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

A lady-like repast this; and upon the whole, not dear. But roast loin of mutton hardly sounds tasty enough for a meal partaken of somewhere about the stroke of midnight. Still, such a supper is by no means calculated to “murder sleep.” Upon the other hand it is a little difficult to credit the fact that the whole of the party invited by “My Lord Tomnoddy” to refresh themselves at the “Magpie and Stump,” including the noble host himself, should have slumbered peacefully, with a noisy crowd in the street, after a supper which consisted of

CHAPTER XVI

SUPPER (continued)

Old supper-houses—The Early Closing Act—Evans’s—Cremorne Gardens—The “Albion”—Parlour cookery—Kidneys fried in the fire-shovel—The true way to grill a bone—“Cannie Carle”—My lady’s bower—Kidney dumplings—A Middleham supper—Steaks cut from a colt by brother to “Strafford” out of sister to “Bird on the Wing.”

The Early Closing Act of 1872 had a disastrous effect upon the old London supper-houses. What Mr. John Hollingshead never tired of calling the “slap-me-and-put-me-to-bed law” rang the knell of many a licensed tavern, well-conducted, where plain, well-cooked food and sound liquor were to be obtained by men who would have astonished their respective couches had they sought them before the small hours.

Evans’s.

The “Cave of Harmony” of Thackeray was a different place to the “Evans’s” of my youthful days. Like the younger Newcome, I was taken there in the first instance, by the author of my being. But Captain Costigan was conspicuous by his absence; and “Sam Hall” was non est. I noted well the abnormal size of the broiled kidneys, and in my ignorance of anatomy, imagined that Evans’s sheep must be subjected to somewhat the same process—the “ordeal by fire”—as the Strasbourg geese. And the potatoes—zounds, sirs! What potatoes! “Shall I turn it out, sir?” inquired the attentive waiter; and, as he seized the tuber, enveloped in the snow-white napkin, broke it in two, and ejected a floury pyramid upon my plate, I would, had I known of such a decoration in those days, have gladly recommended that attendant for the Distinguished Service order. In the course of many visits I never saw any supper commodity served here besides chops, steaks, kidneys, welsh-rarebits, poached eggs, and (I think) sausages; and the earliest impression made upon a youthful memory was the air of extreme confidence which pervaded the place. We certainly “remembered” the waiter; but not even a potato was paid for until we encountered the head functionary at the exit door; and his peculiar ideas of arithmetic would have given Bishop Colenso a succession of fits.

Who “Evans” was, we neither knew nor cared. “Paddy” Green, with his chronic smile, was enough for us; as he proffered his ever-ready snuff-box, inquired after our relatives—“Paddy,” like “Spanky” at Eton, knew everybody—and implored silence whilst the quintette Integer Vitæ was being sung by the choir. We used to venerate that quintette far more than any music we ever heard in church, and I am certain “Paddy” Green would have backed his little pack of choristers—who, according to the general belief, passed the hours of daylight in waking the echoes of St. Paul’s Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, and therefore, at Evans’s, always looked a bit stale and sleepy—against any choir in the world. As for Harry Sidney, the fat, jolly-looking gentleman who was wont to string together the topics of the day and reproduce them, fresh as rolls, set to music, we could never hear enough of him; and I wish I had now some of the half-crowns which in the past were bestowed upon Herr Von Joel, the indifferent siffleur, who was “permanently retained upon the premises,” and who was always going to take a benefit the following week.

“Kidneys and ’armony”—that was the old programme in the “Cave.” And then the march of time killed poor old Paddy, and another management reigned. Gradually the “lady element” was introduced, and a portion of the hall was set apart for the mixed assembly. And then came trouble, and, finally, disestablishment. And for some time before the closing of the Cave as a place of entertainment, it was customary to remove the fine old pictures (what became of them, I wonder), from the walls, at “Varsity Boat Race” time. For the undergraduate of those days was nothing if not rowdy. Youth will have its fling; and at Evans’s the fling took the form of tumblers. Well do I recollect a fight in “the old style” in the very part of the “Cave” where eminent barristers, actors, and other wits of a past age, used to congregate. The premier boxer of Cambridge University had been exercising his undoubted talents as a breaker of glass, during the evening, and at length the overwrought manager obliged him with an opponent worthy of his fists in the person of a waiter who could also put up his fists. Several rounds were fought, strictly according to the rules of the Prize Ring, and in the result, whilst the waiter had sustained considerable damage to his ribs, the “Cambridge gent” had two very fine black eyes. Well do I remember that “mill,” also the waiter, who afterwards became an habitual follower of the turf.

If Cremorne introduced the fashion of “long drinks,” sodas, and et ceteras, the suppers served in the old gardens had not much to recommend them. A slice or two of cold beef, or a leg of a chicken, with some particularly salt ham, formed the average fare; but those who possessed their souls with patience occasionally saw something hot, in the way of food—chiefly cutlets. The great virtue of the cutlet is that it can be reheated; and one dish not infrequently did duty for more than one party. The rejected portion, in fact, would “reappear” as often as a retiring actor. “I know them salmon cutlets,” the waiter in Pink Dominoes used to observe, “as well as I know my own mother!” In fact, Cremorne, like the “night houses” of old, was not an ideal place to sup at.

But, per contra, the “Albion” was. Until the enforcement of the “slap-me-and-put-me-to-bed” policy there was no more justly celebrated house of entertainment than the one which almost faced the stage door of Drury Lane theatre, in Great Russell Street. One of the brothers Cooper—another kept the Rainbow in Fleet Street—retired on a fortune made here, simply by pursuing the policy of giving his customers the best of everything. And a rare, Bohemian stamp of customers he had, too—a nice, large-hearted, open-handed lot of actors, successful and otherwise, dramatic critics ditto, and ditto journalists, also variegated in degree; with the usual, necessary, leavening of the “City” element. The custom of the fair sex was not encouraged at the old tavern; though in a room on the first floor they were permitted to sup, if in “the profession” and accompanied by males, whose manners and customs could be vouched for. In winter time, assorted grills, of fish, flesh, and fowl, were served as supper dishes; whilst tripe was the staple food. Welsh rarebits, too, were in immense demand. And I think it was here that I devoured, with no fear of the future before my plate, a

Buck Rarebit.

During the silent watches of the rest of the morning, bile and dyspepsia fought heroically for my soul; and yet the little animal is easy enough to prepare, being nothing grander than a Welsh rarebit, with a poached egg atop. But the little tins (silver, like the forks and spoons, until the greed and forgetfulness of mankind necessitated the substitution of electro-plate) which the Hebes at the “Old Cheshire Cheese” fill with fragments of the hostelry’s godfather—subsequently to be stewed in good old ale—are less harmful to the interior of the human diaphragm.

A favourite Albion supper-dish during the summer months was

Lamb’s Head and Mince.

I have preserved the recipe, a gift from one of the waiters—but whether Ponsford, Taylor, or “Shakespeare” (so-called because he bore not the faintest resemblance to the immortal bard) I forget—and here it is:

The head should be scalded, scraped, and well washed. Don’t have it singed, in the Scottish fashion, as lamb’s wool is not nice to eat. Then put it, with the liver (the sweetbread was chopped up with the brain, I fancy), into a stewpan, with a Spanish onion stuck with cloves, a bunch of parsley, a little thyme, a carrot, a turnip, a bay leaf, some crushed peppercorns, a tablespoonful of salt, and half a gallon of cold water. Let it boil up, skim, and then simmer for an hour. Divide the head, take out the tongue and brain, and dry the rest of the head in a cloth. Mince the liver and tongue, season with salt and pepper, and simmer in the original gravy (thickened) for half-an-hour. Brush the two head-halves with yolk of egg, grate bread crumbs over, and bake in oven. The brain and sweetbread to be chopped and made into cakes, fried, and then placed in the dish around the head-halves.

Ah me! The old tavern, after falling into bad ways, entertaining “extra-ladies” and ruined gamesters, has been closed for years. The ground floor was a potato warehouse the last time I passed the place. And it should be mentioned that the actors, journalists, etc., who, in the ’seventies, possessed smaller means, or more modest ambitions, were in the habit of supping—on supping days—at a cheaper haunt in the Strand, off (alleged) roast goose. But, according to one Joseph Eldred, a comedian of some note and shirt-cuff, the meat which was apportioned to us here was, in reality, always bullock’s heart, sliced, and with a liberal allowance of sage and onions. “It’s the seasoning as does it,” observed Mr. Samuel Weller.

Then there was another Bohemian house of call, and supper place, in those nights—the “Occidental,” once known as the “Coal Hole,” where, around a large, beautifully polished mahogany table, many of the wits of the town—“Harry” Leigh and “Tom” Purnell were two of the inveterates—sat, and devoured Welsh rarebits, and other things. The house, too, could accommodate not a few lodgers; and one of its great charms was that nobody cared a button what time you retired to your couch, or what time you ordered breakfast. In these matters, the Occidental resembled the “Limmer’s” of the “Billy Duff” era, and the “Lane’s” of my own dear subaltern days.

Parlour Cookery.

It was after the last-named days that, whilst on tour with various dramatic combinations—more from necessity than art, as far as I was concerned—that the first principles of parlour cookery became impregnated in mine understanding. We were not all “stars,” although we did our best. Salaries were (according to the advertisements) “low but sure”; and (according to experiences) by no means as sure as death, or taxes. The “spectre” did not invariably assume his “martial stalk,” of a Saturday; and cheap provincial lodgings do not hold out any extra inducement in the way of cookery. So, whilst we endured the efforts of the good landlady at the early dinner, some of us determined to dish up our own suppers. For the true artist never really feels (or never used to feel, at all events) like “picking a bit” until merely commercial folks have gone to bed.

Many a time and oft, with the aid of a cigar box (empty, of course), a couple of books, and an arrangement of plates, have I prepared a savoury supper of mushrooms, toasted cheese, or a kebob of larks, or other small fowl, in front of the fire. More than once have I received notice to quit the next morning for grilling kidneys on the perforated portion of a handsome and costly steel fire-shovel. And by the time I had become sufficiently advanced in culinary science to stew tripe and onions, in an enamel-lined saucepan, the property of the “responsible gent,” we began to give ourselves airs. Landladies’ ideas on the subject of supper for “theatricals,” it may be mentioned, seldom soared above yeast dumplings. And few of us liked the name, even, of yeast dumplings.

But perhaps the champion effort of all was when I was sojourning in the good city of Carlisle—known to its inhabitants by the pet name of “Cannie Carle.” A good lady was, for her sins, providing us with board and lodging, in return for (promised) cash. My then companion was a merry youth who afterwards achieved fame by writing the very funniest and one of the most successful of three-act farces that was ever placed upon the stage. Now there is not much the matter with a good joint of ribs of beef, roasted to a turn. But when that beef is placed on the table hot for the Sunday dinner, and cold at every succeeding meal until finished up, one’s appetite for the flesh of the ox begins to slacken. So we determined on the Wednesday night to “strike” for a tripe supper.

“Indeed,” protested the good landlady, “ye’ll get nae tripe in this hoose, cannie men. Hae ye no’ got guid beef, the noo?”

Late that night we had grilled bones for supper; not the ordinary

Grilled Bones

which you get in an eating house, but a vastly superior article. We, or rather my messmate, cut a rib from off the aforementioned beef, scored the flesh across, and placed the bone in the centre of a beautifully clear fire which had been specially prepared. It was placed there by means of the tongs—a weapon of inestimable value in Parlour Cookery—and withdrawn by the same medium. Some of the black wanted scraping off the surface of the meat, but the grill was a perfect dream. The Gubbins Sauce, already mentioned in this volume, had not at that time been invented; but as I was never without a bottle of Tapp Sauce—invaluable for Parlour Cookery; you can get it at Stembridge’s—we had plenty of relish. Then we severed another rib from the carcase, and served it in the same manner. For it was winter time and we had wearied of frigid ox.

Next morning the landlady’s face was a study. I rather think that after some conversation, we propitiated her with an order for two for the dress circle; but it is certain that we had tripe that evening.

An ideal supper in miladi’s boudoir is associated, in the writer’s mind, with rose-coloured draperies, dainty china, a cosy fire, a liberal display of lingerie, a strong perfume of heliotrope and orris root—and miladi herself. When next she invites her friends, she will kindly order the following repast to be spread:—

Clear soup, in cups.
Fillets of soles Parisienne.
Chaudfroid of Quails.
Barded sweetbreads.
Perigord pâté.

By way of contrast, let me quote a typical supper-dish which the “poor player” used to order, when he could afford it.

Kidney Dumpling.

Cut a large Spanish onion in half. Take out the heart, and substitute a sheep’s kidney, cut into four. Season with salt and pepper, join the two halves, and enclose in a paste. Bake on a buttered tin, in a moderate oven, for about an hour.

N.B.—Be sure the cook bakes this dumpling, as it is not nice boiled.

An artistic friend who at one time of his life resided near the great horse-training centre of Middleham, in Yorkshire, gave a steak supper at the principal inn, to some of the stable attendants. The fare was highly approved of.

“Best Scotch beef I ever put tooth into!” observed the “head lad” at old Tom Lawson’s stables.

“Ah!” returned the host, who was a bit of a wag, “your beef was cut from a colt of Lord Glasgow’s that was thought highly of at one time; and he was shot the day before yesterday.”

And it was so. For Lord Glasgow never sold nor gave away a horse, but had all his “failures” shot.

And then a great cry went up for brown brandy.

CHAPTER XVII

“CAMPING OUT”

The ups and downs of life—Stirring adventures—Marching on to glory—Shooting in the tropics—Pepper-pot—With the Rajah Sahib—Goat-sacrifices at breakfast time—Simla to Cashmere—Manners and customs of Thibet—Burmah—No place to get fat in—Insects—Voracity of the natives—Snakes—Sport in the Jungle—Loaded for snipe, sure to meet tiger—With the gippos—No baked hedgehog—Cheap milk.

The intelligent reader may have gathered from some of the foregoing pages that the experiences of the writer have been of a variegated nature. As an habitual follower of the Turf once observed:

Never mind what. It was an evil man who said it, but he was a philosopher. Dinner in the gilded saloon one day, on the next no dinner at all, and the key of the street. Such is life!

Those experiences do not embrace a mortal combat with a “grizzly” in the Rockies, nor a tramp through a miasma-laden forest in Darkest Africa, with nothing better to eat than poisonous fungi, assorted grasses, red ants, and dwarfs; nor yet a bull fight. But they include roughing it in the bush, on underdone bread and scorched kangaroo, a tramp from Benares to the frontier of British India, another tramp or two some way beyond that frontier, a dreadful journey across the eternal snows of the Himalayas, a day’s shooting in the Khyber Pass, a railway accident in Middlesex, a mad elephant (he had killed seven men, one of them blind) hunt at Thayet Myoo, in British Burmah, a fine snake anecdote or two, a night at Cambridge with an escaped lunatic, a tiger story (of course), and a capture for debt by an officer of the Sheriff of Pegu, with no other clothing on his body than a short jacket of gaily coloured silk, and a loin cloth. My life’s history is never likely to be written—chiefly through sheer laziness on my own part, and the absence of the gambling instinct on that of the average publisher—but like the brown gentleman who smothered his wife, I have “seen things.”

In this chapter no allusion will be made to “up river” delights, the only idea of “camping out” which is properly understood by the majority of “up to date” young men and maidens; for this theme has been already treated, most comically and delightfully, by Mr. Jerome, in the funniest book I ever read. My own camping experiences have been for the most part in foreign lands, though I have seen the sun rise, whilst reclining beneath the Royal trees in St. James’s Park; and as this book is supposed to deal with gastronomy, rather than adventure, a brief sketch of camp life must suffice.

On the march! What a time those who “served the Widdy”—by which disrespectful term, our revered Sovereign was not known in those days—used to have before the continent of India had been intersected by the railroad! The absence of one’s proper quantum of rest, the forced marches over kutcha (imperfectly made) bye-roads, the sudden changes of temperature, raids of the native thief, the troubles with “bobbery” camels, the still more exasperating behaviour of the bail-wallahs (bullock-drivers), the awful responsibilities of the officer-on-baggage-guard, on active duty, often in the saddle for fifteen hours at a stretch, the absolutely necessary cattle-raids, by the roadside—all these things are well known to those who have undergone them, but are far too long “another story” to be related here. As for the food partaken of during a march with the regiment, the bill-of-fare differed but little from that of the cantonments; but the officer who spent a brief holiday in a shooting expedition had to “rough it” in more ways than one.

There was plenty of game all over the continent in my youthful days, and the average shot need not have lacked a dinner, even if he had not brought with him a consignment of “Europe” provisions. English bread was lacking, certainly, and biscuits, native or otherwise—“otherwise” for choice, as the bazaar article tasted principally of pin-cushions and the smoke of dried and lighted cow-dung—or the ordinary chupatti, the flat, unleavened cake, which the poor Indian manufactures for his own consumption. Cold tea is by far the best liquid to carry—or rather to have carried for you—whilst actually shooting; but the weary sportsman will require something more exciting, and more poetical, on his return to camp. As for solid fare it was usually

Pepper-pot

for dinner, day by day. We called it Pepper-pot—that is to say, although it differed somewhat from the West Indian concoction of that name, for which the following is the recipe:—

Put the remains of any cold flesh or fowl into a saucepan, and cover with cassaripe—which has been already described in the Curry chapter as extract of Manioc root. Heat up the stew and serve.

Our pepper-pot was usually made in a gipsy-kettle, suspended from a tripod. The foundation of the stew was always a tin of some kind of soup. Then a few goat chops—mutton is bad to buy out in the jungle—and then any bird or beast that may have been shot, divided into fragments. I have frequently made a stew of this sort, with so many ingredients in it that the flavour when served out at table—or on the bullock-trunk which often did duty for a table—would have beaten the wit of man to describe. There was hare soup “intil’t” (as the Scotsman said to the late Prince Consort), and a collop or two of buffalo-beef, with snipe, quails, and jungle-fowl. There were half the neck of an antelope and a few sliced onions lurking within the bowl. And there were potatoes “intil’t,” and plenty of pepper and salt. And for lack of cassaripe we flavoured the savoury mess with mango chutnee and Tapp sauce. And if any cook, English or foreign, can concoct a more worthy dish than this, or more grateful to the palate, said cook can come my way.

The old dak gharry method of travelling in India may well come under the head of Camping Out. In the hot weather we usually progressed—or got emptied into a ditch—or collided with something else, during the comparative “coolth” of the night; resting (which in Hindustan usually means perspiring and calling the country names) all day at one or other of the dak bungalows provided by a benevolent Government for the use of the wandering sahib. The larder at one of those rest-houses was seldom well filled. Although the khansamah who prostrated himself in the sand at your approach would declare that he was prepared to supply everything which the protector-of-the-poor might deign to order, it would be found on further inquiry that the khansamah had, like the Player Queen in Hamlet, protested too much—that he was a natural romancer. And his “everything” usually resolved itself into a “spatch-cock,” manufactured from the spectral rooster, who had heralded the approach of the sahib’s caravan.

A Rajah’s

ideas of hospitality are massive. Labouring under the belief that the white sahib when not eating must necessarily be drinking, the commissariat arrangements of Rajahdom are on a colossal scale—for the chief benefit of his major domo. I might have bathed in dry champagne, had the idea been pleasing, whilst staying with a certain genial prince, known to irreverent British subalterns as “Old Coppertail”; whilst the bedroom furniture was on the same liberal scale. True, I lay on an ordinary native charpoy, which might have been bought in the bazaar for a few annas, but there was a grand piano in one corner of the apartment, and a buhl cabinet containing rare china in another. There was a coloured print of the Governor-General over the doorway, and an oil painting of the Judgment of Solomon over the mantelshelf. And on a table within easy reach of the bed was a silver-plated dinner service, decked with fruits and sweetmeats, and tins of salmon, and pots of Guava jelly and mixed pickles, and two tumblers, each of which would have easily held a week-old baby. And there was a case of champagne beneath that table, with every appliance for cutting wires and extracting the corks.

Another time the writer formed one of a small party invited to share the hospitality of a potentate, whose estate lay on the snowy side of Simla. The fleecy element, however, was not in evidence in June, the month of our visit, although towards December Simla herself is usually wrapt in the white mantle, and garrisoned by monkeys, who have fled from the land of ice. Tents had been erected for us in a barren-looking valley, somewhat famous, however, for the cultivation of potatoes. There was an annual celebration of some sort, the day after our arrival, and for breakfast that morning an al fresco meal had been prepared for us, almost within whispering distance of an heathen temple. And it was a breakfast! There was a turkey stuffed with a fowl, to make the breast larger, and there was a “Europe” ham. A tin of lobster, a bottle of pickled walnuts, a dreadful concoction, alleged to be an omelette, but looking more like the sole of a tennis shoe, potatoes, boiled eggs, a dish of Irish stew, a fry of small fish, a weird-looking curry, a young goat roasted whole, and a plum pudding!

The tea had hardly been poured out—Kussowlie beer, Epps’s cocoa, and (of course) champagne, and John Exshaw’s brandy were also on tap—when a gentleman with very little on proceeded to decapitate a goat at the foot of the temple steps. This was somewhat startling, but when the (presumed) high-priest chopped off the head of another bleating victim, our meal was interrupted. The executions had been carried out in very simple fashion. First, the priest sprinkled a little water on the neck of the victim (who was held in position by an assistant), and then retired up the steps. Then, brandishing a small sickle, he rushed back, and in an instant off went the head, which was promptly carried, reeking with gore, within the temple. But if, as happened more than once, the head was not sliced off at the initial attempt, it was left on the ground when decapitation had been at length effected. The deity inside was evidently a bit particular!

Nine goats had been sacrificed, ere our remonstrances were attended to; and we were allowed to pursue our meal in peace. But I don’t think anybody had goat for breakfast that morning.

Later on, the fun of the fair commenced, and the paharis, or hill men, trooped in from miles round, with their sisters, cousins, and aunts. Their wives, we imagined, were too busily occupied in carrying their accustomed loads of timber to and fro. Your Himalayan delights in a fair, and the numerous swings and roundabouts were all well patronised; whilst the jugglers, and the snake charmers—in many instances it was difficult to tell at a glance which was charmer and which snake—were all well patronised. Later on, when the lamps had been lit, a burra nâtch was started, and the Bengali Baboos who had come all the way from Simla in dhoolies to be present at this, applauded vigorously. And our host being in constant dread lest we should starve to death or expire of thirst, never tired of bidding us to a succession of banquets at which we simply went through the forms of eating, to please him. And just when we began to get sleepy these simple hill folks commenced to dance amongst themselves. They were just a little monotonous, their choregraphic efforts. Parties of men linked arms and sidled around fires of logs, singing songs of their mountain homes the while. And as they were evidently determined to make a night of it, sleep for those who understood not the game, with their tents close handy, was out of the question. And when, as soon as we could take our departure decently and decorously, we started up the hill again, those doleful monotonous dances were still in progress, although the fires were out, and the voices decidedly husky. A native of the Himalayas is nothing if not energetic—in his own interests be it understood.

A few months later I formed one of a small party who embarked on a more important expedition than the last named, although we traversed the same road. It is a journey which has frequently been made since, from Simla to Cashmere, going as far into the land of the Great Llama as the inhabitants will allow the stranger to do—which is not very far; but, in the early sixties there were but few white men who had even skirted Thibet. In the afternoon of life, when stirring the fire has become preferable to stirring adventure, it seems (to the writer at all events) very like an attempt at self-slaughter to have travelled so many hundreds of miles along narrow goatpaths, with a khud (precipice) of thousands of feet on one side or the other; picking one’s way, if on foot, over the frequent avalanche (or “land slip,” as we called it in those days) of shale or granite; or if carried in a dhoolie—which is simply a hammock attached by straps to a bamboo pole—running the risk of being propelled over a precipice by your heathen carriers. It is not the pleasantest of sensations to cross a mountain torrent by means of a frail bridge (called a jhula) of ropes made from twigs, and stretched many feet above the torrent itself, nor to “weather” a corner, whilst clinging tooth and nail to the face of a cliff. And when there is any riding to be done, most people would prefer a hill pony to a yak, the native ox of Thibet. By far the best part of a yak is his beautiful silky, fleecy tail, which is largely used in Hindustan, by dependants of governors-general, commanders-in-chief, and other mighty ones, for the discomfiture of the frequent fly. A very little equestrian exercise on the back of a yak goes a long way; and if given my choice, I would sooner ride a stumbling cab-horse in a saddle with spikes in it.

But those days were our salad ones; we were not only “green of judgment,” but admirers of the beautiful, and reckless of danger. But it was decidedly “roughing it.” As it is advisable to traverse that track as lightly laden as possible, we took but few “Europe” provisions with us, depending upon the villages, for the most part, for our supplies. We usually managed to buy a little flour, wherewith to make the inevitable chupati, and at some of the co-operative stores en route, we obtained mutton of fair flavour. We did not know in those days that flesh exposed to the air, in the higher ranges of the Himalayas, will not putrefy, else we should have doubtless made a species of biltong of the surplus meat, to carry with us in case of any famine about. So “short commons” frequently formed the bill of fare. Our little stock of brandy was carefully husbanded, against illness; and, judging from the subsequent histories of two of the party, this was the most miraculous feature of the expedition. For liquid refreshment we had neat water, and thé à la mode de Thibet. Doctor Nansen, in his book on the crossing of Greenland, inveighs strongly against the use of alcohol in an Arctic expedition; but I confess that the first time I tasted Thibet tea I would have given both my ears for a soda and brandy. The raw tea was compressed into the shape of a brick, with the aid of—we did not inquire what; its infusion was drunk, either cold or lukewarm, flavoured with salt, and a small lump of butter which in any civilised police court would have gained the vendor a month’s imprisonment without the option of a fine.

The people of the district were in the habit of gorging themselves with flesh when they could get it; and polyandry was another of their pleasant customs. We saw one lady who was married to three brothers, but did not boast of it. Thibet is probably the most priest-ridden country in the world, and ought to be the most religious; for the natives can grind out their prayers, on wheels, at short intervals, in pretty much the same way as we grind our coffee in dear old England.

But we reached the promised land at last; and here at least there was no lack of food and drink. Meat was cheap in those days; and one of the party, without any bargaining whatever, purchased a sheep for eight annas, or one shilling sterling. Mutton is not quite as cheap at the time of writing this book (1897), I believe; but in the long ago there were but few English visitors to the land of Lalla Rookh, and those who did go had to obtain permission of the Rajah, through the British Resident.

With improved transit, and a railroad from Rangoon to Mandalay, matters gastronomic may be better in British Burmah nowadays; but in the course of an almost world-wide experience I have never enjoyed food less than in Pagoda-land during the sixties. And as a Burmese built house was not a whit more comfortable than a tent, and far less waterproof, this subject may well be included in the chapter headed “Camping Out.” Fruits there were, varied and plentiful; and if you only planted the crown of a pine-apple in your compound one evening you would probably find a decent-sized pine-apple above ground next—well, next week. At least so they told me when I arrived in the country. This fruit, in fact, was so plentiful that we used to peel the pines, and gnaw them, just like a school-boy would gnaw the ordinary variety of apple. But we had no mutton—not up the country, that is to say; and we were entirely dependent upon Madras for potatoes. Therefore, as there was only a steamer once a month from Madras to Rangoon, which invariably missed the Irrawaddy monthly mail-boat, we “exiles” had to content ourselves with yams, or the abominable “preserved” earth-apple. The insects of the air wrestled with us at the mess-table, for food; and the man who did not swallow an evil-tasting fly of some sort in his soup was lucky.[9] As for the food of the Burman himself, “absolutely beastly” was no name for it. Strips of cat-fish the colour of beef were served at his marriage feasts; and he was especially fond of a condiment the name of which was pronounced nuppee—although that is probably not the correct spelling, and I never studied the language of that country—which was concocted from a smaller description of fish, buried in the earth until decomposition had triumphed, and then mashed up with ghee (clarified—and “postponed”—butter). There was, certainly, plenty of shooting to be obtained in the district; but, as it rained in torrents for nine months in every year, the shooter required a considerable amount of nerve, and, in addition to a Boyton suit, case-hardened lungs and throat. And, singularly enough, it was an established fact that if loaded for snipe you invariably met a tiger, or something else with sharp teeth, and vice versa. Also, you were exceptionally fortunate if you did not step upon one of the venomous snakes of the country, of whom the hamadryad’s bite was said to be fatal within five minutes. I had omitted to mention that snake is also a favourite food of the Burman; and as I seldom went home of an evening without finding a rat-snake or two in the verandah, or the arm-chair, the natives had snake for breakfast, most days. The rat-snake is, however, quite harmless to life.

I have “camped out” in England once or twice; once with a select circle of gipsies, the night before the Derby. I wished merely to study character; and, after giving them a few words of the Romany dialect, and a good deal of tobacco, I was admitted into their confidences. But the experience gained was not altogether pleasing, nor yet edifying; nor did we have baked hedgehog for supper. In fact I have never yet met the “gippo” (most of them keep fowls) who will own to having tasted this bonne bouche of the descriptive writer. Possibly this is on account of the scarcity of the hedgehog. “Tea-kettle broth”—bread sopped in water, with a little salt and dripping to flavour the soup—on the other hand, figures on most of the gipsy menus. And upon one occasion, very early in the morning, another wanderer and the writer obtained much-needed liquid refreshment by milking the yield of a Jersey cow into each other’s mouths, alternately. But this was a long time ago, and in the neighbourhood of Bagshot Heath, and it was somebody else’s cow; so let no more be said about it.

I fear this chapter is not calculated to make many mouths water. In fact what in the world has brought it into the midst of a work on gastronomy I am at a loss to make out. However here it is.

CHAPTER XVIII

COMPOUND DRINKS

Derivation of punch—“Five”—The “milk” brand—The best materials—Various other punches—Bischoff or Bishop—“Halo” punch—Toddy—The toddy tree of India—Flip—A “peg”—John Collins—Out of the guard-room.

The subject of Punch is such an important one that it may be placed first on the list of dainty beverages which can be made by the art or application of man or woman.

First, let us take the origin of the word. Doctor Kitchener, an acknowledged authority, during his lifetime, on all matters connected with eating and drinking, has laid it down that punch is of West Indian origin, and that the word when translated, means “five”; because there be five ingredients necessary in the concoction of the beverage. But Doctor Kitchener and his disciples (of whom there be many) may go to the bottom of the cookery class; for although from the large connection which rum and limes have with the mixture, there would seem to be a West Indian flavour about it; the word “five,” when translated into West Indianese, is nothing like “punch.” Having satisfied themselves that this is a fact, modern authorities have tried the East Indies for the source of the name, and have discovered that panch in Hindustani really does mean “five.” “Therefore,” says one modern authority, “it is named punch from the five ingredients which compose it—(1) spirit, (2) acid, (3) spice, (4) sugar, (5) water.” Another modern authority calls punch “a beverage introduced into England from India, and so called from being usually made of five (Hindi, panch) ingredients—arrack, tea, sugar, water, and lemon juice.” This sounds far more like an East Indian concoction than the other; but at the same time punch—during the latter half of the nineteenth century at all events—was as rare a drink in Hindustan as bhang in Great Britain. The panch theory is an ingenious one, but there are plenty of other combinations (both liquid and solid) of five to which the word punch is never applied; and about the last beverage recommended by the faculty for the consumption of the sojourner in the land of the Great Mogul, would, I should think, be the entrancing, seductive one which we Britons know under the name of punch. Moreover it is not every punch-concoctor who uses five ingredients. In the minds of some—youthful members of the Stock Exchange, for the most part—water is an altogether unnecessary addition to the alcoholic mixture which is known by the above name. And what manner of man would add spice to that delight of old Ireland, “a jug o’ punch?” On the other hand, in many recipes, there are more than five ingredients used.

But after all, the origin of the name is of but secondary importance, as long as you can make punch. Therefore, we will commence with a few recipes for

Milk Punch.

1. Three bottles of rum.
The most delicately-flavoured rum is the “Liquid
Sunshine” brand.
One bottle of sherry.
13 lbs of loaf-sugar.
The rind of six lemons, and the juice of twelve.
One quart of boiling skimmed milk.

Mix together, let the mixture stand eight days, stirring it each day. Strain and bottle, and let it stand three months. Then re-bottle, and let the bottles lie on their sides in the cellar for two years, to mature. The flavour will be much better than if drunk after the first period of three months.

It is not everybody, however, who would care to wait two years, three months, and eight days for the result of his efforts in punch-making. Therefore another recipe may be appended; and in this one no “close time” is laid down for the consumption of the mixture.

2. Put into a bottle of rum or brandy the thinly-pared rinds of three Seville oranges, and three lemons. Cork tightly for two days. Rub off on 2 lbs of lump sugar the rinds of six lemons, squeeze the juice from the whole of the fruit over the 2 lbs of sugar, add three quarts of boiling water, one of boiling milk, half a teaspoonful of nutmeg, and mix all thoroughly well together until the sugar is dissolved. Pour in the rum or brandy, stir, and strain till clear; bottle closely.

There is more than one objection to this recipe. (1) Rum, and not brandy (by itself), should be used for milk punch. (2) There is an “intolerable amount” of water; and (3) the nutmeg had better remain in the spice-box.

3. Cut off the thin yellow rind of four lemons and a Seville orange, taking care not to include even a fragment of the white rind, and place in a basin. Pour in one pint of Jamaica rum, and let it stand, covered over, twelve hours. Then strain, and mix with it one pint of lemon juice, and two pints of cold water, in which one pound of sugar-candy has been dissolved; add the whites of two eggs, beaten to a froth, three pints more of rum, one pint of madeira, one pint of strong green tea, and a large wine-glassful of maraschino. Mix thoroughly, and pour over all one pint of boiling milk. Let the punch stand a little while, then strain through a jelly-bag, and either use at once, or bottle off.

Here let it be added, lest the precept be forgotten, that the

Very best Materials

are absolutely necessary for the manufacture of punch, as of other compound drinks. In the above recipe for instance by “madeira,” is meant “Rare Old East Indian,” and not marsala, which wine, in French kitchens, is invariably used as the equivalent of madeira. There must be no inferior sherry, Gladstone claret, cheap champagne, nor potato-brandy, used for any of my recipes, or I will not be responsible for the flavour of the beverage. The following is the best idea of a milk punch known to the writer:—

4. Over the yellow rind of four lemons and one Seville orange, pour one pint of rum. Let it stand, covered over, for twelve hours. Strain and mix in two pints more of rum, one pint of brandy, one pint of sherry, half-a-pint of lemon juice, the expressed juice of a peeled pine-apple, one pint of green tea, one pound of sugar dissolved in one quart of boiling water, the whites of two eggs beaten up, one quart of boiling milk. Mix well, let it cool, and then strain through a jelly-bag, and bottle off.

This punch is calculated to make the epicure forget that he has just been partaking of conger-eel broth instead of clear turtle.

Cambridge Milk Punch.

This a fairly good boys’ beverage, there being absolutely “no offence in’t.” Put the rind of half a lemon (small) into one pint of new milk, with twelve lumps of sugar. Boil very slowly for fifteen minutes, then remove from the fire, take out the lemon rind, and mix in the yolk of one egg, which has been previously blended with one tablespoonful of cold milk, two tablespoonfuls of brandy, and four of rum. Whisk all together, and when the mixture is frothed, it is ready to serve.

Oxford Punch.

There is no milk in this mixture, which sounds like “for’ard on!” for the undergraduate who for the first time samples it.

Rub off the yellow rind of three lemons with half-a-pound of loaf sugar. Put the result into a large jug, with the yellow rind of one Seville orange, the juice of three Seville oranges and eight lemons, and one pint of liquefied calf’s-foot jelly. Mix thoroughly, then pour over two quarts of boiling water, and set the jug on the hob for thirty minutes. Strain the mixture into a punch-bowl, and when cool add one small bottle of capillaire (an infusion of maidenhair fern, flavoured with sugar and orange-flower water); one pint of brandy, one pint of rum, half-a-pint of dry sherry, and one quart of orange shrub—a mixture of orange-peel, juice, sugar, and rum.

After drinking this, the young student will be in a fit state to sally forth, with his fellows, and “draw” a Dean, or drown an amateur journalist.

I have a very old recipe, in MS., for “Bischoff,” which I take to be the original of the better known beverage called “Bishop,” for the manufacture of which I have also directions. For the sake of comparison I give the two.

Bischoff.

Cut into four parts each, three Seville oranges, and slightly score the rinds across with a sharp knife. Roast the quarters lightly before a slow fire, and put them into a bowl with two bottles of claret, with a little cinnamon and nutmeg. Infuse this mixture over a slow heat for five or six hours, then pass it through a jelly-bag, and sweeten. It may be drunk hot or cold, but in any case must never be allowed to boil.

Bishop.

Two drachmas each of cloves, mace, ginger, cinnamon, and allspice, boiled in half-a-pint of water for thirty minutes. Strain. Put a bottle of port in a saucepan over the fire, add the spiced infusion, and a lemon stuck with six cloves. Whilst this is heating gradually—it must not boil—take four ounces of loaf sugar, and with the lumps grate off the outer rind of a lemon into a punch-bowl. Add the sugar, and juice, and the hot wine, etc. Add another bottle of port, and serve either hot or cold.

I am prepared to lay a shade of odds on the “op” against the “off.”

Another old recipe has been quoted in some of my earlier public efforts, under different names. I have improved considerably upon the proportion of the ingredients, and now hand the whole back, under the name of

Halo Punch.

With a quarter pound of loaf sugar rub off the outer rind of one lemon and two Seville oranges. Put rind and sugar into a large punch-bowl with the juice and pulp, mix the sugar well with the juice and one teacupful of boiling water, and stir till cold. Add half-a-pint of pine-apple syrup, one pint of strong green tea, a claret-glassful of maraschino, a smaller glassful of noyeau, half-a-pint of white rum, one pint of brandy, and one bottle of champagne. Strain and serve, having, if necessary, added more sugar.

Note well the proportions. This is the same beverage which some Cleveland friends of mine, having read the recipe, thought boiling would improve. The result was—well, a considerable amount of chaos.

Glasgow Punch.

The following is from Peter’s Letters to his Kinsfolk, and is from the pen of John Gibson Lockhart:—

The sugar being melted with a little cold water, the artist squeezed about a dozen lemons through a wooden strainer, and then poured in water enough almost to fill the bowl. In this state the liquor goes by the name of sherbet, and a few of the connoisseurs in his immediate neighbourhood were requested to give their opinion of it—for in the mixing of the sherbet lies, according to the Glasgow creed, at least one-half of the whole battle. This being approved of by an audible smack from the lips of the umpires, the rum was added to the beverage, I suppose, in something about the proportion from one to seven.

Does this mean one of sherbet and seven of rum, or the converse?

Last of all, the maker cut a few limes, and running each section rapidly round the rim of his bowl, squeezed in enough of this more delicate acid to flavour the whole composition. In this consists the true tour-de-maitre of the punch-maker.

Well, possibly; but it seems a plainish sort of punch; and unless the rum be allowed to preponderate, most of us would be inclined to call the mixture lemonade. And I do not believe that since Glasgow has been a city its citizens ever drank much of that.

A few more punches, and then an anecdote.

Ale Punch.

One quart of mild ale in a bowl, add one wine-glassful of brown sherry, the same quantity of old brandy, a tablespoonful of sifted sugar, the peel and juice of one lemon, a grate of nutmeg, and an iceberg.

N.B.—Do not insert old ale, by mistake. And for my own part, I think it a mistake to mix John Barleycorn with wine (except champagne) and spirits.

Barbadoes Punch.

A tablespoonful of raspberry syrup, a ditto of sifted sugar, a wine-glassful of water, double that quantity of brandy, half a wine-glassful of guava jelly, liquid, the juice of half a lemon, two slices of orange, one slice of pine-apple, in a long tumbler. Ice and shake well and drink through straws.

Curaçoa Punch.

Put into a large tumbler one tablespoonful of sifted sugar, one wine-glassful of brandy, the same quantity of water, half a wine-glassful of Jamaica rum, a wine-glassful of curaçoa, and the juice of half a lemon; fill the tumbler with crushed ice, shake, and drink through straws.

Grassot Punch.

This has nothing to do with warm asparagus, so have no fear. It is simply another big-tumbler mixture, of one wine-glassful of brandy, a liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, a squeeze of lemon, two teaspoonfuls sugar, one of syrup of strawberries, one wine-glassful of water, and the thin rind of a lemon; fill up the tumbler with crushed ice, shake, and put slices of ripe apricots atop. Drink how you like.

Most of the above are hot-weather beverages, and the great beauty of some of them will be found in the small quantity of water in the mixture. Here is a punch which may be drunk in any weather, and either hot or cold.

Regent Punch.

Pour into a bowl a wine-glassful of champagne, the same quantities of hock, curaçoa, rum, and madeira. Mix well, and add a pint of boiling tea, sweetened. Stir well and serve.

Apropos of the derivation of “punch,” I was unaware until quite recently that Messrs. Bradbury’s & Agnew’s little paper had any connection therewith. But I was assured by one who knew all about it, that such was the case.

“What?” I exclaimed. “How can the London Charivari possibly have anything to do with this most seductive of beverages?”

“My dear fellow,” was the reply, “have you never heard of Mark Lemon?”

I turned to smite him hip and thigh; but the jester had fled.

And now a word or two as to “Toddy.” One of the authorities quoted in the punch difficulty declares that toddy is also an Indian drink. So it is. But that drink no more resembles what is known in more civilised lands as toddy than I resemble the late king Solomon. The palm-sap which the poor Indian distils into arrack and occasionally drinks in its natural state for breakfast after risking his neck in climbing trees to get it, can surely have no connection with hot whisky and water? Yet the authority says so; but he had best be careful ere he promulgates his theory in the presence of Scotsmen and others who possess special toddy-glasses. This is how I make

Whisky Toddy.

The Irish call this whisky punch. But do not let us wrangle over the name. Into an ordinary-sized tumbler which has been warmed, put one average lump of sugar, a ring of thin lemon peel, and a silver teaspoon. Fill the tumbler one quarter full of water as near boiling point as possible. Cover over until the sugar be dissolved and peel be infused. Then add one wine-glassful—not a small one—of the best whisky you can find—the “Pollok” brand, and the “R.B.” are both excellent. Then drink the toddy, or punch; for should you attempt to add any more water you will incur the lifelong contempt of every Irishman or Scotsman who may be in the same room. If Irish whisky be used, of course you will select “John Jameson.”

’Twixt ale-flip and egg-flip there is not much more difference than ’twixt tweedledum and tweedledee. Both are equally “more-ish” on a cold evening; and no Christmas eve is complete without a jug of one or the other.

Ale-flip.

Pour into a saucepan three pints of mild ale, one tablespoonful of sifted sugar, a blade of mace, a clove, and a small piece of butter; and bring the liquor to a boil. Beat up in a basin the white of one egg and the yolks of two, mixed with about a wine-glassful of cold ale. Mix all together in the saucepan, then pour into a jug, and thence into another jug, from a height, for some minutes, to froth the flip thoroughly but do not let it get cold.

Egg-flip.

Heat one pint of ale, and pour into a jug. Add two eggs, beaten with three ounces of sugar, and pour the mixture from one jug to the other, as in the preceding recipe. Grate a little nutmeg and ginger over the flip before serving.

Were I to ask What is

A Peg?

I should probably be told that a peg was something to hang something or somebody else on, or that it was something to be driven through or into something else. And the latter would be the more correct answer, for at the time of my sojourn in the great continent of India, a peg meant a large brandy-and-soda. At that time whisky was but little known in Punkahland, and was only used high up in the Punjaub during the “cold weather”—and it is cold occasionally in that region, where for some months they are enabled to make ice—but that is une autre histoire. Rum I once tasted at Simla, and gin will be dealt with presently. But since the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, a peg has always signified a whisky-and-soda. And yet we have not heard of any particular decrease in the death-rate. Despite what those who have only stayed a month or two in the country have committed to print, alcohol is not more fatal in a tropical country than a temperate one. But you must not overdo your alcohol. I have seen a gay young spark, a fine soldier, and over six feet in height, drink eight pegs of a morning, ere he got out of bed. There was no such thing as a “split soda”—or a split brandy either—in those days. We buried him in the Bay of Bengal just after a cyclone, on our way home.

By the way, the real meaning of “peg” was said to be the peg, or nail, driven into the coffin of the drinker every time he partook. And the coffin of many an Anglo-Indian of my acquaintance was all nails. A

John Collins

is simply a gin-sling with a little curaçoa in it. That is to say, soda-water, a slice of lemon, curaçoa—and gin. But by altering the proportions this can be made a very dangerous potion indeed. The officers of a certain regiment—which shall be nameless—were in the habit of putting this potion on tap, after dinner on a guest night. It was a point of honour in those evil, though poetical, times, to send no guest empty away, and more than one of those entertained by this regiment used to complain next morning at breakfast—a peg, or a swizzle, and a hot pickle sandwich—of the escape of “Private John Collins” from the regimental guard-room. For towards dawn there would not be much soda-water in that potion—which was usually served hot at that hour.