What to Eat, How to Serve it

WHAT SHALL WE EAT?

THE cook-book of the olden time gave its recipes with a generous disregard of cost. Such items as a ham boiled in wine were not unusual, and the quantities of costly materials demanded were on a Gargantuan scale. Even in the average French culinary manuals economy can hardly be said to be conspicuous, except by its absence, although Gallic cooks have a world-wide reputation for the wonderful results they can produce by a small expenditure. Even in this day, when economy is honored and studied, in the recipes that appear in print as written by women living in some parts of the South, there is a call for what to Northern ideas seems a reckless profusion of eggs, butter, and cream. The lavishness of these demands is often quite out of keeping with the common opinion of the straitened circumstances supposed to have prevailed of late years in that section of the country. The general impression these recipes give was voiced by a New England woman, who, after reading a collection of recipes from the pen of a well-known Southern writer, exclaimed, "Well, I can't afford to cook like that; but I presume she has always had plenty to do with."

In spite, however, of some instances of this kind which indicate extravagance, the general trend in culinary guide-books of the day is towards economy. Tracts, pamphlets, octavos, and quartos are published, giving directions for preparing a dinner for five persons at a cost of twenty-five cents, of fifty cents, of seventy-five cents, of a dollar. The Sunday and weekly newspapers have columns devoted to the same theme, and the countless household magazines with which the reading public is almost snowed under all spare a corner for the discussion of the same momentous topic. It may be noted, en passant, that this sudden interest in dietetics is responsible for many of the literary aspirations now current. Women who had never thought of meddling with pen and ink except in their private correspondence rush into print for the purpose of describing a dinner which will cost only twenty-seven and two-thirds cents, and, encouraged by success in one or two efforts of this kind, fondly imagine themselves possessed of talents which ought to bring them in a competency.

Far be it from the woman who has herself known housekeeping cares and struggles, who has mourned over small leaks and sought diligently the best methods of "making sixpence do the work of sevenpence half-penny," as an English writer puts it, to deride any endeavors to teach housekeepers how to best use slender means with happy results. But a word of warning may not be amiss concerning certain features of most of the directions thus given. Here it is: If an appetizing dish is to be made at small cost, care in preparation must supplement cheap materials.

There has been a great deal said and written about the folly of always purchasing the best cuts of meat. Hundreds of pages have been printed demonstrating satisfactorily —to their authors—that a piece of beef from the round can be so cooked as to make it equal to filet de bœuf; that lamb's or pig's liver is of as good a flavor as calf's liver, which costs twice as much; that old fowls properly treated cannot be distinguished by the taste from young broilers; and that a variety of other delightful things can be accomplished by the woman who chooses to attempt them. All this is, no doubt, true in part. The point that is seldom sufficiently emphasized is that it requires to achieve these wonders either a certain knack, which is as much a talent in its way as is a gift for music or drawing, or else a special training in this particular kind of cookery. It is easy enough for any one to be a good cook who knows how to follow a recipe, possesses a little deftness of hand, and is provided with the best materials for her work. Nowadays the cook-books seldom deal in the glittering generalities that once made their pages full of pitfalls for the unwary. Usually the directions are explicit, the quantities and proportions almost scientific in their accuracy, and the successive steps in compounding and cooking so clearly defined that the wayfaring woman, although a fool, can hardly go very far wrong; that is, if—and it is a very big if, too—she does not have to use imperfect ingredients to compass a perfect achievement. Bricks may doubtless be made with stubble instead of straw, but the children of Israel found it a rather difficult process.

If, then, to change the figure, the iron be dull, one must put to it the more strength. The housekeeper who is compelled by circumstances to practise rigid economy must resolutely set herself to the study of cheap cookery. She may know already how to roast a "rib cut" of beef, how to broil a porterhouse steak, how to broil and fry tender chickens, but all this knowledge is of comparatively little value to her just now. She must learn instead how to braise, how to treat a "pot roast"; she must study stews, perfect herself in the manufacture of minces, hashes, fricassees, croquettes, fritters; she must know what vegetables and meats may be put together in utilizing "left-overs"; she must acquire a thorough knowledge of soups of all sorts, and of soups maigre in particular; and she must work in this line until she is able to set as appetizing if not as elegant a table on her small means as her richer neighbor across the way can on a housekeeping allowance of a double amount.

Of course this involves a great deal of hard work and of competent vigilance. Even if a servant is kept, only in rare instances can she be trusted to undertake this kind of cookery. Simple cookery, like roasting and boiling, is seldom successful unless one has the best materials to work with. But usually the woman who must economize is wealthier in time than in anything else, and she must make it take the place of money. Above all, she must struggle against the temptation to yield to weariness or discouragement, and to satisfy herself with the custom into which so many of her sisters drift, of cooking tough, inferior pieces of meat in the easiest way, as though they were "prime cuts," and thus endangering the teeth, tempers, and digestions of her family.

A potent aid in making cheap cookery savory is the judicious use of seasoning. In some homes knowledge of these seems to be confined to an acquaintance with pepper, mustard, onion, and parsley. Little is known of the variety of even simple herbs, like thyme, sweet-marjoram, and summer-savory; and still less of Worcestershire, Harvey's, anchovy, and chilli sauces, of chutney, of curry powder, of tarragon vinegar, of bay leaves, of maître d'hôtel butter, of olives, of tomato and walnut catsups, or of the careful employment of spices in small quantities. The magical improvement wrought by the addition of a little lemon juice and a wine-glassful of California sherry (at fifty cents a quart bottle) is totally unknown.

Of course the first outlay for some of these commodities may savor of extravagance. But many of the articles are very cheap, and even the more costly ones are used in such small quantities that a supply of any one of them will last a long time. Moreover, if a woman's aim is to prepare dishes which her family will eat and enjoy, she will find that the purchase of condiments pays, and the variety their occasional use gives will make a change back to simple diet more agreeable.

THE CHILDREN'S TABLE

Usually, and wisely, American children eat at least two of their meals with their parents, and thus have what benefit may be derived from association with older people. It is only when the father and mother fail to guard against letting the little ones gradually assume the reins of government that affairs reach a point which makes one long to banish the babies to the nursery, or even further, if by such means peace might be secured at meal-times.

Nowhere does the spoiled child appear to worse advantage, or make more of a nuisance of himself, than at the table. His incessant chatter, the constant interruption his appeals for attention make in the conversation of the older people present, his clamorous demands for any article of food which happens to strike his fancy, his loud protests when his wishes are denied him, his slovenly (often disgusting) habits of eating, make the family meal-times a pandemonium and penance to the hapless guest upon whom the youngster has no claims of affection to render his vagaries amusing or interesting.

So long as custom and necessity render it advisable to have a child at the same table with his parents, these should fix upon a plan of action, and adhere to it. Desiring to have their children looked upon as comforts and not as spoil-sports, they should enforce strict obedience, exact quiet at table, and inculcate stringently the once-honored maxim—of late years fallen sadly into disuse and disrepute—that little boys and girls should be seen and not heard. Remembering how much easier it is to check a habit at the outset than to break it off after it is fully formed, the father and mother should watch their children's table manners, and repress at once the carelessness and unpleasant tricks that seem, possibly through original sin, to come naturally to most little folk. The correct handling of spoon, fork, and knife should be taught as soon as they are permitted to use these implements, and slovenliness should be rebuked and held up as a disgrace. Not least in importance is it that the father and mother should, after due consideration, establish an outline of diet for the youngsters, and allow no divergence therefrom.

By "an outline of diet" is not meant an unvarying rotation of viands as wearying and de-appetizing to the child as it would be to his elders, but a scheme of nourishment by which hurtful articles of food will be eliminated from the bill of fare, and only wholesome ones admitted. A great deal of careful thought is often necessary in the formulation of such menus, for children have as many gastric idiosyncrasies as grown people, and frequently these are only disclosed little by little. In illustration of this may be cited the case of a handsome, healthy boy baby who, although a victim to colic during the first months of his life, gave no other evidences of eccentricity of digestion until he was nearly three years old. At that time the mother began to notice that his breath was often sour, and that he complained occasionally of pain in the stomach and bowels. His dietary had always been so simple that she was at first puzzled to understand what could be the disturbing cause. After sundry experiments and careful observation, she finally ascertained that the discomfort and bad breath followed any unusual eating of sweets, although it might be only such simple desserts as bread and syrup, bread and jelly, plain cookies, or home-made sponge-cake, or even an infrequent lump of sugar. She put an embargo upon sweets, and found an almost immediate improvement. Further investigation demonstrated that an occasional indulgence—say once a day—produced no evil consequences, but that more frequent treats of this sort had painful sequelæ. Her course thereafter was plain and easily followed.

A child's breakfast should always begin with some cereal, but this need not invariably be oatmeal. Other preparations often agree better with the children, and a variety is preferable to the monotonous use of the one kind of porridge. Gruels or porridges of farina, corn-starch, rice-flour, corn-meal, hominy, arrowroot, wheat-germ meal, or cerealine are nearly all relished by the babies, and should be accompanied by milk in any amount, but no sugar. If the child has never been accustomed to the latter, he will eat quite as heartily without it.

If the porridge is properly prepared, the little ones will usually make their chief breakfast from it, with milk or milk-and-water as a beverage. Tea, coffee, or chocolate should be tabooed. The children are better off without any of the three, although some mild preparation of cocoa is probably the least harmful drink they can have other than milk or cold—not iced—water.

As the little people grow older they may have a second course of baked or stewed potato, buttered, dry, or milk toast, a soft-boiled or poached egg, bread and butter, bread and jam, or a little fruit, either fresh or stewed. When they have once become accustomed to seeing older people eating food which is refused them, they will take the denial of certain articles as a matter of course, and rarely think of entering a protest. They will learn that hot bread and griddle-cakes are not meant for little boys and girls, and will take abstinence from meat at breakfast or in the evening, and fried foods or rich desserts at all times, as a matter of course.

At noon, which should be their dinner-time, a more varied diet is permissible. Then there may be soup and some kind of meat for the older children—chicken, rare roast beef, boiled or roast mutton, a piece of steak or a chop—stews entirely freed from grease, potatoes, sweet or white, or some other vegetable, and a plain dessert. It is very little additional trouble to so regulate the bill of fare that what makes the lunch of the "grown-up" may embrace certain articles that will suit the childish stomachs; or there may be a little soup reserved from the dinner of the evening before, a dish of some carefully warmed-over vegetable, possibly a little of last night's meat prepared in a mince or stew, which will obviate the necessity of cooking fresh food for the easily pleased little ones. Often bread and apple-sauce, stewed fruit, or a small portion of fruit jelly or marmalade is as acceptable a dessert as can be provided.

Having eaten these two meals with the family, it is as well to let the younglings have their simple tea by themselves before the family dinner. A dish of soft toast, or a bowl of bread and milk, or of crackers and milk, or of rice and milk, and bread and butter, are usually all they ought to have so soon before their bedtime. They may have a side table set in the dining-room, or a tray may be carried to them in the nursery, and the repast superintended by the mother or nurse. Sometimes papa will come home in time to look in upon his little folks at their final meal, and to help them to settle it afterwards by a romp. Knowing no other mode of life, the children will rarely think of questioning the judgment that sends them to bed early after their light supper, instead of permitting them to sit up to a late, heavy, and indigestible course dinner.

THE FAMILY TEA

In some families it is the custom to have tea one night in the week. It may be on Saturday, when there is no school and the children can all be at home to an early dinner, or on Sunday, when many people dine in the middle of the day. Still other households prefer a noon dinner and a simple tea in summer, pleading the advantage of getting the heavy cookery out of the way in the morning, instead of being obliged to stand over a cook-stove through the long blazing afternoon.

In one way or another, then, there are few families where the tea-table is not spread at least once a week, while in many homes it is a daily institution. It only ceases to be delightful when it is, through carelessness, allowed to slip into a groove, and when the suggestion of making it attractive is put aside with the excuse, "Oh, anything will do for tea!"

Some years ago a party of city people spent a charming summer in a farm-house high up among the Berkshire hills. The accommodations of the roomy old-fashioned dwelling were good, the breakfasts and dinners excellent, well cooked, and liberal in provision. But the teas! Night after night the guests gathered about a tea-table adorned with plates of cold bread, of butter, and of cake, pitchers of milk, and occasionally a dish of berries or of stewed fruit. Tea there was, as a matter of course, but never a bit of meat or fish, or an egg in any form, boiled, poached, or in an omelet; not even a pat of pot-cheese or a few slices of dairy cheese. Warm biscuit, muffins, and waffles were likewise conspicuous by their absence.

It was all very well for those who ate bread and milk and were fond of cake, but for a party of ravenous young people, who had spent a long afternoon playing tennis, fishing or driving, or tramping over the hills in the hunger-provoking air, the sight of the table was not inspiriting; nor did it become more popular as the season advanced and the early frosty evenings improved appetites that had never been poor. Yet, in spite of loudly expressed hints, it never seemed to occur to the farmer's good wife that her tea-table was not supplied with every viand the most exacting eater could desire.

Naturally, when a hearty meal has been served in the middle of the day, there should be no thought of having to prepare a second dinner for the evening. But there should be, at least, some relish to vary the monotony of plain bread and butter, something to give the meal an aspect other than that of a perfunctory "feed," where every one eats on the principle upon which Nicholas Nickleby "distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge" the morning after his arrival at Dotheboys Hall—not that he wanted it then, but lest he should be inconveniently hungry when there was nothing to eat.

There are many delicious supper dishes which are made with little difficulty. In winter, oysters, clams, scallops, broiled ham, fried, broiled, or stewed chicken, chicken scallop or mince, sausages, bacon and eggs, with any of the large varieties of griddle-cakes or warm breads, will make a meal to satisfy any one; while in summer, salads of eggs, fish, lobsters, chicken, cold lamb or veal, shrimp, cheese, beet leaves, lettuce, cabbage, potato, string-beans, and of many other kinds, may be relied upon. Omelets and other preparations of eggs are inexpensive, easily cooked, and generally popular, while cold meat goes well on a summer evening, especially when accompanied by bannocks, scones, butter-cakes, toasted crackers, wafers, or some light bread that is easily made and not hard to digest. Then there are galantines, potted meats, jellied fish, pickled salmon, cottage-cheese, and numerous other little delicacies that are not costly and yet are good.

The table for tea should be set much as it is for breakfast, with the exception of the oatmeal sets. All the dishes may be placed upon the table at once, as they would be at lunch, and the family may do much of the passing of plates. The tea is served with the first course, and the cups and tray may be removed to make room for the dish of fruit or simple sweets that generally concludes the meal. The saucers in which these are served should stand on plates, on which each guest may lay the cake which is usually passed at the same time. Hot puddings are out of place at tea, but instead there may be, in winter, apple-sauce, stewed prunes, preserved ginger, brandied and preserved peaches, pears or plums, jams or marmalades, custards, blanc-manges, jellies, or anything of that sort; while in summer it is rarely impossible to procure berries of some kind, or other fruit. A dish of "bonny-clabber"—better known, perhaps, as "loppered milk"—of junket, or of syllabub is always delicious, and is usually easily obtained where milk and cream are plentiful.

No domestic sight is pleasanter in its way than a tea-table on a cold winter night, spread with a bright cloth and set out with dainty china and shining silver, and with all the cheer-inspiring appurtenances of the tea-tray; with the plate of hot bread, the savory dish of hot meat, and the little relishes that housekeepers know well how to supply. And in summer its counterpart is seen in the table laid in the room brightened by the level sun's rays, where a crisp salad, piles of white and brown bread, and a plate of rusk or tea-biscuit, pitchers of milk, and a dish of berries with cream in abundance revive the fainting appetites and spirits of those who have borne the heat and burden of the day.

In summer a tea on the lawn is an agreeable variety to introduce occasionally. A medium-sized table may be carried out under the trees, and spread with a white cloth. On this are placed the principal dishes—the bread-and-butter, which may sometimes have its place taken by sandwiches; the salad or cold meat, or both; the cake and fruit. The tea-tray and kettle may be here too, or the tea may be made in the house. Iced tea and coffee make a pleasant change once in a while.

A rug or two may be laid on the grass if any of the party have a nervous dread of colds, and a few little tables will provide a space upon which to rest a cup of tea or a glass of milk when the lap is occupied by the plate containing the more solid viands. Low chairs should stand here and there, and the whole scene will present a charmingly festal appearance at a trifling outlay of time and trouble.

A certain family who possess a delightful country place make their Sunday evening al fresco tea one of the pleasantest spots in the week. No one is present but the family and any guests who may be staying in the house. The pretty, simple meal is served out on the grassy lawn, which slopes down to the water. When the eating is over, the maid comes out, gathers the dishes into a tray, and carries them back to the house, happy in the thought that there is no supper-table to be cleared and no dining-room to be brushed up.

Long after the vestiges of the feast have been removed the family sit there, chatting pleasantly, watching the sunset and the stars coming out or the moon rising. By and by some voice begins a hymn, the others take it up, and the singing goes on until the early bedtime comes, and the party turns towards the house with a restful happiness that is none the less deep and true because it is hard to describe or to analyze.

AFTERNOON TEA

With the usual tendency of the citizens of this great and glorious country to impress upon the fashions borrowed from other nations the stamp of their own individuality, it was not long before the stereotyped tea, bread-and-butter, and cake, which had at first made up the menu of these entertainments, began to undergo modifications. First, chocolate was added, on the plea that many people do not care for tea. Bouillon came next, and the use of this served as the basis of that absurd report, instantly accepted by foreigners, that the American young women were so fragile in constitution as to be obliged to brace themselves up with strong beef tea at their receptions, in order to enable them to perform their social duties. With bouillon came sandwiches; next appeared salad, and after that oysters, croquettes, creams, ices, and charlottes followed one another in rapid succession, until the metamorphosis of the modest tea into the reception, with its heavy party supper, was complete.

Part of this change may be attributed to the display and love of competition which are numbered among our national characteristics. But at least a portion of the blame must fall upon the participants in these entertainments, who, not understanding that a tea to be a tea must be simple, did not hesitate to grumble at the trifling nature of the refreshments there offered for their delectation.

"I am sick of your afternoon teas!" grumbled one lord of creation, when informed that the family had just received cards to one of these affairs. "I like to go to a place where you get something to eat besides a cup of beef tea and a cracker, or tea and bread-and-butter. It isn't the kind of supper a hungry man wants when he comes from his business. He needs something hearty."

Ignorant and boorish though he was, he voiced the sentiment of many of his sex, who, owing to the training American society has furnished in this respect, consider no party a success unless the social enjoyments are supplemented by a big "spread." In England, where the dinner hour falls later than it usually does in this country, the light sustenance offered by afternoon tea serves as a welcome break in the long stretch which intervenes between luncheon and dinner. Here a man who has his appetite whetted for a six-o'clock repast cares little for a trifling refection at five or half after five. It only serves to blunt his hunger without satisfying it.

Of course, as soon as the tea was merged into the virtual equivalent of an evening party given in the daytime, its recommendation as a cheap and convenient method of entertaining one's friends vanished. While one merely dropped in for a cup of tea on the way home from calls or shopping, a plain walking gown or visiting costume was perfectly appropriate. But with the increased formality of the tea arose the necessity for richer dress, and the afternoon kettle-drum became a kind of heterogeneous-looking assembly, where, at five o'clock in the afternoon, some of the women would appear in evening gowns, with low necks and short sleeves, and some in street suits, while the men, of course, wore morning coats; although in small towns the sight of men in dress suits before six o'clock is an anomaly too often witnessed.

Even apart from the matter of dress, other difficulties and complications arose. Persons in moderate circumstances who had rejoiced at the advent of the tea, because it rendered feasible the gratification of their hospitable instincts at an outlay within their means, shrank back in dismay from this hybrid form of assembly, declaring that it was as easy to give a regular evening party, and get the credit for that, as it was to receive guests in a fashion which assumed simplicity, but cost no less than an affair that made more show.

A few women have had the courage to adhere to what was the original design of the afternoon tea, and to offer their guests only the light refreshments suitable for this form of entertaining. To such people the labor connected with thus gathering their friends about them is a trifling task. The hostess sees that her rooms are in their best looks; fills a few vases with fresh flowers, to give a festal air; sets a round-table in her drawing-room or library, or in the dining-room, if these apartments are en suite; draws up her prettiest cups and saucers and plates in battle array, and invites a few young girls or intimate friends to assist her. They wear either pretty house costumes or dainty tea gowns. For refreshments are provided tea and chocolate, possibly bouillon, bread-and-butter or tiny sandwiches, and plenty of light cakes. The eating is a secondary matter, the raison d'être of the company being the desire for pleasant social intercourse in an informal fashion.

The woman who has a regular "at home" or a weekly "afternoon tea" during the season provides even less. She has tea or cocoa—rarely both—bread-and-butter or fancy biscuit, and cake. The toasted muffins or crumpets and the many tea-cakes dear to the British palate are little in vogue here, where the dinner hour is almost invariably six or half after six. Very few are the houses where daily afternoon tea is the rule.

Numberless pretty adjuncts can be procured to contribute to the attractiveness of the kettle-drum. The tall crane, with its brass, copper, or silver kettle, the daintily embroidered tea and tray cloths, the fine fringed or hem-stitched doilies, the exquisite china, the quaint teapot, the cozy, the odd dishes for cake and biscuit—all afford opportunity for the display of a cultured taste or of a quick fancy. Nothing need be very costly, but everything must be pretty, and in this day the combination of beauty and cheapness is by no means difficult or unusual.

The cards for an afternoon tea bear simply the name of the hostess, and that of her daughter if the latter is "out," and in the corner is written or engraved "Tea" or "At Home," and the day and the hour of the entertainment. The card of any friend who is visiting the hostess, or who entertains with her, is enclosed in the same envelope. If the invited guest cannot be present, she sends her card, by post or by private hand, so that it may reach the hostess upon the day when she receives.

Those people who live in the country, or who are so fortunate as to possess summer places out of town, can give charming outdoor teas, which far surpass in pleasantness anything that can be devised in the city. We Americans live too much in the house, and that, too, in a climate which offers great facilities for a freer mode of life. A tea on a lawn or veranda when the air is full of the perfume of flowers and the country is in its holiday trim is a delight to all those lucky enough to be invited to it. For such a kettle-drum, iced tea and lemonade or claret-cup, sandwiches, and cake may be offered, with berries or other fruits when these are in season.

HIGH TEA

Should the dining-table be large enough to accommodate all the guests bidden to the high tea, it may be drawn to the requisite length, and all the company seated about it. But if, from the limited dimensions of the dining-room, or because it better suits the fancy of the hostess, small tables are preferred, these may be laid so as to accommodate at each six, or four, or even two, always taking care in the last case that the right two are placed together.

If one large table is used, it may be spread with either a dinner or a tea cloth. Flowers should be in the middle upon a pretty centre-piece, and there may be small vases set about here and there. Individual bouquets are not at all necessary. The places should be arranged as usual, with small silver for each course, and the usual accompaniments of butter-plates—or of bread-and-butter plates—salt-cellars, glasses, napkins, etc. If it is warm weather, the table may be further beautified by the bowls or baskets of fresh fruits that are to make part of the dessert, and, in winter, dishes of cake, of preserved or brandied fruits, etc., may be on the table. Should the hostess prefer, however, these may be placed on the sideboard, thus allowing space for the more substantial viands, which at a tea are seldom relegated to the position on the side-table that they would take at dinner.

At the head of the table sits the hostess, with the tea-tray in front of her. It by no means follows, however, because this repast is called a tea that the Chinese herb should be en évidence. If the party is composed chiefly of young people, the chances are strongly in favor of their preference being for coffee or chocolate. They may be offered their choice of these beverages, which the hostess pours out, the servant passing them with cream and sugar, that each may add of these to suit himself. Russian tea may possibly be offered, but even this is apt to be less popular than either chocolate or coffee.

Should small tables be used, the hostess may preside over a tray placed upon one of them, or, when it seems more convenient, the cups may be filled outside, and passed to each with the cream-pitcher and sugar-bowl. It saves some delay in serving if there are a cream-pitcher and sugar-bowl on each table. These little tables may be covered with small cloths or large napkins, and need have nothing else upon them beyond the necessary furniture for each place, except, perhaps, a vase of flowers. While small tables are often admirable as accommodating more people with comfort than could be seated at a large table, yet the latter gives opportunity for a prettier display of floral decoration, china, silver, etc., than is afforded by the former.

The bill of fare is easily arranged. There are no raw oysters or clams, as at a lunch or dinner; and while bouillon may be provided, it is not at all necessary. The meal may begin with oysters in some form, as fricasseed, fried, broiled, steamed, or panned, or in croquettes. With them are passed bread-and-butter (brown or graham bread cut thin is good with oysters) or rolls. The plates are then removed, and the next course brought in. This may consist of chicken—broiled or fried—or broiled birds, or French chops, and of potatoes in some form, as à la parisienne, French fried, or hashed with cream and browned. Cold tongue or ham is sometimes also passed at this time, and warm bread in some shape, as French rolls, sally-lunn, tea-biscuit, rusk, or waffles. The coffee or chocolate is also served at this stage in the proceedings.

After this course comes a salad—lettuce and tomato mayonnaise, or chicken, lobster, or salmon—fresh plates being served for this, as a matter of course. Olives and some fancy cheese—Brie, Roquefort, or Gorgonzola—usually come with the salad. Cheese at this stage is strongly recommended by the epicure; but it is not essential, except to those who hold, in the words of the old doggerel, that

The table is now cleared, and the dessert brought in. This may be quite simple, as, say, preserved or brandied fruit with fancy cakes; or it may be more elaborate, and comprise jelly, charlotte-russe, or fresh fruit of some kind, and light cakes. Ices are not strictly en règle, although no canon of taste is seriously offended if they are offered. It is better, however, to serve them later in the evening. Still, they are not essential even then. Finger-bowls set on doilies laid on pretty plates must be passed the last thing before the guests quit the table.

Of course the menu suggested above may be altered to suit the season and the taste of the entertainer. Lobster or crabs, clams or shrimps, may be substituted for the oysters. Green pease may accompany chops, or sweetbreads may be the principal meat dish of the second course. Roast duck, turkey, or chicken may be provided if broilers are out of season, or birds may be served with a lettuce or celery salad for the third course. And when one reflects upon the fancy dishes which may be prepared for dessert—the blanc-manges, the jellied fruits, the Spanish or Bavarian or Hamburg creams, the charlottes of divers kinds, the whips, custards, and syllabubs—the only difficulty that arises is where to choose.

A pretty notion is to introduce some unexpected feature into the high tea which will appeal to the imaginations of the guests as well as to their palates. A little ingenuity will suggest some novelty of this sort. The literary salad, which has become well known in certain localities, may yet be unfamiliar in others. This is made by cutting a number of slips of paper, writing on each one a prose or poetic quotation, and attaching each strip to a leaf of pale green tissue-paper, cut and crimped into the fashion of a lettuce leaf. Different shades of the paper should be selected, so that the tints may blend as they do in a veritable head of lettuce. These leaves are then arranged in a bowl, and at some point in the meal, usually just before the dessert, the bowl is passed, and each guest draws out at random two or three of the leaves. The endeavor then is to guess the authorship of the different quotations, and a prize is usually offered to the one who guesses the greatest number correctly. The prize may be the bowl or dish in which the salad is served. Or, instead of quotations, conundrums may be written on the slips, and puzzling out their answers usually affords a great deal of amusement.

A bright young hostess, who was always bubbling over with new and charming ideas, hit upon the clever one of having her guests' characters told by chirosophy. She obtained a specimen of the handwriting of each of those whom she had invited, and sent the samples to a specialist, who deduced from each an estimate of the characteristics of its writer. The verdicts thus obtained were enclosed each in an envelope bearing the name of the person whose peculiar bias was therein described. The envelopes were then bound with ribbons, tied, and sealed. One was laid at the place of each guest at the table, and after providing a fruitful source of wonder and comment during the early part of the meal, the seals were broken when the fruit was passed. Each read aloud the statement contained in her envelope, and it was curious and amusing to observe with what accuracy many idiosyncrasies and singular traits of disposition had been indicated.

SOME HINTS ABOUT SUPPER

The members of whist clubs, of literary or dramatic circles, of small dancing classes, of amateur orchestras, and of a variety of other similar social organizations, feel a like desire for food after an evening's busy occupation, while even in the family the sensible custom is gaining ground of eating something not long before retiring—a something which, if not equal in extent and weight to the late supper of our English cousins, is yet more substantial than the caramels and chocolate creams with which school-girls, and often their seniors, solace the hunger that is apt to attack them about bedtime.

When one gives only an occasional reception or evening party it is taken for granted that the refreshments will be rather elaborate in their nature. But when the meetings of a club of any sort are of weekly, fortnightly, or even monthly recurrence, the expense becomes an object. There may be some members of the body to whom the disbursement of a few dollars more or less is a matter of trivial moment, but there is very rarely any club of this sort where there are not some who would feel seriously the cost of entertaining in a showy fashion. For the sake of these weak brothers or sisters, a certain amount of consideration should be shown, and no display made by the wealthy ones which would throw into the shade the simpler entertainment which is all many can afford to offer. A supper need not be poor because it is not costly, but it must make up in daintiness and unusualness for what it lacks in price.

A chief object to be sought in planning these suppers is to select something which can be made ready beforehand, so that the hostess can enjoy her evening without being handicapped in her pleasure-seeking by the thought of possible complications arising in the preparation of the supper which may require her absence from the room. Unless she has a practised cook, she should not attempt dishes of oysters, or of anything of the kind which demands careful supervision at the last moment. Instead of this, she should content herself with chocolate or coffee and bouillon for the hot items of her menu, and for the rest take her choice from among the many salads and other cold dishes which are generally popular. Cold chicken or duck, jellied tongue or fowl, or a really fine galantine, or a dish of salad, and rolls or sandwiches at discretion, may be chosen. For sweets, ices are always excellent if they can be procured; or if not, there are jellies, which, with whipped cream and light cakes, coffee, or chocolate, are quite enough—indeed, more than enough in many cases. Often sandwiches, cake, and coffee are sufficient; but let the sandwiches be of something besides ham and tongue, the cake be light and delicious, and the coffee strong and clear, and served with whipped cream.

If hot dishes are indispensable, something should be selected like chicken or sweetbread pâtés, or lobster in some form, which will not be injured by warming over. Croquettes too, if properly prepared, are delicious, but they must be soft and creamy inside, not hard like sausage balls.

For the home supper the preparations are much simpler. This late repast may consist merely of a plate of crackers, or of light biscuit, or of bread-and-butter, with perhaps a tin of potted meat, or a few sardines, or a piece of cheese, or a box of guava jelly, or a little fruit. Iced water, or milk and Apollinaris, or Seltzer are the best beverages to serve, or, for those who like it, a bottle of ale or beer.

In the hope of aiding housekeepers who desire to prepare something a little different from the stereotyped suppers so common at evening entertainments, and which usually consist of oysters, chicken or lobster salad, sandwiches, ice-cream, and coffee, there are appended a few recipes for dishes perhaps less commonly known than those just mentioned.

Lobster Salmi.—Two cups boiled lobster (cut, not chopped, into small pieces), three eggs (the yolks only), two tablespoonfuls butter, half a pint of cream, one wine-glassful sherry, one tablespoonful brandy, Cayenne pepper and salt to taste, one teaspoonful lemon juice. Put the lobster over the fire in a double boiler with the butter, wine, brandy, pepper, and salt; let it become smoking hot. It will not injure it to stand covered at the back of the stove for some time. Just before it is to be served bring the water in the outer vessel to the boiling-point, and stir into the scalding hot lobster the beaten yolks of the eggs and the cream. Let this stand one minute longer on the fire, remove, add the lemon juice, and serve at once in small silver or china shells or in nappies.

French Fish Salad.—Select some firm white-fish (halibut is excellent for this purpose), and boil. When perfectly cold cut it into neat slices; on each slice lay a sardine, and arrange the fish upon and among crisp lettuce leaves. Prepare a mayonnaise dressing, and into a half-pint of it stir three sardines rubbed smooth with the back of a fork. Pass the sauce in a pitcher containing a spoon or small ladle, that each guest may help himself.

Lobster Mayonnaise Sandwiches.—Into half a cupful of finely minced lobster stir two tablespoonfuls of mayonnaise dressing. Season to taste with Cayenne pepper and salt, with a little lemon juice if it seems to be needed. Select bread a day old for this purpose, butter it light on the loaf, and cut very thin. Spread a slice with the mixture, and lay another buttered slice upon it, face downward. Cut into small neat squares or triangles. The crust is sometimes trimmed off.

Chicken mayonnaise sandwiches may be made in the same way, rejecting all bits of skin or gristle, and omitting the lemon juice. Ham, tongue, and shrimp mayonnaise sandwiches are also good prepared in similar fashion.

Veal Galantine.—Select a breast of veal about eighteen inches long by twelve wide, and remove from it all bits of bone or gristle. Spread the inside of it with a layer of sausage meat, or of salt or corned pork finely chopped, and highly seasoned with minced onion, parsley, and sweet-herbs. Upon this lay a few thin slices of cold boiled ham and tongue and several strips of raw veal. Spread these with more of the force-meat, taking care not to bring it too near the edges, as it would then squeeze out when the galantine is rolled. Sprinkle chopped herbs and onion over the inside, and roll up the piece of veal, the force-meat inside. Bind and skewer into shape, sew it up in a stout cloth, and place it in a pot containing a hock of pork or a knuckle of veal well cracked, a bouquet of herbs, a sliced onion, a sliced carrot, and two or three stalks of celery. Cover all with cold water, and let the pot, after coming gradually to a boil, simmer at the back of the stove for at least four hours. Remove the pot from the fire, and let the galantine become cold in the liquor; then take it out, tighten the bandage about it, and place under a heavy weight for several hours; uncover, and surround with aspic jelly. To make this, clear the liquor in which the galantine was cooked by bringing it to a boil with the white and crushed shell of a freshly broken egg, straining it, as soon as the scum rises to the top, through a piece of thick cotton cloth. Season a quart of the clear liquid thus left with a wineglass of sherry, two tablespoonfuls of vinegar, pepper and salt to taste. While boiling hot dissolve in it an ounce of gelatine which has been previously soaked in cold water for an hour. Pour a little of the jelly into a brick-shaped mould large enough to hold the galantine, first wetting the mould with cold water, and when the jelly forms lay the galantine on this. Pour the remaining jelly over it, and let it stand in a cold place until firm. Turn all out of the mould, and serve garnished with lettuce leaves.

CHINA AND GLASS