,” who can appreciate the advantages of young and musical society, an airy front bed-chamber, and a bicycle room, is expected to enthuse over at the table d’hôte: a mélange of herbs and roots, including water-cress and giant radishes, swimming in equal parts of vinegar and oil, and a large proportion of the water in which the ingredients have been soaking for hours—said ingredients being minced small, like veal collops, with a steel knife. And the same salad, the very identical horror, obtrudes itself on the table at other genteel establishments than boarding-houses. For they be “mostly fools” who people the civilised world.

Let it be laid down as a golden rule, that the concoction of a salad should never, or hardly ever, be entrusted to the tender mercies of the British serving-maid. For the salad-maker, like the poet, is born, not made; and the divine afflatus—I don’t mean garlic—is as essential in the one as in the other. We will take the simple mixture, what is commonly known as the

French Salad,

first. This is either composed, in the matter of herbs, of lettuce, chopped taragon, chervil, and chives; or of endive, with, “lurking in the bowl,” a chapon, or crust of bread on which a clove of garlic has been rubbed. But the waiter, an he be discreet, will ask the customer beforehand if he prefer that the chapon be omitted. The dressing is simplicity itself:

Within the bowl of a table-spoon are placed, in succession, a spot of made mustard, and a sprinkling of black pepper and salt. The bowl is filled up with vinegar, and with a fork in the other hand the waiter stirs quickly the mustard, etc., afterwards emptying the contents of the spoon over the green-stuff. Then the spoon is refilled—either twice or thrice, ad lib.—with Lucca oil, which is also poured over the salad. Then the final mixing takes place, in the salad bowl.

But there be many and elaborate ways of salad-making. Here is the writer’s idea of a

Lobster Salad

for half-a-dozen guests:

In a soup plate, mix the yolks of two hard-boiled eggs—boiled for thirty minutes, and afterwards thrown into cold water—into a smooth paste with a teaspoonful of made mustard, and a tablespoonful of plain vinegar, added drop by drop. Keep on stirring, and add a dessert-spoonful of tarragon vinegar, a few drops of essence of anchovies, a teaspoonful (not heaped) of salt, about the same quantity of sifted sugar, and a good pinch of cayenne. [The tendency of black pepper is to make a salad gritty, which is an abomination.] Lastly, add, drop by drop, three tablespoonfuls of oil. Pour this dressing (which should be in a continual state of stir) into your salad bowl. Add the pickings of a hen lobster cut into dice, and atop of the lobster, lettuces which have been shred with clean fingers, or with ivory forks; a little endive may be added, with a slice or two of beetroot; but no onion (or very little) in a lobster salad. A few shreds of anchovy may be placed atop; with beetroot cut into shapes, the whites of the eggs, and the coral of the lobster, for the sake of effect; but seek not, O student, to achieve prettiness of effect to the detriment of practical utility. I need hardly add that the sooner after its manufacture a salad is eaten, the better will be its flavour. And the solid ingredients should only be mixed with the dressing at the very last moment; otherwise a sodden, flabby effect will be produced, which is neither pleasing to the eye, nor calculated to promote good digestion.

I am perfectly aware that the above is not a strict Mayonnaise dressing, in which the egg yolks should be raw, instead of cooked. But, like the Scotsman, I have “tried baith,” and prefer my own way, which more resembles the sauce Tartare, than the Mayonnaise of our lively neighbours, who, by the way, merely wipe, instead of wash, their lettuces and endive, to preserve, as they say, the flavour. Of course this is a matter of taste, but the writer must own to a preference for the baptised article, which must, however, on no account be left to soak, but be simply freed from dirt, grit, and—other things.

What is the origin of the word “Mayonnaise”? No two Frenchmen will give you the same answer. “Of or belonging to Mayonne” would seem to be the meaning of the word; but then there is no such place as Mayonne in the whole of France. Grimod de la Reyniere maintained that the proper word was “Bayonnaise,” meaning a native of Bayonne, on the Spanish frontier. Afterwards Grimod, who was a resourceful man, got hold of another idea, and said that the word was probably “Mahonnaise,” and so named in honour of Marshal Richelieu’s capture of the stronghold of Mahon, in the island of Minorca. But what had this victory got to do with a salad dressing? What was the connection of raw eggs and tarragon vinegar with Marshal Richelieu? Then up came another cook, in the person of Carême, who established it as an absolute certainty that the genuine word was “Magnonnaise,” from the word “manier,” to manipulate. But as nobody would stand this definition for long, a fresh search had to be made; and this time an old Provençal verb was dug up—mahonner, or more correctly maghonner, to worry or fatigue. And this is now said by purists to be the source of Mayonnaise—“something worried,” or fatigued. And the reason for the gender of the noun is said to be that in ancient times lovely woman was accustomed to manipulate the salad with her own fair fingers. In the time of Rousseau, the phrase retourner la salade avec les doigts was used to describe a woman as being still young and beautiful; just as in Yorkshire at the present time, “she canna mak’ a bit o’ bread” is used to describe a woman who is of no possible use in the house. So a Mayonnaise or a Mahonnaise—I care not which be the correct spelling—was a young lady who “fatigued” the salad. More shame to the gallants of the day, who allowed “fatigue” to be associated with youth and beauty!

But can it possibly matter what the word means, when the mixture is smooth and savoury; and so deftly blended that no one flavour predominates? And herein lies the secret of every mixture used for the refreshment of the inner man and woman; whether it be a soup, a curry, a trifle, a punch, or a cup—no one ingredient should be of more weight or importance than another. And that was the secret of the “delicious gravy” furnished by the celebrated stew at the “Jolly Farmers,” in The Old Curiosity Shop of Charles Dickens.

Mayonnaise (we will drop for the nonce, the other spelling) is made thus:

In the proportions of two egg yolks to half a pint of Lucca oil, and a small wine-glassful of tarragon vinegar. Work the yolks smooth in a basin, with a seasoning of pepper (cayenne for choice), salt, and—according to the writer’s views—sifted sugar. Then a few drops of oil, and fewer of vinegar; stirring the mixture all the time, from right to left, with a wooden, or ivory, spoon. In good truth ’tis a “fatiguing” task; and as in very hot weather the sauce is liable to decompose, or “curdle,” before the finishing touches are put to it, it may be made over ice.

is the motto for the Mayonnaise-mixer. And in many cases her only reward consists in the knowledge that through her art and patience she has helped to make the sojourn of others in this vale of tears less tearful and monotonous.

“Onion atoms” should “lurk within the bowl,” on nearly every occasion, and as for a potato salad—don’t be afraid, I’m not going to quote any more Sydney Smith, so don’t get loading your guns—well, here is the proper way to make it.

Potato Salad.

Cut nine or ten average-sized kidney potatoes (cooked) into slices, half an inch thick, put them in a salad bowl, and pour over them, after mixing, two tablespoonfuls of vinegar, one tablespoonful of tarragon vinegar, six tablespoonfuls of oil, one of minced parsley, a dessert-spoonful of onions chopped very fine, with cayenne and salt to taste. Shredded anchovies may be added, although it is preferable without; and this salad should be made a couple of hours or so before partaken of.

The German recipe for a potato salad is too nasty to quote; and their Herring Salad, although said to be a valuable restorative of nerve power, by no means presents an attractive appearance, when served at table. Far more to the mind and palate of the average epicure is a

Tomato Salad.

This is the author’s recipe:

Four large tomatoes and one Spanish onion, cut into thin slices. Mix a spot of mustard, a little white pepper and salt, with vinegar, in a table-spoon, pour it over the love apples, etc., and then add two tablespoonfuls of oil. Mix well, and then sprinkle over the mixture a few drops of Lea and Perrins’s Worcester Sauce. For the fair sex, the last part of the programme may be omitted, but on no account leave out the breath of sunny Spain. And mark this well. The man, or woman, who mixes tomatoes with lettuces, or endives, in the bowl, is hereby sentenced to translate the whole of this book into Court English.

Celery Salad.

An excellent winter salad is made with beetroot and celery, cut in thin slices, and served—with or without onions—either with a mayonnaise sauce, or with a plain cream sauce: to every tablespoonful of cream add a teaspoonful of tarragon vinegar, a little sugar, and a suspicion of cayenne. This salad looks best served in alternate slices of beet and celery, on a flat silver dish, around the sauce.

A Gentleman Salad Maker.

Although in the metropolis it is still customary, in middle-class households, to hire “outside help” on the occasion of a dinner-party, we have not heard for some time of a salad-dresser who makes house-to-house visitations in the exercise of his profession. But, at the end of the 18th century, the Chevalier d’Allignac, who had escaped from Paris to London in the evil days of the Revolution, made a fortune in this way. He was paid at the rate of £5 a salad, and naturally, soon started his own carriage, “in order that he might pass quickly from house to house, during the dining hours of the aristocracy.” High as the fee may appear to be, it is impossible to measure the width of the gulf which lies between the salad as made by a lover of the art, and the kitchen-wench; and a perfect salad is, like a perfect curry, “far above rubies.”

A Memorable Salad

was once served in my own mansion. The chef, who understood these matters well, when her hair was free from vine leaves, had been celebrating her birthday or some other festival; and had mixed the dressing with Colza oil. Her funeral was largely attended.

CHAPTER XIV

SALADS AND CONDIMENTS

Roman salad—Italian ditto—Various other salads—Sauce for cold mutton—Chutnine—Raw chutnee—Horse-radish sauce—Christopher North’s sauce—How to serve a mackerel—Sauce Tartare—Ditto for sucking pig—Delights of making Sambal—A new language.

It has, I hope, been made sufficiently clear that neither water-cress nor radishes should figure in a dressed salad; from the which I would also exclude such “small deer” as mustard and cress. There is, however, no black mark against the narrow-leaved Corn Salad plant, or “lamb’s lettuce”; and its great advantage is that it can be grown almost anywhere during the winter months, when lettuces have to be “coddled,” and thereby robbed of most of their flavour.

Instead of yolk of egg, in a dressing, cheese may be used, with good results, either cream cheese—not the poor stuff made on straws, but what are known as “napkin,” or “New Forest” cheeses—or Cheddar. Squash it well up with oil and vinegar, and do not use too much. A piece of cheese the size of an average lump of sugar will be ample, and will lend a most agreeable flavour to the mixture.

Roman Salad

Lucullus and Co.—or rather their cooks—had much to learn in the preparation of the “herbaceous meat” which delighted Sydney Smith. The Romans cultivated endive; this was washed free from “matter in the wrong place,” chopped small—absolutely fatal to the taste—anointed with oil and liquamen, topped up with chopped onions, and further ornamented with honey and vinegar. But before finding fault with the conquerors of the world for mixing honey with a salad, it should be remembered that they knew not “fine Demerara,” nor “best lump,” nor even the beet sugar which can be made at home. Still I should not set a Roman salad before my creditors, if I wanted them to have “patience.” An offer of the very smallest dividend would be preferable.

Italian Salad.

The merry Italian has improved considerably upon the herbaceous treat (I rather prefer “treat” to “meat”) of his ancestors; though he is far too fond of mixing flesh-meat of all sorts with his dressed herbs, and his boiled vegetables. Two cold potatoes and half a medium sized beet sliced, mixed with boiled celery and Brussels sprouts, form a common salad in the sunny South; the dressing being usually oil and vinegar, occasionally oil seule, and sometimes a Tartare sauce. Stoned olives are usually placed atop of the mess, which includes fragments of chicken, or veal and ham.

Russian Salad.

This is a difficult task to build up; for a sort of Cleopatra’s Needle, or pyramid, of cooked vegetables, herbs, pickles, etc., has to be erected on a flat dish. Carrots, turnips, green peas, asparagus, French beans, beetroot, capers, pickled cucumbers, and horse-radish, form the solid matter of which the pyramid is built.

Lay a stratum on the dish, and anoint the stratum with Tartare sauce. Each layer must be similarly anointed, and must be of less circumference than the one underneath, till the top layer consists of one caper. Garnish with bombs of caviare, sliced lemon, crayfish, olives, and salted cucumber; and then give the salad to the policeman on fixed-point duty. At least, if you take my advice.

Anchovy Salad.

This is usually eaten at the commencement of dinner, as a hors d’œuvre.

Some shreds of anchovy should be arranged “criss-cross” in a flat glass dish. Surround it with small heaps of chopped truffles, yolk and white of hard-boiled eggs, capers, and a stoned olive or two. Mix all the ingredients together with a little Chili vinegar, and twice the quantity of oil.

The mixture is said to be invaluable as an appetiser; but the modest oyster on the deep shell—if he has not been fattened at the bolt-hole of the main sewer—is to be preferred.

Cooked vegetables, for salad purposes, are not, nor will they ever be, popular in England, Nine out of ten Britains will eat the “one sauce” with asparagus, in preference to the oiled butter, or plain salad dressing, of mustard, vinegar, pepper, salt, and oil; whilst ’tis almost hopeless to attempt to dissuade madame the cook from smothering her cauliflowers with liquefied paste, before sending them to table. Many a wild weed which foreign nations snatch greedily from the soil, prior to dressing it, is passed by with scorn by our islanders, including the dandelion, which is a favourite of our lively neighbours, for salad purposes, and is doubtless highly beneficial to the human liver. So is the cauliflower; and an eminent medical authority once gave out that the man who ate a parboiled cauliflower, as a salad, every other day, need never send for a doctor. Which sounds rather like fouling his own nest.

Fruit Salad.

This is simply a French compôte of cherries, green almonds, pears, limes, peaches, apricots in syrup slightly flavoured with ginger; and goes excellent well with any cold brown game. Try it.

Orange Salad.

Peel your orange, and cut it into thin slices. Arrange these in a glass dish, and sugar them well. Then pour over them a glass of sherry, a glass of brandy, and a glass of maraschino.

Orange Sauce.

Cold mutton, according to my notions, is “absolutely beastly,” to the palate. More happy homes have been broken up by this simple dish than by the entire army of Europe. And ’tis a dish which should never be allowed to wander outside the servants’ hall. The superior domestics who take their meals in the steward’s room, would certainly rise in a body, and protest against the indignity of a cold leg, or shoulder. As for a cold loin—but the idea is too awful. Still, brightened up by the following condiment, cold mutton will go down smoothly, and even gratefully:—

Rub off the thin yellow rind of two oranges on four lumps of sugar. Put these into a bowl, and pour in a wine-glass of port, a quarter pint of dissolved red-currant jelly, a teaspoonful of mixed mustard—don’t be frightened, it’s all right—a finely-minced shallot, a pinch of cayenne, and some more thin orange rind. Mix well. When heated up, strain and bottle off.

But amateur sauces should, on the whole, be discouraged. The writer has tasted dozens of imitations of Lea and Perrins’s “inimitable,” and it is still inimitable, and unapproachable. It is the same with chutnee. You can get anything in that line you want at Stembridge’s, close to Leicester Square, to whom the writer is indebted for some valuable hints. But here is a recipe for a mixture of chutnee and pickle, which must have been written a long time ago; for the two operations are transposed. For instance, the onions should be dealt with first.

Chutnine.

Ten or twelve large apples, peeled and cored, put in an earthenware jar, with a little vinegar (on no account use water) in the oven. Let them remain till in a pulp, then take out, and add half an ounce of curry powder, one ounce of ground ginger, half a pound of stoned raisins, chopped fine, half a pound moist sugar, one teaspoonful cayenne pepper, one tablespoonful salt. Take four large onions (this should be done first), chop very fine, and put them in a jar with a pint and a half of vinegar. Cork tightly and let them remain a week. Then add the rest of the ingredients, after mixing them well together. Cork tightly, and the chutnine will be ready for use in a month. It improves, however, by keeping for a year or so.

Raw Chutnee

is another aid to the consumption of cold meat, and I have also seen it used as an accompaniment to curry, but do not recommend the mixture.

One large tomato, one smaller Spanish onion, one green chili, and a squeeze of lemon juice. Pulp the tomato; don’t try to extract the seeds, for life is too short for that operation. Chop the onion and the chili very fine, and mix the lot up with a pinch of salt, and the same quantity of sifted sugar.

I know plenty of men who would break up their homes (after serving the furniture in the same way) and emigrate; who would go on strike, were roast beef to be served at the dinner-table unaccompanied by horse-radish sauce. But this is a relish for the national dish which is frequently overlooked.

Horse-radish Sauce.

Grate a young root as fine as you can. It is perhaps needless to add that the fresher the horse-radish the better. No vegetables taste as well as those grown in your own garden, and gathered, or dug up, just before wanted. And the horse-radish, like the Jerusalem artichoke, comes to stay. When once he gets a footing in your garden you will never dislodge him; nor will you want to. Very well, then:

Having grated your horse, add a quarter of a pint of cream—English or Devonshire—a dessert-spoonful of sifted sugar, half that quantity of salt, and a tablespoonful of vinegar. Mix all together, and, if for hot meat, heat in the oven, taking care that the mixture does not curdle. Many people use oil instead of cream, and mix grated orange rind with the sauce. The Germans do not use oil, but either make the relish with cream, or hard-boiled yolk of egg. Horse-radish sauce for hot meat may also be heated by pouring it into a jar, and standing the jar in boiling water—“jugging it” in fact.

Celery Sauce,

for boiled pheasant, or turkey, is made thus:

Two or three heads of celery, sliced thin, put into a saucepan with equal quantities of sugar and salt, a dust of white pepper, and two or three ounces of butter. Stew your celery slowly till it becomes pulpy, but not brown, add two or three ounces of flour, and a good half-pint of milk, or cream. Let it simmer twenty minutes, and then rub the mixture through a sieve.

The carp as an item of food is, according to my ideas, a fraud. He tastes principally of the mud in which he has been wallowing until dragged out by the angler. The ancients loved a dish of carp, and yet they knew not the only sauce to make him at all palatable.

Sauce for Carp.

One ounce of butter, a quarter pint of good beef gravy, one dessert-spoonful of flour, a quarter pint of cream and two anchovies chopped very small. Mix over the fire, stir well till boiling, then take off, add a little Worcester sauce, and a squeeze of lemon, just before serving.

Christopher North’s Sauce.

This is a very old recipe. Put a dessert-spoonful of sifted sugar, a salt-spoonful of salt, and rather more than that quantity of cayenne, into a jar. Mix thoroughly, and add, gradually, two tablespoonfuls of Harvey’s sauce, a dessert-spoonful of mushroom ketchup, a tablespoonful of lemon juice, and a large glass of port. Place the jar in a saucepan of boiling water, and let it remain till the mixture is very hot, but not boiling. If bottled directly after made, the sauce will keep for a week, and may be used for duck, goose, pork, or (Christopher adds) “any broil.” But there is but one broil sauce, the Gubbins Sauce, already mentioned in this work.

Sauce for Hare.

What a piece of work is a hare! And what a piece of work it is to cook him in a laudable fashion!

Crumble some bread—a handful or so—soak it in port wine, heat over the fire with a small lump of butter, a tablespoonful of red-currant jelly, a little salt, and a tablespoonful of Chili vinegar. Serve as hot as possible.

Mackerel is a fish but seldom seen at the tables of the great. And yet ’tis tasty eating, if his Joseph’s coat be bright and shining when you purchase him. When stale he is dangerous to life itself. And he prefers to gratify the human palate when accompanied by

Gooseberry Sauce,

which is made by simply boiling a few green gooseberries, rubbing them through a sieve, and adding a little butter and a suspicion of ginger. Then heat up. “A wine-glassful of sorrel or spinach-juice,” observes one authority, “is a decided improvement.” H’m. I’ve tried both, and prefer the gooseberries unadorned with spinach liquor.

Now for a sauce which is deservedly popular all over the world, and which is equally at home as a salad dressing, as a covering for a steak off a fresh-run salmon, or a portion of fried eel; the luscious, the invigorating

Sauce Tartare,

so called because no tallow-eating Tartar was ever known to taste thereof. I have already given a pretty good recipe for its manufacture, in previous salad-dressing instructions, where the yolks of hard-boiled eggs are used. But chopped chervil, shallots, and (occasionally) gherkins, are added to the Tartare arrangement; and frequently the surface is adorned with capers, stoned olives, and shredded anchovies.

In the chapters devoted to dinners, no mention has been made of the sucking pig, beloved of Charles Lamb.[8] This hardened offender should be devoured with

Currant Sauce:

Boil an ounce of currants, after washing them and picking out the tacks, dead flies, etc., in half a pint of water, for a few minutes, and pour over them a cupful of finely grated crumbs. Let them soak well, then beat up with a fork, and stir in about a gill of oiled butter. Add two tablespoonfuls of the brown gravy made for the pig, a glass of port, and a pinch of salt. Stir the sauce well over the fire. It is also occasionally served with roast venison; but not in the mansions of my friends.

What is sauce for Madame Goose is said to be sauce for Old Man Gander. Never mind about that, however. The parents of young Master Goose, with whom alone I am going to deal, have, like the flowers which bloom in the spring, absolutely nothing to do with the case. This is the best

Sauce for the Goose

known to civilisation:

Put two ounces of green sage leaves into a jar with an ounce of the thin yellow rind of a lemon, a minced shallot, a teaspoonful of salt, half a ditto of cayenne, and a pint of claret. Let this soak for a fortnight, then pour off the liquid into a tureen; or boil with some good gravy. This sauce will keep for a week or two, bottled and well corked up.

And now, having given directions for the manufacture of sundry “cloyless sauces”—with only one of the number having any connection with Ala, and that one a sauce of world-wide reputation, I will conclude this chapter with a little fancy work. It is not probable that many who do me the honour to skim through these humble, faultily-written, but heartfelt gastronomic hints are personally acquainted with the cloyless

Sambal,

who is a lady of dusky origin. But let us quit metaphor, and direct the gardener to

Cut the finest and straightest cucumber in his crystal palace. Cut both ends off, and divide the remainder into two-inch lengths. Peel these, and let them repose in salt to draw out the water, which is the indigestible part of the cucumber. Then take each length, in succession, and with a very sharp knife—a penknife is best for the purpose—pare it from surface to centre, until it has become one long, curly shred. Curl it up tight, so that it may resemble in form the spring of a Waterbury watch. Cut the length through from end to end, until you have made numerous long thin shreds. Treat each length in the same way, and place in a glass dish. Add three green chilies, chopped fine, a few chopped spring onions, and some tiny shreds of the Blue Fish of Java. Having performed a fishless pilgrimage in search of this curiosity, you will naturally fall back upon the common or Italian anchovy, which, after extracting the brine and bones, and cleansing, chop fine. Pour a little vinegar over the mixture.

“Sambal” will be found a delicious accompaniment to curry—when served on a salad plate—or to almost any description of cold meat and cheese. It is only fair to add, however, that the task of making the relish is arduous and exasperating to a degree; and that the woman who makes it—no male Christian in the world is possessed of a tithe of the necessary patience, now that Job and Robert Bruce are no more—should have the apartment to herself. For the labour is calculated to teach an entirely new language to the manufacturer.

CHAPTER XV

SUPPER

Cleopatra’s supper—Oysters—Danger in the Aden bivalve—Oyster stew—Ball suppers—Pretty dishes—The Taj Mahal—Aspic—Bloater paste and whipped cream—Ladies’ recipes—Cookery colleges—Tripe—Smothered in onions—North Riding fashion—An hotel supper—Lord Tomnoddy at the “Magpie and Stump.”

That cruel and catlike courtesan, Cleopatra, is alleged to have given the most expensive supper on record, and to have disposed of the bonne bouche herself, in the shape of a pearl, valued at the equivalent of £250,000, dissolved in vinegar of extra strength. Such a sum is rather more than is paid for a supper at the Savoy, or the Cecil, or the Metropole, in these more practical times, when pearls are to be had cheaper; and there is probably about as much truth in this pearl story as in a great many others of the same period. I have heard of a fair declassée leader of fashion at Monte Carlo, who commanded that her major domo should be put to death for not having telegraphed to Paris for peaches, for a special dinner; but the woman who could melt a pearl in vinegar, and then drink——halte la! Perhaps the pearl was displayed in the deep shell of the oyster of which the “noble curtesan” partook? We know how Mark Antony’s countrymen valued the succulent bivalve; and probably an oyster feast at Wady Halfa or Dongola was a common function long before London knew a “Scott’s,” a “Pimm’s,” or a “Sweeting’s.”

Thanks partly to the “typhoid scare,” but principally to the prohibitive price, the “native” industry of Britain has been, at the latter end of the nineteenth century, by no means active, although in the illustrated annuals Uncle John still brings with him a barrel of the luscious bivalves, in addition to assorted toys for the children, when he arrives in the midst of a snow-storm at the old hall on Christmas Eve. But Uncle John, that good fairy of our youth, when Charles Dickens invented the “festive season,” and the very atmosphere reeked of goose-stuffing, resides, for the most part, “in Sheffield,” in these practical days, when sentiment and goodwill to relatives are rapidly giving place to matters of fact, motor cars, and mammoth rates.

The Asiatic oyster is not altogether commendable, his chief merit consisting in his size. Once whilst paying a flying visit to the city of Kurachi, I ordered a dozen oysters at the principal hotel. Then I went out to inspect the lions. On my return I could hardly push my way into the coffee-room. It was full of oyster! There was no room for anything else. In fact one Kurachi oyster is a meal for four full-grown men.

More tragic still was my experience of the bivalves procurable at Aden—which cinder-heap I have always considered to be a foretaste of even hotter things below. Instead of living on coal-dust (as might naturally be expected) the Aden oyster appears to do himself particularly well on some preparation of copper. The only time I tasted him, the after consequences very nearly prevented my ever tasting anything else, on this sphere. And it was only the comfort administered by the steward of my cabin which got me round.

“Ah!” said that functionary, as he looked in to see whether I would take hot pickled pork or roast goose for dinner. “The last time we touched at Aden, there was two gents ’ad ’ysters. One of ’em died the same night, and the other nex’ mornin’.”

I laughed so much that the poison left my system.

Yet still we eat oysters—the Sans Bacilles brand, for choice. And if we can only persuade the young gentleman who opens the bivalves to refrain from washing the grit off each in the tub of dirty water behind the bar, so much the better. And above all, the bivalves should be opened on the deep shell, so as to conserve some of the juice; for it is advisable to get as much of the bivalve as we can for the money. Every time I crunch the bones of a lark I feel that I am devouring an oratorio, in the way of song; and whilst the bivalve is sliding down the “red lane” it may be as well to reflect that “there slips away fourpence”; or, as the Scotsman had it, “bang went saxpence!”

In connection with Mr. Bob Sawyer’s supper party in Pickwick, it may be recollected that “the man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent had not been told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork: and very little was done in this way.”

And in one’s own house, unless there be an adept at oyster-opening present, the simplest way to treat the bivalve is the following. It should be remembered that a badly-opened oyster will resemble in flavour a slug on a gravel walk. So roast him, good friends, in his own fortress.

Oysters in their own Juice.

With the tongs place half-a-dozen oysters, mouths outwards, between the red-hot coals of the parlour or dining-room fire—the deep shell must be at the bottom—and the oysters will be cooked in a few minutes, or when the shells gape wide. Pull them out with the tongs, and insert a fresh batch. No pepper, vinegar, or lemon juice is necessary as an adjunct; and the oyster never tastes better.

At most eating-houses,

Scalloped Oysters

taste of nothing but scorched bread-crumbs; and the reason is obvious, for there is but little else in the scallop shell. Natives only should be used.

Open and beard two dozen, and cut each bivalve in half. Melt two ounces of butter in a stewpan, and mix into it the same allowance of flour, the strained oyster liquor, a teacupful of cream, half a teaspoonful of essence of anchovies, and a pinch of cayenne—death to the caitiff who adds nutmeg—and stir the sauce well over the fire. Take it off, and add the well-beaten yolks of two eggs, a tablespoonful of finely chopped parsley, and a teaspoonful of lemon juice. Put in the oysters, and stir the whole over a gentle fire for five minutes. Put the mixture in the shells, grate bread-crumbs over, place a small piece of butter atop, and bake in a Dutch oven before a clear fire until the crumbs are lightly browned, which should be in about a quarter of an hour.

Oyster Stew

is thoroughly understood in New York City. On this side, the dish does not meet with any particular favour, although no supper-table is properly furnished without it.

Open two dozen oysters, and take the beards off. Put the oysters into a basin and squeeze over them the juice of half a lemon. Put the beards and the strained liquor into a saucepan with half a blade of mace, half a dozen peppercorns ground, a little grated lemon rind, and a pinch of cayenne. Simmer gently for a quarter of an hour, strain the liquid, thicken it with a little butter and flour, add a quarter of a pint (or a teacupful) of cream, and stir over the fire till quite smooth. Then put in the oysters, and let them warm through—they must not boil. Serve in a soup tureen, and little cubes of bread fried in bacon grease may be served with the stew, as with pea-soup.

Be very careful to whose care you entrust your barrel, or bag, of oysters, after you have got them home. A consignment of the writer’s were, on one memorable and bitter cold Christmas Eve, consigned to the back dairy, by Matilda Anne. Result—frostbite, gapes, dissolution, disappointment, disagreeable language.

Ball Suppers.

More hard cash is wasted on these than even on ball dresses, which is saying a great deal. The alien caterer, or charcutier, is chiefly to blame for this; for he it is who has taught the British matron to wrap up wholesome food in coats of grease, inlaid with foreign substances, to destroy its flavour, and to bestow upon it an outward semblance other than its own. There was handed unto me, only the other evening, what I at first imagined to be a small section of the celebrated Taj Mahal at Agra, the magnificent mausoleum of the Emperor Shah Jehan. Reference to the bill-of-fare established the fact that I was merely sampling a galantine of turkey, smothered in some white glazy grease, inlaid with chopped carrot, green peas, truffles, and other things. And the marble column (also inlaid) which might have belonged to King Solomon’s Temple, at the top of the table, turned out to be a Tay salmon, decorated à la mode de charcutier, and tasting principally of garlic. A shriek from a fair neighbour caused me to turn my head in her direction; and it took some little time to discover, and to convince her, that the item on her plate was not a mouse, too frightened to move, but some preparation of the liver of a goose, in “aspic.”

This said Aspic—which has no connection with the asp which the fair Cleopatra kept on the premises, although a great French lexicographer says that aspic is so called because it is as cold as a snake—is invaluable in the numerous “schools of cookery” in the which British females are educated according to the teaching of the bad fairy Ala. The cold chicken and ham which delighted our ancestors at the supper-table—what has become of them? Yonder, my dear sir, is the fowl, in neat portions, minced, and made to represent fragments of the almond rock which delighted us whilst in the nursery. The ham has become a ridiculous mousse, placed in little accordion-pleated receptacles of snow-white paper; and those are not poached eggs atop, either, but dabs of whipped cream with a preserved apricot in the centre.

It was only the other day that I read in a journal written by ladies for ladies, of a dainty dish for luncheon or supper: croûtons smeared with bloater paste and surmounted with whipped cream; and in the same paper was a recipe for stuffing a fresh herring with mushrooms, parsley, yolk of egg, onion, and its own soft roe. I am of opinion that it was a bad day for the male Briton when the gudewife, with her gude-daughter, and her gude cook, abandoned the gude roast and boiled, in favour of the works of the all-powerful Ala.

And now let us proceed to discuss the most homely supper of all, and when I mention the magic word

Tripe

there be few of my readers who will not at once allow that it is not only the most homely of food, but forms an ideal supper. This doctrine had not got in its work, however, in the ’sixties, at about which period the man who avowed himself an habitual tripe-eater must have been possessed of a considerable amount of nerve. Some of the supper-houses served it—such as the Albion, the Coal Hole, and more particularly, “Noakes’s,” the familiar name for the old Opera Tavern which used to face the Royal Italian Opera House, in Bow Street, Covent Garden. But the more genteel food-emporiums fought shy of tripe until within three decades of the close of the nineteenth century. Then it began to figure on the supper bills, in out-of-the-way corners; until supper-eaters in general discovered that this was not only an exceedingly cheap, but a very nourishing article of food, which did not require any special divine aid to digest. Then the price of tripe went up 75 per cent on the programmes. Then the most popular burlesque artiste of any age put the stamp of approval upon the new supper-dish, and tripe-dressing became as lucrative a profession as gold-crushing.

There is a legend afloat of an eminent actor—poor “Ned” Sothern, I fancy, as “Johnny” Toole would never have done such a thing—who bade some of his friends and acquaintance to supper, and regaled them on sundry rolls of house flannel, smothered with the orthodox onion sauce. But that is another story. Practical jokes should find no place in this volume, which is written to benefit, and not alarm, posterity. Therefore let us discuss the problem

How to Cook Tripe.

Ask for “double-tripe,” and see that the dresser gives it you nice and white. Wash it, cut into portions, and place in equal parts of milk and water, boiling fast. Remove the saucepan from the hottest part of the fire, and let the tripe keep just on the boil for an hour and a half. Serve with whole onions and onion sauce—in this work you will not be told how to manufacture onion sauce—and baked potatoes should always accompany this dish to table.

Some people like their tripe cut into strips rolled up and tied with cotton, before being placed in the saucepan; but there is really no necessity to take this further trouble. And if the cook should forget to remove the cotton before serving, you might get your tongues tied in knots. In the North Riding of Yorkshire, some of the farmers’ wives egg-and-bread-crumb fillets of tripe, and fry them in the drip of thick rashers of ham which have been fried previously. The ham is served in the centre of the dish, with the fillets around the pig-pieces. This is said to be an excellent dish, but I prefer my tripe smothered in onions, like the timid “bunny.”

Edmund Yates, in his “Reminiscences,” describes “nice, cosy, little suppers,” of which in his early youth he used to partake, at the house of his maternal grandfather, in Kentish Town. “He dined at two o’clock,” observed the late proprietor of the World, “and had the most delightful suppers at nine; suppers of sprats, or kidneys, or tripe and onions; with foaming porter and hot grog afterwards.”

I cannot share the enthusiasm possessed by some people for Sprats, as an article of diet. When very “full-blown,” the little fish make an excellent fertiliser for Marshal Niel roses; but as “winter whitebait,” or sardines they are hardly up to “Derby form.”

Sprats are not much encouraged at the fashionable hotels; and when tripe is brought to table, which is but rarely, that food is nearly always filleted, sprinkled with chopped parsley, and served with tomato sauce.

This is the sort of supper which is provided in the “gilt-edged” caravanserais of the metropolis, the following being a verbatim copy of a bill of fare at the Hotel Cecil:—