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THE FEASTS OF AUTOLYCUS
The Diary of a Greedy Woman
[Illustration]
Edited by
ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL
Akron, O.
The Saalfield Publishing Company
Chicago New York
1900
Copyright, 1896,
by the Merriam Company.
[Illustration]
NOTE.--_These papers were first published in the "Pall Mall Gazette,"
under the heading, "Wares of Autolycus." It is due to the courteous
permission of the editors of that Journal that they are now re-issued
in book form._
INTRODUCTION
I have always wondered that woman could be so glib in claiming
equality with man. In such trifling matters as politics and science
and industry, I doubt if there be much to choose between the two
sexes. But in the cultivation and practice of an art which concerns
life more seriously, woman has hitherto proved an inferior creature.
For centuries the kitchen has been her appointed sphere of action. And
yet, here, as in the studio and the study, she has allowed man to
carry off the laurels. Vatel, Carême, Ude, Dumas, Gouffé, Etienne,
these are some of the immortal cooks of history: the kitchen still
waits its Sappho. Mrs Glasse, at first, might be thought a notable
exception; but it is not so much the merit of her book as its extreme
rarity in the first edition which has made it famous.
Woman, moreover, has eaten with as little distinction as she has
cooked. It seems almost--much as I deplore the admission--as if she
were of coarser clay than man, lacking the more artistic instincts,
the subtler, daintier emotions.
I think, therefore, the great interest of the following papers lies in
the fact that they are written by a woman--a greedy woman. The
collection, evidently, does not pretend to be a "Cook's Manual," or a
"Housewife's Companion": already the diligent, in numbers, have
catalogued _recipes_, with more or less exactness. It is rather a
guide to the Beauty, the Poetry, that exists in the perfect dish, even
as in the masterpiece of a Titian or a Swinburne. Surely hope need not
be abandoned when there is found one woman who can eat, with
understanding, the Feasts of Autolycus.
ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE VIRTUE OF GLUTTONY, 9
A PERFECT BREAKFAST, 17
TWO BREAKFASTS, 25
THE SUBTLE SANDWICH, 33
A PERFECT DINNER, 43
AN AUTUMN DINNER, 51
A MIDSUMMER DINNER, 59
TWO SUPPERS, 67
ON SOUP, 75
THE SIMPLE SOLE, 89
BOUILLABAISSE, 97
THE MOST EXCELLENT OYSTER, 105
THE PARTRIDGE, 117
THE ARCHANGELIC BIRD, 125
SPRING CHICKEN, 135
THE MAGNIFICENT MUSHROOM, 143
THE INCOMPARABLE ONION, 155
THE TRIUMPHANT TOMATO, 171
A DISH OF SUNSHINE, 179
ON SALADS, 191
THE SALADS OF SPAIN, 205
THE STIRRING SAVOURY, 215
INDISPENSABLE CHEESE, 223
A STUDY IN GREEN AND RED, 231
A MESSAGE FROM THE SOUTH, 239
ENCHANTING COFFEE, 249
THE VIRTUE OF GLUTTONY
Gluttony is ranked with the deadly sins; it should be honoured among
the cardinal virtues. It was in the Dark Ages of asceticism that
contempt for it was fostered. Selfish anchorites, vowed to dried dates
and lentils, or browsing Nebuchadnezzar-like upon grass, thought by
their lamentable example to rob the world of its chief blessing.
Cheerfully, and without a scruple, they would have sacrificed beauty
and pleasure to their own superstition. If the vineyard yielded wine
and the orchard fruit, if cattle were sent to pasture, and the forest
abounded in game, they believed it was that men might forswear the
delights thus offered. And so food came into ill repute and foolish
fasting was glorified, until a healthy appetite passed for a snare of
the devil, and its gratification meant eternal damnation. Poor deluded
humans, ever so keen to make the least of the short span of life
allotted to them!
With time, all superstitions fail; and asceticism went the way of many
another ingenious folly. But as a tradition, as a convention, somehow,
it lingered longer among women. And the old Christian duty became a
new feminine grace. And where the fanatic had fasted that his soul
might prove comelier in the sight of God, silly matrons and maidens
starved, or pretended to starve, themselves that their bodies might
seem fairer in the eyes of man. And dire, indeed, has been their
punishment. The legend was that swooning Angelina or tear-stained
Amelia, who, in company, toyed tenderly with a chicken wing or
unsubstantial wafer, later retired to the pantry to stuff herself with
jam and pickles. And thus gradually, so it is asserted, the delicacy
of women's palate was destroyed; food to her perverted stomach was but
a mere necessity to stay the pangs of hunger, and the pleasure of
eating she looked upon as a deep mystery, into which only man could be
initiated.
In this there is much exaggeration, but still much truth. To-day
women, as a rule, think all too little of the joys of eating. They
hold lightly the treasures that should prove invaluable. They refuse
to recognise that there is no less art in eating well than in painting
well or writing well, and if their choice lay between swallowing a bun
with a cup of tea in an aërated bread shop, and missing the latest
picture show or doing without a new book, they would not hesitate; to
the stodgy bun they would condemn themselves, though that way madness
lies. Is it not true that the woman who would economise, first draws
her purse-strings tight in the market and at the restaurant? With her
milliner's bill she may find no fault, but in butcher's book, or
grocer's, every halfpenny is to be disputed.
The loss is hers, but the generous-hearted can but regret it.
Therefore let her be brought face to face with certain fundamental
facts, and the scales will fall quickly from her eyes, and she will
see the truth in all its splendour.
First, then, let her know that the love of good eating gives an object
to life. She need not stray after false gods; she will not burden
herself with silly fads, once she realizes that upon food she may
concentrate thought and energy, and her higher nature--which to her
means so much--be developed thereby. Why clamour for the suffrage, why
labour for the redemption of brutal man, why wear, with noisy
advertisement, ribbons white or blue, when three times a day there is
a work of art, easily within her reach, to be created? All his life a
Velasquez devoted to his pictures, a Shakespeare to his plays, a
Wagner to his operas: why should not the woman of genius spend hers in
designing exquisite dinners, inventing original breakfasts, and be
respected for the nobility of her self-appointed task? For in the
planning of the perfect meal there is art; and, after all, is not art
the one real, the one important thing in life?
And the object she thus accepts will be her pleasure as well. For the
_gourmande_, or glutton, duty and amusement go hand in hand. Her
dainty devices and harmonies appeal to her imagination and fancy; they
play gently with her emotions; they develop to the utmost her pretty
sensuousness. Mind and body alike are satisfied. And so long as this
pleasure endures it will never seem time to die. The ancient
philosopher thought that time had come when life afforded more evil
than good. The good of a pleasantly planned dinner outbalances the
evil of daily trials and tribulations.
Here is another more intimate, personal reason which the woman of
sense may not set aside with flippancy or indifference. By artistic
gluttony, beauty is increased, if not actually created. Listen to the
words of Brillat-Savarin, that suave and sympathetic _gourmet_: "It
has been proved by a series of rigorously exact observations that by a
succulent, delicate, and choice regimen, the external appearances of
age are kept away for a long time. It gives more brilliancy to the
eye, more freshness to the skin, more support to the muscles; and as
it is certain in physiology that wrinkles, those formidable enemies of
beauty, are caused by the depression of muscle, it is equally true
that, other things being equal, those who understand eating are
comparatively four years younger than those ignorant of that science."
Surely he should have called it art, not science. But let that pass.
Rejoice in the knowledge that gluttony is the best cosmetic.
And more than this: a woman not only grows beautiful when she eats
well, but she is bewitchingly lovely in the very act of eating. Listen
again, for certain texts cannot be heard too often: "There is no more
pretty sight than a pretty _gourmande_ under arms. Her napkin is
nicely adjusted; one of her hands rests on the table, the other
carries to her mouth little morsels artistically carved, or the wing
of a partridge, which must be picked. Her eyes sparkle, her lips are
glossy, her talk cheerful, all her movements graceful; nor is there
lacking some spice of the coquetry which accompanies all that women
do. With so many advantages she is irresistible, and Cato, the censor
himself, could not help yielding to the influence." And who shall say
that woman, declaiming on the public platform, or "spanking"
progressive principles into the child-man, makes a prettier picture?
Another plea, and one not to be scorned, is the new bond of union love
of eating weaves between man and wife. "A wedded pair with this taste
in common have once a day at least a pleasant opportunity of meeting."
Sport has been pronounced a closer tie than religion, but what of
food? What, indeed? Let men and women look to it that at table
delicious sympathy makes them one, and marriage will cease to be a
failure. If they agree upon their sauces and salads, what matter if
they disagree upon mere questions of conduct and finance? Accept the
gospel of good living and the sexual problem will be solved. She who
first dares to write the great Food Novel will be a true champion of
her sex. And yet women meet and dine together, and none has the
courage to whisper the true secret of emancipation. Mostly fools!
Alas! that it should have to be written!
And think--that is, if you know how to think--of the new joy added to
friendship, the new charm to casual acquaintanceship, when food is
given its due, and is recognised as something to be talked of. The old
platitudes will fade and die. The maiden will cease to ask "What do
you think of the Academy?" The earnest one will no longer look to
Ibsen for heavy small talk. Pretence will be wiped away,
conversational shams abolished, and the social millennium will have
come. Eat with understanding, and interest in the dishes set before
you must prove genuine and engrossing, as enthusiasm over the last new
thing in art or ethics has never been--never can be. The sensation of
the day will prove the latest arrangement in oysters, the newest
device in vegetables. The ambitious will trust to her kitchen to win
her reputation; the poet will offer lyrics and pastorals with every
course; the painter will present in every dish a lovely scheme of
colour.
Gross are they who see in eating and drinking nought but grossness.
The woman who cannot live without a mission should now find the path
clear before her. Let her learn first for herself the rapture that
lies dormant in food; let her next spread abroad the joyful tidings.
Gluttony is a vice only when it leads to stupid, inartistic excess.
A PERFECT BREAKFAST
Breakfast means many things to many men. Ask the American, and he will
give as definition: "Shad, beefsteak, hash, fried potatoes, omelet,
coffee, buckwheat cakes, waffles, corn bread, and (if he be a
Virginian) batter pudding, at 8 o'clock A.M. sharp." Ask the
Englishman, and he will affirm stoutly: "Tea, a rasher of bacon, dry
toast, and marmalade as the clock strikes nine, or the half after."
And both, differing in detail as they may and do, are alike
barbarians, understanding nothing of the first principles of
gastronomy.
Seek out rather the Frenchman and his kinsmen of the Latin race. They
know: and to their guidance the timid novice may trust herself without
a fear. The blundering Teuton, however, would lead to perdition; for
he, insensible to the charms of breakfast, does away with it
altogether, and, as if still swayed by nursery rule, eats his dinner
at noon--and may he long be left to enjoy it by himself! Therefore,
in this, as in many other matters that cater to the higher pleasures,
look to France for light and inspiration.
Upon rising--and why not let the hour vary according to mood and
inclination?--forswear all but the _petit déjeuner_: the little
breakfast of coffee and rolls and butter. But the coffee must be of
the best, no chicory as you hope for salvation; the rolls must be
crisp and light and fresh, as they always are in Paris and Vienna; the
butter must be pure and sweet. And if you possess a fragment of
self-respect, enjoy this _petit déjeuner_ alone, in the solitude of
your chamber. Upon the early family breakfast many and many a happy
marriage has been wrecked; and so be warned in time.
At noon once more is man fit to meet his fellow-man and woman.
Appetite has revived. The day is at its prime. By every law of nature
and of art, this, of all others, is the hour that calls to breakfast.
When soft rains fall, and winds blow milder, and bushes in park or
garden are sprouting and spring is at hand, grace your table with
this same sweet promise of spring. Let rosy radish give the touch of
colour to satisfy the eye, as chairs are drawn in close about the
spotless cloth: the tiny, round radish, pulled in the early hours of
the morning, still in its first virginal purity, tender, sweet, yet
peppery, with all the piquancy of the young girl not quite a child,
not yet a woman. In great bunches, it enlivens every stall at Covent
Garden, and every greengrocer's window; on the breakfast-table it is
the gayest poem that uncertain March can sing. Do not spoil it by
adding other _hors d'oeuvres_; nothing must be allowed to destroy its
fragrance and its savour. Bread and butter, however, will serve as
sympathetic background, and enhance rather than lessen its charm.
Vague poetic memories and aspirations stirred within you by the dainty
radish, you will be in fitting humour for _oeufs aux saucissons_, a
dish, surely, invented by the Angels in Paradise. There is little
earthly in its composition or flavour; irreverent it seems to describe
it in poor halting words. But if language prove weak, intention is
good, and should others learn to honour this priceless delicacy, then
will much have been accomplished. Without more ado, therefore, go to
Benoist's, and buy the little truffled French sausages which that
temple of delight provides. Fry them, and fry half the number of fresh
eggs. Next, one egg and two sausages place in one of those
irresistible little French baking-dishes, dim green or golden brown in
colour, and, smothering them in rich wine sauce, bake, and serve--one
little dish for each guest. Above all, study well your sauce; if it
fail, disaster is inevitable; if it succeed, place laurel leaves in
your hair, for you will have conquered. "A woman who has mastered
sauces sits on the apex of civilisation."
Without fear of anti-climax, pass suavely on from _oeufs aux
saucissons_ to _rognons sautés_. In thin elegant slices your kidneys
should be cut, before trusting them to the melted butter in the frying
pan; for seasoning, add salt, pepper, and parsley; for thickening,
flour; for strength, a tablespoonful or more of stock; for stimulus,
as much good claret; then eat thereof and you will never repent.
Dainty steps these to prepare the way for the breakfast's most
substantial course, which, to be in loving sympathy with all that has
gone before, may consist of _côtelettes de mouton au naturel_. See
that the cutlets be small and plump, well trimmed, and beaten gently,
once on each side, with a chopper cooled in water. Dip them into
melted butter, grill them, turning them but once that the juice may
not be lost, and thank kind fate that has let you live to enjoy so
delicious a morsel. _Pommes de terre sautées_ may be deemed chaste
enough to appear--and disappear--at the same happy moment.
With welcome promise of spring the feast may end as it began. Order a
salad to follow: cool, quieting, encouraging. When in its perfection
cabbage lettuce is to be had, none could be more submissive and
responsive to the wooing of oil and vinegar. Never forget to rub the
bowl with onion, now in its first youth, ardent but less fiery than in
the days to come, strong but less imperious. No other garniture is
needed. The tender green of the lettuce leaves will blend and
harmonise with the anemones and tulips, in old blue china or dazzling
crystal, that decorate the table's centre; and though grey may be the
skies without, something of May's softness and June's radiance will
fill the breakfast-room with the glamour of romance.
What cheese, you ask? Suisse, of course. Is not the month March? Has
not the _menu_, so lovingly devised, sent the spring rioting through
your veins? Suisse with sugar, and prolong the sweet dreaming while
you may. What if work you cannot, after thus giving the reins to fancy
and to appetite? At least you will have had your hour of happiness.
Breakfast is not for those who toil that they may dine; their sad
portion is the midday sandwich.
Wine should be light and not too many. The true epicure will want but
one, and he may do worse than let his choice fall upon Graves, though
good Graves, alas! is not to be had for the asking. Much too heavy is
Burgundy for breakfast. If your soul yearns for red wine, be
aristocratic in your preferences, and, like the Stuarts, drink
Claret--a good St. Estèphe or St. Julien.
Coffee is indispensable, and what is true of coffee after dinner is
true as well of coffee after breakfast. Have it of the best, or else
not at all. For liqueur, one of the less fervent, more maidenly
varieties, Maraschino, perhaps, or Prunelle, but make sure it is the
Prunelle, in stone jugs, that comes from Chalon-sur-Saône. Bring out
the cigarettes--not the Egyptian or Turkish, with suspicion of opium
lurking in their fragrant recesses--but the cleaner, purer Virginian.
Then smoke until, like the Gypsy in Lenau's ballad, all earthly
trouble you have smoked away, and you master the mysteries of
Nirvana.
TWO BREAKFASTS
Spring is the year's playtime. Who, while trees are growing green and
flowers are budding, can toil with an easy conscience? Later, mere
"use and wont" accustoms the most sensitive to sunshine and green
leaves and fragrant blossoms. It is easy to work in the summer. But
spring, like wine, goes to the head and gladdens the heart of man, so
that he is fit for no other duty than the enjoyment of this new
gladness. If he be human, and not a mere machine, he must and will
choose it for the season of his holiday.
This is why in the spring the midday breakfast appeals with most
charm. It may be eaten in peace, with no thought of immediate return
to inconsiderate desk or tyrannical easel. A stroll in the park, a
walk across the fields, or over the hills and far away, should be the
most laborious labour to follow. It would be a crime, indeed, to eat a
dainty breakfast, daintily designed and served, in the bustle and
nervous hurry of a working day. But when the sunny hours bring only
new pleasure and new capacity for it, what better than to break their
sweet monotony with a light, joyous feast that worthily plays the
herald to the evening's banquet?
It must be light, however: light as the sunshine that falls so softly
on spotless white linen and flawless silver; gay and gracious as the
golden daffodils in their tall glass. The table's ornaments should be
few: would not the least touch of heaviness mar the effect of spring?
Why, then, add to the daffodils? See, only, that they are fresh, just
plucked from the cool green woodland, the morning dew still wet and
shining on their golden petals, and make sure that the glass, though
simple, is as shapely as Venice or Whitefriars can fashion it.
Daffodils will smile a welcome, if radishes come to give them
greeting; radishes, round and rosy and crisp; there is a separate joy
in the low sound of teeth crunching in their crispness. Vienna rolls
(and London can now supply them) and rich yellow butter from Devon
dairies carry out the scheme of the first garden-like course.
Sweeter smiles fall from the daffodils, if now they prove motive to a
fine symphony in gold; as they will if _omelette aux rognons_ be
chosen as second course. Do not trust the omelet to heavy-handed cook,
who thinks it means a compromise between piecrust and pancake. It must
be frothy, and strong in that quality of lightness which gives the
keynote to the composition as a whole. Enclosed within its melting
gold, at its very heart, as it were, lie the kidneys elegantly minced
and seasoned with delicate care. It is a dish predestined for the
midday breakfast, too beautiful to be wasted on the early, dull,
morning hours; too immaterial for the evening's demands.
Its memory will linger pleasantly, even when _pilaff de volaille à
l'Indienne_ succeeds, offering a new and more stirring symphony in the
same radiant gold. For golden is the rice, stained with curry, as it
encircles the pretty, soft mound of chicken livers, brown and
delicious. Here the breakfast reaches its one substantial point; but
meat more heavy would seem vulgar and gross. The curry must not be
too hot, but rather gentle and genial like the lovely May sunshine.
Now, a pause and a contrast. Gold fades into green. As are the stalks
to the daffodils, so the dish of _petits pois aux laitues_ to _pilaff_
and _omelette_. The peas are so young that no device need be sought to
disguise their age; later on, like faded beauty, they may have
recourse to many a trick and a pose, but not as yet. The lettuce, as
unsophisticated, will but emphasise their exquisite youth. It is a
combination that has all the wonderful charm of infant leaves and
tentative buds on one and the same branch of the spring-fired bush.
No sweet. Would not the artifice of jellies and cream pall after such
a succession of Nature's dear tributes? Surely the _menu_ should
finish as it began, in entrancing simplicity. Port Salut is a cheese
that smells of the dairy; that, for all its monastic origin, suggests
the pink and white Hetty or Tess with sleeves well uprolled over
curved, dimpling arms. Eat it with Bath Oliver biscuits, and sigh that
the end should come so soon. Where the need to drag in the mummy at
the close of the feast? The ancients were wise; with the last course
does it not ever stare at you cruelly, with mocking reminder that
eating, like love, hath an end?
Graves is the wine to drink with daffodil-crowned feast--golden
Graves, light as the breakfast, gay as the sunshine, gladdening as the
spring itself. Coffee completes the composition nobly, if it be black
and strong. And for liqueur, Benedictine, in colour and feeling alike,
enters most fittingly into the harmony. Smoke cigarettes from
Virginia, that southern land of luxuriant spring flowers.
There is no monotony in spring sunshine; why, then, let spring's
breakfast always strike the same monotonous note? Another day, another
mood, and so, as logical consequence, another _menu_. From your own
garden gather a bunch of late tulips, scarlet and glowing, but cool in
their shelter of long tapering leaves. Fill a bowl with them: it may
be a rare bronze from Japan, or a fine piece of old Delft, or anything
else, provided it be somewhat sumptuous as becomes the blossoms it
holds. Open with that triumph of colour which would have enchanted a
Titian or a Monticelli: the roseate salmon of the Rhine, smoked to a
turn, and cut in thin slices, all but transparent. It kindles desire
and lends new zest to appetite.
After so ardent a preparation, what better suited for ensuing course
than _oeufs brouillés aux pointes d'asperges_? the eggs golden and
fleecy as the clouds in the sunset's glow; the asparagus points
imparting that exquisite flavour which is so essentially their own.
Cloudlike, the loveliness gradually and gracefully disappears, as in a
poet's dream or a painter's impression, and spring acquires a new
meaning, a new power to enchant.
Who, with a soul, could pass on to a roast or a big heating joint?
More to the purpose is _ris de veau à la Toulouse_, the sweetbreads
broiled with distinction, and then, in pretty fluted _caissons_,
surrounded with _Béchamel_ sauce and ravishing _ragoût_ of mushrooms
and cock's combs. They are light as a feather, but still a trifle
flamboyant in honour of the tulips, while the name carries with it
gaiety from the gay southern town of the _Jeux Floraux_.
Next, a salad is not out of place. Make it of tomatoes, scarlet and
stirring, like some strange tropical blossoms decking the shrine of
the sun. Just a suspicion of shallot in the bowl; the perfect dressing
of vinegar and oil, pepper and salt; and the luxuriant tropics could
not yield a richer and more fragrant offering. It is a salad that vies
with Cleopatra in its defiance to custom. Love for it grows stronger
with experience. The oftener it is enjoyed the greater the desire to
enjoy it again.
Why, then, venture to destroy the impression it leaves with the
cloying insipidity of some ill-timed sweet? It is almost too early for
strawberries worth the eating, save in a _macédoine_, and they alone
would come next in order, without introducing an element of confusion
in the well-proportioned breakfast of spring. A savoury, too, would,
at this special juncture, have its drawbacks. Cheese again best
fulfils the conditions imposed. But now, something stronger, something
more definite than Port Salut is called for; if Camembert prove the
cheese of your choice, there will be no chance for criticism. One
warning: see that it is ripe; for the Camembert that crumbles in its
dryness is nothing short of iniquitous.
Tulips and tomatoes point to Claret as the wine to be drunk. Burgundy
is for the evening, when candles are lighted, and the hours of
dreaming have begun. St. Estèphe, at noon, has infinite merit, and
responds to the tulip's call with greater warmth than any white wine,
whether from the vineyards of France or Germany, of Hungary or Italy.
Coffee, as a matter of course, is to the elegantly-designed breakfast
what the Butterfly is to the Nocturne. And when all is said, few
liqueurs accord with it so graciously as Cognac; that is, if the
dishes to precede it have tended to that joyful flamboyancy born of
the artist's exuberance in moments of creation.
Eat either breakfast, or both; and be thankful that spring comes once
a year.
THE SUBTLE SANDWICH
If things yield themselves unto our mercy why should we not have the
fruition of them, or apply them to our advantage? From evil, good may
come; from the little, springs greatness. A reckless gamester, to defy
the pangs of hunger, which might drag him from his beloved cards,
brings to the gaming table slices of bread with ham between. If other
men despise--or deplore, according to their passing mood--his folly,
to their own pleasure and profit can they still turn his invention.
The sandwich has become a universal possession for all time, though
for a century the earl who created it has lain dead. His foibles
should be forgotten, his one redeeming virtue remembered. For him a
fair and spacious niche in the world's Valhalla.
A hero indeed is he who left the sandwich as an heirloom to humanity.
It truly is the staff of life, a substantial meal for starving
traveller or bread-winner; but none the less an incomparable work of
art, a joy to the _gourmand_ of fancy and discretion. The very name
has come to be a pregnant symbol of holiday-making for all with souls
to stir at the thought of food and drink. It is an inexhaustible
stimulus to the imagination; to the memory a tender guide to the
past's happiest days and hours.
For, in fancy, between the slices of bread, place thick,
uncompromising pieces of beef or mutton, and to the Alps you are at
once transported. Again, on the short, fragrant grass you sit; from
its temporary snow-grave a little above, Perren or Imboden fetches the
bottle of wine, ordinary enough in reality, nectar as you drink it
there; Seiler's supplies you take from the faithful knapsack, opening
paper package after paper package; and your feast of big, honest,
no-nonsense-about-them sandwiches you devour with the appetite of a
schoolboy, and the zeal of the convert to plain living and high
mountain climbing.
Or, thin the slices, make them the covering for ham and tongue, or--if
you be greatly favoured--for sardines and anchovies; and then memory
will spread for you the banquet in the pleasant pastures that border
the Cam, the willows bowering you from the August sun with shade, your
boat moored to the cool bank; and with Claret cup, poured, mayhap,
into old college tankards, you quench your thirst, while lazily you
listen to the distant plashing of oars and lowing of kine, and all
life drifts into an idle dream.
Or, the ham of Bayonne, the _pâté de foie gras_ of Périgueux, you bury
in the deep recesses of a long, narrow, crisp _petit pain_, and then,
quick in a French railway carriage will you find yourself: a bottle of
wine is at your side; the _Echo de Paris_ lies spread on the seat
before you; out of the window long lines of poplars go marching with
you toward Paris, whither you are bound "to make the feast."
Grim and gruesome, it may be, are some of the memories evoked:
ill-considered excursions to the bar of the English railway station,
hasty lunches in chance bun shops, foolish testings of "ham and beef"
limitations. But, henceforth, take heed to chasten your experience
with the sandwich, that remembrance may not play you such scurvy
tricks. Treat it aright with understanding and respect, and it will
keep you in glad holiday humour, in the eating thereof as in the
memory.
Life, alas! is not all play in Thames sunshine and keen Alpine air, or
in hopeful journeying through the pleasant land of France. But in the
everyday of stern work and doleful dissipation the sandwich is an ally
of infallible trustworthiness and infinite resources. In the hour of
need it is never found wanting. To dine well, authorities have
proclaimed in _ex cathedrâ_ utterance, you must lunch lightly; but
not, therefore, does it follow that the light luncheon should be
repellently prosaic. Let it be dainty--a graceful lyric--that it may
fill you with hope of the coming dinner. And lyrical indeed is the
savoury sandwich, well cut and garnished, served on rare faïence or
old silver; a glass, or perhaps two, of Bordeaux of some famous
vintage, to strengthen its subtle flavour.
An ally again at afternoon tea it proves, if at five o'clock drink tea
you must; a mistake, surely, if you value your dinner. To belittle
the excellence of crumpets and muffins well toasted, would be to
betray a narrow mind and senseless prejudice; but these buttery,
greasy delicacies in private should be eaten, where the ladies of
Cranford sucked their oranges. And at the best their excellence is
homely. In the sandwich well devised is something exotic and strange,
some charm elusive and mysterious.
But let not the sandwich be of ham, except rarely, for the
etherealized luncheon, the mystic tea. Reserve this well-meaning, but
unpoetic, viand for the journey and the day of open-air sport, to
which so admirably it is fitted. Nor so reserving it, will you be
hampered in making what Dumas calls _tartines à l'Anglaise_. Infinity
is at your disposal, if you be large and liberal enough to grasp the
fact. One hundred numbered the varieties known to that genius of
Glasgow, who, for his researches, has been honoured by a place in
dictionary and Encyclopædia. To these you may add, if time and leisure
you find for a trip to Budapest and the famous Kügler's, where, with
your tea, will be served such exquisite sandwiches, so original and
many in their devices that you can but come away marvelling, in all
eagerness to emulate the artist who designed them.
For the luncheon sandwich, choose from the countless treasures of
the sea. Rapture is in the sardine, not the oiled from France, but
the smoked from Norway; tunny fish or anchovies are dreams of delight;
_caviar_, an ecstacy, the more delicious if a dash of lemon juice
be added. And, if you would know these in perfection, use brown
bread instead of white. Salmon is not to be scorned, nor turbot to
be turned from in contempt; they become triumphs if you are not too
niggardly with cayenne pepper; triumphs not unknown to Cheapside.
Nor are the various so-called creams--of shrimps, of lobster, of
salmon--altogether to be despised, and they, too, the better prove for
the judicious touch of cayenne. But confine not your experiments to
the conventional or the recommended. Overhaul the counter of the
fishmonger. Set your wits to work. Cultivate your artistic instincts.
Invent! Create! Many are the men who have painted pictures: few those
who have composed a new and perfect sandwich.
Upon the egg, likewise, you may rely for inspiration--the humble hen's
egg, or the lordly plover's. Hard-boiled, in thin slices (oh! the
memories of Kügler's, and the Russian railway station, and the _hor
d'oeuvres_, Tartar-guarded sideboard, now awakened!) or well grated;
by itself, or in endless combinations, the egg will ever repay your
confidence.
Upon sausage, also, you may count with loving faith. _Butterbrod mit
Wurst_--_Wurst_ and philosophy, these are the German masterpieces. And
here, you may visit the _delicatessen_ shop to good purpose.
Goose-liver, Brunswick, garlic, Bologna, truffled--all fulfil their
highest destiny, when in thinnest of thin slices, you lay them between
slices no less thin of buttered bread--brown or white, as artistic
appropriateness suggests--a faint suspicion of mustard to lend them
piquancy.
Beef and mutton, when not cut in Alpine chunks, are comforting, and
with mustard duly applied, grateful as well. Fowl and game, galantine
and tongue, veal and brawn--no meat there is, whether fresh or boned
or potted, that does not adapt itself gracefully to certain occasions,
to certain needs. And here, again, be not slow to arrange new
harmonies, to suggest new schemes. It should be your endeavor always
to give style and individuality to your sandwiches.
Cheese in shavings, or grated, has great merit. Greater still has the
cool cucumber, fragrant from its garden ground, the unrivalled tomato,
the crisp, sharp mustard and cress. Scarce a green thing growing that
will not lend itself to the true artist in sandwich-making. Lettuce,
celery, watercress, radishes--not one may you not test to your own
higher happiness. And your art may be measured by your success in
proving the onion to be the poetic soul of the sandwich, as of the
salad bowl. For afternoon tea the dainty green sandwich is the
daintiest of them all.
If to sweets your taste incline, then easily may you be gratified,
though it be a taste smacking of the nursery and the schoolroom. Jams
and marmalades you may press into service; chocolate or candied fruit.
And sponge cake may take the place of bread, and, with strawberries
between, you have the American strawberry short-cake.
But, whatever your sandwich, above all things see that its proportions
be delicate and symmetrical; that it please the eye before ever the
first fragment has passed into the mouth.
A PERFECT DINNER
Fashion and art have little in common. Save for chance, they would
remain always as the poles apart. The laws of the one are transitory,
of the other eternal; and as irreconcilable are they in the
observance. Make then your choice between them, since no man may serve
two masters.
Know that if ever the noble art of cookery be wrecked, it will be upon
the quicksands of Fashion. In many ways is it threatened by the
passing mode, but, above all others, one danger looms up before it,
grim, relentless, tragic: the more awful because, to the thoughtless,
at first it seems sweet as siren's singing. It is an evil born of the
love of display and of the keen competition between Fashion's
votaries. For they who would pose as delicate diners, think to eclipse
their rivals by number of courses and bewildering variety. How to
prolong the _menu_, rather than how to perfect it, is their constant
study. In excess they would emulate the banquets of the ancients,
though they are too refined by far to revive the old vomitories--the
indispensable antidote. Dish follows dish, conceit is piled upon
conceit; and with what result? Before dinner is half over, palates are
jaded, "fine shades" can no more be appreciated, every new course
awakens fear of the morrow's indigestion. Or else, pleasure is
tempered by caution, a melancholy compromise; nothing is really eaten,
the daintiest devices are but trifled with, and dinner is degraded
into a torture fit for Tantalus. Surely, never was there a more cruel,
fickle mistress than Fashion! Sad, immeasurably sad, the fate of her
worshippers.
Art despises show, it disdains rivalry, and it knows not excess. A
Velasquez or a Whistler never overloads his canvas for the sake of
gorgeous detail. To the artist in words, superfluous ornament is the
unpardonable sin. And so with the lovers of Gasterea, the tenth and
fairest of the Muses. Better by far Omar Khayyam's jug of wine and
loaf of bread, if both be good, than all the ill-regulated banquets of
a Lucullus. Who would hesitate between the feasts of Heliogabalus and
the frugal fowl and the young kid, the raisins, figs, and nuts of
Horace?
It matters not how many courses between oysters and coffee Fashion may
decree, if, turning your back upon her and her silly pretensions, you
devise a few that it will be a privilege for your guests to eat, a joy
for them to remember. Bear in mind the master's model luncheon and its
success. No _menu_ could have been simpler; none more delicious. The
table was laid for three, a goodly number, for all the slurs cast upon
it. At each plate were "two dozen oysters with a bright golden lemon;
at each end of the table stood a bottle of Sauterne, carefully wiped
all except the cork, which showed unmistakably that it was long since
the wine had been bottled." After the oysters roasted kidneys were
served; next, truffled _foie-gras_; then the famous _fondue_, the
beautiful arrangement of eggs beaten up with cheese, prepared over a
chafing-dish at table, stimulating appetite by all the delights of
anticipation. Fruit followed, and coffee; and last, two liqueurs, "one
a spirit, to clear, and the other an oil, to soothe." Be not content
to read, but go and do likewise!
Imagine a dinner planned on the same pattern, and the conventional
banquet of the day soon will seem to you the monstrosity it is.
Observe two all-important rules and you may not wander far wrong. One
is to limit the number of courses; the other to serve first the
substantial dishes, then those that are lighter, first the simpler
wines, afterwards those of finer flavours.
The _hors d'oeuvre_, however, is an exception. If too substantial it
would defeat its end. It must whet the appetite, not blunt it. In its
flavour must its strength lie; at once keen and subtle, it should
stimulate, but never satisfy. An anchovy salad touches perfection; the
anchovies--the boneless species from France--the olives skilfully
stoned, the capers in carefully studied proportions, the yellow of the
egg well grated, the parsley, chopped fine, must be arranged by an
artist with a fine feeling for decorative effect, and the dressing of
oil, vinegar, pepper, and salt, poured gently over the design so as
not to destroy the poetry of line and colour. A crisp Vienna roll,
with sweet fresh butter, makes an excellent accompaniment, but one to
be enjoyed in moderation.
_Crème Soubise_ is the soup to follow. Thick, creamy, onion-scented,
the first spoonful enchants, and a glamour is at once cast over dinner
and diners. Sufficing in itself, it needs neither Parmesan nor toast
to enhance its merits. Like a beautiful woman, unadorned it is adorned
the most.
Admirably, it prepares the way for oysters, deftly scalloped, with
shallots and fragrant _bouquet garni_ to lend them savour, and bread
crumbs to form a rich golden-brown outer covering. If not unmindful of
the eye's pleasure, you will make as many shells as there are guests
serve the purpose of a single dish.
Without loitering or dallying with useless _entrées_, come at once to
the one substantial course of the pleasant feast--and see that it be
not too substantial. Avoid the heavy, clumsy, unimaginative joint.
Decide rather for idyllic, _Tournedos aux Champignons_; the fillet
tender and _saignant_, as the French say, the mushrooms, not of the
little button variety, suggesting tins or bottles, but large and
black and fresh from the market. Rapture is their inevitable sauce:
rapture too deep for words. To share the same plate _pommes soufflées_
may be found worthy.
None but the irreverent would seek to blur their impressions by eating
other meats after so delectable a dish. Order, rather, a vegetable
salad, fresh and soothing: potatoes, cauliflower, carrots, celery, a
suspicion of garlic, and a sprinkling of parsley. Eat slowly; foolish
is the impatient man who gallops through his pleasures in hot haste.
And now, be bold, defy convention, and do away with sweets. After so
tender a poem, who could rejoice in the prose of pudding? But "a last
course at dinner, wanting cheese, is like a pretty woman with only one
eye." Therefore, unless you be blind to beauty, let cheese be served.
Port Salut will do as well as another; neither too strong nor too
mild, it has qualities not to be prized lightly.
Fruit is the sweet _envoy_ to the Ballade of Dinner. And of all
winter's fruits, the fragrant, spicy little Tangerine orange is most
delicious and suggestive. Its perfume alone, to those who have dined
discreetly, is a magic pass to the happy land of dreams. Conversation
rallies, wit flashes, confidences are begotten over walnuts and
almonds, and so, unless in surly, taciturn mood--as who could be after
so exquisite a dinner?--let these have a place upon your _menu_.
See that your wines are as perfect of their kind as your courses. Too
many would be a dire mistake. A good Sauterne, a light Burgundy will
answer well if "of the first quality." Cheap, or of a poor vintage,
they will ruin the choicest dish.
Upon coffee, too, much depends. It must be strong, it must be rich, it
must be hot. But strength and richness may not be had unless it be
fresh roasted and ground. Worse a hundredfold you may do than to mix
Mocha with Mysore; theirs is one of the few happy unions. If romance
have charm for you, then finish with a little glass of green
Chartreuse--the yellow is for the feeble and the namby-pamby;
powerful, indeed, is the spell it works, powerful and ecstatic.
And having thus well and wisely dined, the cares of life will slip
from you; its vexations and annoyances will dwindle into nothingness.
Serene, at peace with yourself and all mankind, you may then claim as
your right the true joys of living.
AN AUTUMN DINNER
Why sigh if summer be done, and already grey skies, like a pall, hang
over fog-choked London town? The sun may shine, wild winds may blow,
but every evening brings with it the happy dinner hour. With the
autumn days foolish men play at being pessimists, and talk in
platitudes of the cruel fall of the leaf and death of love. And what
matter? May they not still eat and drink? May they not still know that
most supreme of all joys, the perfect dish perfectly served? Small
indeed is the evil of a broken heart compared to a coarsened palate or
disordered digestion.
"Therefore have we cause to be merry!--and to cast away all care."
Autumn has less to distract from the pleasure that never fails. The
glare of foolish sunlight no longer lures to outdoor debauches, the
soft breath of the south wind no longer breathes hope of happiness in
Arcadian simplicity. We can sit in peace by our fireside, and dream
dreams of a long succession of triumphant _menus_. The touch of frost
in the air is as a spur to the artist's invention; it quickens
ambition, and stirs to loftier aspiration. The summer languor is
dissipated, and with the re-birth of activity is re-awakened desire
for the delicious, the _piquante_, the fantastic.
Let an autumn dinner then be created! dainty, as all art must be, with
that elegance and distinction and individuality without which the
masterpiece is not. Strike the personal note; forswear commonplace.
The glorious, unexpected overture shall be _soupe aux moules_. For
this great advantage it can boast: it holds the attention not only in
the short--all too short--moment of eating, but from early in the
morning of the eventful day; nor does it allow itself to be forgotten
as the eager hours race on. At eleven--and the heart leaps for delight
as the clock strikes--the _pot-au-feu_ is placed upon the fire; at
four, tomatoes and onions--the onions white as the driven
snow--communing in all good fellowship in a worthy saucepan follow;
and at five, after an hour's boiling, they are strained through a
sieve, peppered, salted, and seasoned. And now is the time for the
mussels, swimming in a sauce made of a bottle of white wine, a
_bouquet-garni_, carrot, excellent vinegar, and a glass of ordinary
red wine, to be offered up in their turn, and some thirty minutes will
suffice for the ceremony. At this critical point, bouillon, tomatoes,
and mussels meet in a proper pot well rubbed with garlic, and an
ardent quarter of an hour will consummate the union. As you eat,
something of the ardour becomes yours, and in an ecstasy the dinner
begins.
Sad indeed would it prove were imagination exhausted with so promising
a prelude. Each succeeding course must lead to new ecstasy, else will
the dinner turn out the worst of failures. In _turbot au gratin_, the
ecstatic possibilities are by no means limited. In a chaste silver
dish, make a pretty wall of potatoes, which have been beaten to flour,
enlivened with pepper and salt, enriched with butter and cream--cream
thick and fresh and altogether adorable--seasoned with Parmesan
cheese, and left on the stove for ten minutes, neither more nor less;
let the wall enclose layers of turbot, already cooked and in pieces,
of melted butter and of cream, with a fair covering of bread-crumbs;
and rely upon a quick oven to complete the masterpiece.
After so pretty a conceit, where would be the poetry in heavy joints
or solid meats? _Ris de veau aux truffes_ surely would be more in
sympathy; the sweetbreads baked and browned very tenderly, the sauce
fashioned of truffles duly sliced, marsala, lemon juice, salt and
_paprika_, with a fair foundation of benevolent bouillon. And with so
exquisite a dish no disturbing vegetable should be served.
And after? If you still hanker for the roast beef and horseradish of
Old England, then go and gorge yourself at the first convenient
restaurant. Would you interrupt a symphony that the orchestra might
play "God save the Queen"? Would you set the chorus in "Atalanta in
Calydon" to singing odes by Mr Alfred Austen? There is a place for
all things, and the place for roast beef is not on the ecstatic
_menu_. Grouse, rather, would meet the diner's mood--grouse with
memories of the broad moor and purple heather. Roast them at a clear
fire, basting them with maternal care. Remember that they, as well as
pheasants and partridges, should "have gravy in the dish and
bread-sauce in a cup." Their true affinity is less the vegetable,
however artistically prepared, than the salad, serenely simple, that
discord may not be risked. Not this the time for the bewildering
_macédoine_, or the brilliant tomato. Choose, instead, lettuce; crisp
cool _Romaine_ by choice. Sober restraint should dignify the dressing;
a suspicion of chives may be allowed; a sprinkling of well-chopped
tarragon leaves is indispensable. Words are weak to express, but the
true poet strong to feel the loveliness now fast reaching its climax.