pieces, to cook them all together, instead of each separately, is not
the unpardonable sin, however the British housewife may protest to the
contrary. And as to the other ingredients, is not good olive oil sold
in bottles in many a London shop? Are sweet herbs and garlic unknown
in Covent Garden? Are there no French and Italian grocers in Soho,
with whom saffron is no less a necessity than mustard or pepper? And
bread? who would dare aver that England has no bakers?
It is not a difficult dish to prepare. Its cooks may not boast of
secrets known only to themselves, like the maker of process blocks or
patent pills. Their methods they disclose without reservation, though
alas! their genius they may not so easily impart. First of all, then,
see to your sauce: oil, pure and sweet, is its foundation; upon _ail_
and herbs of the most aromatic it depends for its seasoning. In this,
place your fish selected and mixed as fancy prompts; a whiting, a
sole--filleted of course--a small proportion of turbot, and as much
salmon, if solely for the touch of colour it gives--the artist never
forgets to appeal to the eye as to the palate. Boil thoroughly,
sprinkling at the last moment sympathetic saffron on the
sweet-smelling offering. Have ready thick slices of bread daintily
arranged in a convenient dish; just before serving pour over them the
greater part of the unrivalled sauce, now gold and glorious with its
saffron tint; pour the rest, with the fish, into another dish--a bowl,
would you be quite correct--and let as few seconds as possible elapse
between dishing this perfect work of art and eating it. Upon its smell
alone man might live and thrive. Its colour is an inspiration to the
painter, the subtlety of its flavour a text to the poet. Montenard and
Dauphin may go on, year after year, painting olive-lined roads and
ports of Toulon: the true Provençal artist will be he who fills his
canvas with the radiance and richness of _Bouillabaisse_.
Would you emulate M. Bernard and make a _Bouillabaisse de luxe_ it may
prove a tax upon your purse, but not upon your powers. For when thus
lavishly inclined, you but add lobster or crab or crayfish and the
needed luxury is secured. It is a small difference in the telling, but
in the eating, how much, how unspeakable is this little more! Easily
satisfied indeed must be the prosaic mortal who, having once revelled
in _Bouillabaisse de luxe_, would ever again still his cravings with
the simpler arrangement.
THE MOST EXCELLENT OYSTER
If, in cruel December, the vegetable fails us, in another direction we
may look for and find--if we be wise and liberal--novelty without
stint. From the oyster, when it is understood aright, spring perpetual
joy and rapturous surprises. But, sad to tell, in England men have
slighted it and misdoubted its greatness. Englishmen eat it and
declare it good; but, as with salad, they know not how to prepare it.
Because it is excellent in its rawness, they can imagine no further
use for it, unless, perhaps, to furnish a rich motive for sauce, or
sometimes for soup. Even raw--again like salad--they are apt to
brutalise it. To drown it in vinegar is the height of their ambition;
an imperial pint was the quantity needed by Mr Weller's friend to
destroy the delicacy of its flavour, the salt sweetness of its aroma.
The Greeks knew better: according to Athenæus, boiled and fried they
served their oysters, finding them, however, best of all when roasted
in the coals till the shells opened. As early as the seventeenth
century, the French, preparing them _en étuvée_ and _en fricassée_,
included them in their _Délices de la campagne_. The American to-day
exhausts his genius for invention in devising rare and cunning methods
by which to extract their full strength and savour. Why should
Englishmen tarry behind the other peoples on the earth in paying the
oyster the tribute of sympathetic appreciation?
Its merit when raw, no man of sensibility and wisdom will deny.
Base-minded, indeed, must be he who thinks to enhance its value by
converting it into a defence against influenza or any other human ill.
The ancients held it indigestible unless cooked; but to talk of it as
if it were a drug for our healing, a poison for our discomforting, is
to dishonour, without rhyme or reason, the noblest of all shell-fish.
Who would not risk an indigestion, or worse, for the pleasure raw
oysters have it in their power to give? Was there one, among the
wedding guests at the "Marriage of Hebe," who feared the course of
"oysters with closed shells, which are very difficult to open but very
easy to eat"?
Easy to eat, yes; but first you must decide which, of the many
varieties of oyster the sea offers, you had best order for your own
delight. There are some men who, with Thackeray, rank the "dear little
juicy green oysters of France" above the "great white flaccid natives
in England, that look as if they had been fed on pork." To many, the
coppery taste of this English native passes for a charm--poor deluded
creatures! To others it seems the very abomination of desolation. But
the true epicure, who may not have them, as had oyster-loving Greeks
of old, from Abydus or Chalcedon, will revel most of all in the
American species: the dainty little Blue-Point, or its long, sweet,
plump brother of the north--to swallow it was like swallowing a baby,
Thackeray thought.
Once your oysters are on the half shell, let not the vinegar bottle
tempt you; as far as it is concerned, be not only temperate, but a
total abstainer. A sprinkling of salt, a touch of Cayenne, a dash of
lemon juice, and then eat, and know how good it is for man to live in
a world of oysters. For a light lunch or the perfect midnight supper,
for an inspiring _hors d'oeuvre_, without rival is this king of
shell-fish. If for the midnight meal you reserve it, you may be
kindled into ecstasy by the simple addition of a glass of fine old
Chablis or Sauterne--be not led astray by vulgar praise of stout or
porter--and brown bread and butter cut in slices of ethereal thinness.
Linger over this banquet, exquisite in its simplicity, long and
lovingly, that later you may sleep with easy conscience and mind at
rest.
With raw oysters alone it were folly to remain content. If you would
spread a more sumptuous feast, fry the largest, plumpest grown in sea
or river, and the gates of earthly paradise will be thrown wide open
in the frying. No more familiar cry is there in American restaurants
than that for "an oyster fry!" Dark little oyster cellars, reached by
precipitous steps, there are, and friendly seedy little oyster shops
in back streets, where the frying of oysters has been exalted into a
holy cult. And if you will, in paper boxes, the long, beautiful,
golden-brown masterpieces you may carry away with you, to eat with
gayer garnishing and in more sympathetic surroundings. And in winter,
scarce a beer saloon but, at luncheon time, will set upon the counter
a steaming dish of fried oysters; and with every glass of no matter
what, "crackers" at discretion and one fried oyster on long generous
fork will be handed by the white-robed guardian. But mind you take but
one: else comes the chucker-out. Thus, only the very thirsty, in the
course of a morning, may gain a free lunch. But, in England, what is
known of the fried oyster?
It requires no great elaboration, though much rare skill in the
cooking. For this purpose the largest oysters must be selected: the
fattest and most juicy. In the half-shell they may be fried, after
seventeenth-century fashion, a touch of butter and pepper on each;
verjuice or vinegar, and grated nutmeg added once they are served. Or
else, taken from the shell, they may be dipped into a marvellous
preparation of vinegar, parsley, laurel leaves, onion, chives,
cloves, basil, and in the result the mighty imagination of the great
Alexandre would rejoice. Or, again, in simpler American fashion,
enveloped in unpretentious batter of eggs and bread crumbs, fry them
until they turn to an unrivalled, indescribable golden-brown, and in
the eating thereof the gods might envy you.
If a new sensation you court, grill or broil your oyster, and you will
have cause to exult in a loud triumphant _magnificat_. No bread crumbs
are needed, neither laurel nor sweet spice. With but a bit of butter
for encouragement, it will brown gently in the grilling, and become a
delicious morsel to be eaten with reverence and remembered with
tenderness.
Or, stew them and be happy. But of rich milk, and cream, and sweet
fresh butter, as Dumas would put it, must your stew be made:
thickened, but scarce perceptibly, with flour, while bits of mace
float in golden sympathy on the liquid's surface. It is the dish for
luncheon, or for the pleasant, old-fashioned "high tea"--no such
abomination as "meat tea" known then, if you please--of Philadelphia's
pleasant, old-fashioned citizens. And a worse accompaniment you might
have than waffles, light as a feather, or beaten biscuits, the pride
of Maryland's black cooks. Men and women from the Quaker city, when in
cruel exile, will be moved to sad tears at the very mention of Jones's
"oyster stews" in Eleventh-street!
But the glory of Penn's town is the oyster croquette--from Augustine's
by preference. A symphony in golden brown and soft fawn grey, it
should be crisp without, within of such delicate consistency that it
will melt in the mouth like a dream. Pyramidal in shape, it is of
itself so decorative that only with the rarest blue and white china,
or the most fairy-like Limoges, will it seem in perfect harmony. It
would be discourteous, indeed, to serve so regal a creation on any
stray dish or plate.
Exquisite pleasure lurks in scalloped oysters, or oysters _au gratin_,
whichever you may choose to call this welcome variation of the oyster
motive. Layers of judiciously seasoned bread-crumbs alternate with
layers of the responsive shell-fish, and the carefully-studied
arrangement is then browned until it enchants by colour no less than
by fragrance. And, if you would seek further to please the eye, let
the dish to hold so fine a work of art be a shell, with a suggestion
of the sea in its graceful curves and tender tints. Or, if imagination
would be more daring, let the same shell hold _huîtres farcies_,
cunningly contrived with eels and oysters, and parsley and mushrooms,
and spices and cream, and egg and aromatic herbs. So fantastic a
contrivance as this touches upon sublimity.
In more homely and convivial mood, roast your oysters, as the Greeks
loved them. But to enjoy them to the utmost, roast them yourself in
the coals of your own fire, until the ready shells open. A dash of
salt and cayenne upon the sweet morsel within, and you may eat it at
once, even as you take it from off the coals, and drink its salt,
savoury liquor from the shell. A dish of anchovy toast will not seem
amiss. But let no other viands coarsen this ideal supper. For supper
it should be, and nothing else. The curtains must be drawn close,
while the fire flames high; one or two congenial friends--not more; a
dim religious light from well-shaded lamps and candles; a bottle of
good old Chablis, and others waiting in near wine-cellar or sideboard;
and thus may you make your own such unspeakable happiness as seldom
falls to the lot of mortals.
Or if to the past your fancy wanders, prepare your oysters,
seventeenth century-fashion, _en étuvée_, boiled in their own liquor,
flavoured with ingredients so various as oranges and chives, and
served with bread-crumbs; or else, _en fricassée_, cooked with onion
and butter, dipped in batter, and sprinkled with orange juice. Or
again, in sheer waywardness, curry or devil them, though in this
disguise no man may know the delicacy he is eating. Another day, bake
them; the next, put them in a pie or a patty; the third, let them give
substance to a _vol-au-vent_. Hesitate at no experiment; search the
cookery-books, old and new. Be sure that the oyster, in its
dictionary, knows no such word as fail. If in sheer recklessness you
were, like young Mr Grigg in the Cave of Harmony, to call for a
"mashed oyster and scalloped 'taters," no doubt the "mashed" would be
forthcoming.
As basis of soup or sauce, the oyster is without rival. Who would not
abstain on Fridays all the year round, if every Friday brought with it
oyster soup to mortify the flesh! But alas! four months there be
without an R, when oysters by the wise must not be eaten. And is not
turbot, or boiled capon, or a tender loin-steak but the excuse for
oyster sauce? in which, if you have perfection for your end, let there
be no stint of oysters. Then, too, in the stuffing of a fowl, oysters
prove themselves the worthy rival of mushrooms or of chestnuts.
It is a grave mistake, however, to rank the oyster as the only
shell-fish of importance. The French know better. So did the Greeks,
if Athenæus can be trusted. Mussels, oysters, scallops, and cockles
led the list, according to Diocles, the Carystian. Thus are they
enumerated by still another authority:--
A little polypus, or a small cuttle-fish,
A crab, a crawfish, oysters, cockles,
Limpets and solens, mussels and pinnas;
Periwinkles, too, from Mitylene.
The mussel is still the delight of the French _table d'hôte_
breakfast. Charming to look at is the deep dish where, floating in
parsley-strewn sauce, the beautiful purple shells open gently to show
the golden-grey treasures within. Well may the commercial in the
provinces heap high his plate with the food he loves, while about him
hungry men stare, wondering how much will be left for their portion.
But who in England eats mussels? Only a little lower the Greeks ranked
periwinkles, which now, associated as they are with 'Arriet and her
pin, the fastidious affect to despise. It has been written of late, by
a novelist seeking to be witty, that there is no poetry in
periwinkles; but Æschylus could stoop to mention them in his great
tragedies. The "degradation of the lower classes" the same weak wit
attributes to overindulgence in winkles. With as much reason might the
art and philosophy of Greece be traced to "periwinkles from Mitylene."
Cooked in the good sauce of France, the humble winkle might take rank
with the Whitstable native at three-and-six the dozen, and thus would
the lowly be exalted. The snail, likewise, we might cultivate to our
own immeasurable advantage.
THE PARTRIDGE
With September, the _gourmand's_ fancy gaily turns to thoughts of
partridges. For his pleasure sportsmen, afar in autumn's cool country,
work diligently from morn to eve; or, it may be, he himself plays the
sportsman by day that he may prove the worthier _gourmand_ by night.
And the bird is deserving of his affections. It has been honoured
alike in history and romance.
Among moderns, a Daudet is found to study and consider its emotions
under fire; among ancients, few neglected it, from Aristophanes to
Aristotle, who declared it "a very ill-disposed and cunning animal;
much devoted, moreover, to amatory enjoyment." With such a character,
its two hearts count for little; far gone, indeed, must be the
sentimentalist of our moral age who would stay its slayer's hand. What
if it be true, as Chamæleon of Pontus said of old, that from listening
to its singing in desert places man arrived at the art of music?
Alive it may have an æsthetic value; but if it be without morals
should it not perish? In eating it, therefore, does not man perform a
solemn duty? Nay, should not the New Woman exult in flaunting its
sober feathers in her masculine hat?
So might reason the apostle of social purity. But the _gourmand_
questions nothing save the daintiness of the bird's flesh, the merit
of its flavour. And the practical answer to this questioning silences
all doubts. Clearly the partridge was created that he might eat it and
find it good.
It is because of the rare excellence of the pretty bird, in autumn
making a feathered frieze in every poulterer's window, that too much
consideration cannot be given to its treatment in the kitchen. Its
virtues can be easily marred by the indifferent, or unsympathetic
_chef_. Left hanging too short a time, left cooking too long, and it
will sink into commonplace, so that all might wonder wherefore its
praises have been ever loudly sung. Hang it in a cool place, and leave
it there until the last moment possible--you understand? Now that
winds are cold, and a feeling of frost is in the air, to banish it a
fortnight would not be unwise.
To roast a partridge may seem a sadly simple device when so many more
ingenious schemes are at your disposal. But for all that, none can be
recommended with enthusiasm more keenly felt. For in the roasting none
of its sweet savour is lost, none of its natural tenderness sacrificed
on the one hand, exaggerated on the other. The process requires less
intelligence than an artistic touch. Truss your birds in seemly
fashion, when, as if in birdlike emulation of Hedda Gabler, they cry
for vine leaves on their breast. Over the vine leaves tie less
romantic, but more succulent, bacon, cut in slices of the thinnest.
Then, in front of a quick, clear fire baste prodigally with butter. A
little flour, judiciously sprinkled, will add richness to the
nut-brown colour the susceptible birds develop in the roasting. Now
they are ready to serve, remember that "partridges should have gravy
in the dish, and bread-sauce in a cup"--it is Mrs Glasse who has said
it. It would be no crime to add watercress, or parsley, as garniture,
or toast as a soft bed for the happy victims. And to eat with them,
prepare a crisp lettuce salad, to which the merest suspicion of
tarragon leaves, well chopped, has been added. And the gods themselves
might envy you your joy and gladness in the eating.
A word as to the carving, or "dissection of the partridge," as it was
called in days when England understood and gloried in the arts of the
kitchen. Thus was the _Grand Escuyer Tranchant_--the Great Master
carver, that is--instructed: "A partridge is for the most part carved
and served whole, like a pigeon; but yet he may be served in pieces;
but when you will carve him to serve whole, you must only cut the
joints and lay them abroad; but if you serve him by pieces, you must
begin to serve with a wing." Why not carve and serve according to
tradition, and so lend new dignity to your feasting?
If of roast partridge you weary, and from France would take a hint,
seek novelty and happiness in _Perdrix aux choux_. For this, birds of
an older generation will answer as well as their more tender young,
since for two hours, in a wrapping of bacon and buttered paper, they
must simmer gently on their couch of cabbage. To evolve the required
flavour, into the same pot must go a saveloy, and perhaps salt pork in
slices, a bunch of fragrant herbs, onions and carrots and cloves and
salt and butter _à discrétion_. The birds must be drained before they
pass from the pot to the dish; around them the cabbage, likewise
drained, must be set as a garland, and the saveloy, in pretty pieces,
may be placed here and there. Behold another of the many good gifts
France has presented to us.
_Perdrix à l'Espagnole_ may again vary anew the delicious monotony. In
this variety the partridges are boiled, covered with a rich gravy, and
plentifully adorned with green peppers. It was in a moment of divine
inspiration the Spaniard invented so piquant an arrangement. But the
resources of boiled partridges, apt to be forgotten or overlooked, are
well-nigh limitless, and as charming as they are many. Very important
is it that the birds be well boiled, quickly, in much water. The rest
depends upon the sauce. This may be of cream and butter alone; or else
of celery and cream, seasoned with mace and pepper. Or else of
mushrooms and cream, or of the livers and parsley and butter; or of
white wine; or of any and every good thing that goes to the making of
superlative sauce. What a chance, too, to exercise your imagination,
to reveal your ingenuity! Five long months are before you; see that
you make the most of them.
If your soul delight in the fantastic, let few days pass before you
have tested the quaint joys of _Partridge Mettenes_. The recipe shall
be printed word for word as written by the Master Cook, Giles: "Take
Partridges and roast them, then take Cream"--these with capitals,
observe--"and Grapes, with Bread, scorched against the Fire, and beat
all this together; but first steep your Bread in Broth or Claret-Wine;
then strain all this through a strainer with Spice, Cinnamon, and a
little Mustard; set all a-boyling with a pretty deal of Sugar, but
take heed that it doth not burn too, and when you would serve away
your Partridge, put them into a Dish, and your Sauce under them, and
garnish your Dish with Sweetmeats and Sugarplums."
Here is another device, fantastic chiefly in name: "Partridges _à
l'eau béniste_ or Holy Water." It has the virtue of simplicity. "Take
partridges and rost them, and when they are rosted, cut them into
little pieces, and put them into a Dish with a little fair Water and
Salt, and make them boyl a little, and so serve them away." Or else, O
pleasant alternative! "you may make a Sauce with Rose-water and Wine,
the Juice of Apples and Oranges, but there must be three times as much
Rose-water as Wine."
Reading this, who will dare deny that Master Cook Giles is an
authority to be respected, of whose recipes the poor prosaic modern
kitchen may not receive too many? Space, therefore, must be yielded to
at least one more: "Partridges à la Tonnelette." "Take a partridge and
rost it, then put it into a Pot; this done, take white Bread and
scortch or toste it very brown, but not burn it, and put it a-steeping
in good Claret-wine, and when it is well steep'd strain it through a
strainer with some good Broth, and a few Onions fryed in Lard, with a
little Cinnamon, Cloves, and Nutmegs, and other small Spices, and a
little Sugar, and put into it a handful of Currants, and make that
which you have strained out boyl all together, and when it is time to
serve your Partridges, put your Sauces into a Dish, and lay your
Partridges upon it, and so serve it."
Such pretty fancies, it were a shame to follow with bald prose. Yet,
bear in mind that partridges may be braised with mushrooms or
truffles; that they may be broiled or baked; that they disgrace
neither pie nor pudding; and that they offer welcome basis for a
_salmi_ and _purée_. Lay this to heart.
THE ARCHANGELIC BIRD
Michaelmas is a season of sad associations. The quarter's rent is due,
alas! The quarter's gas, alas! and, alas a hundred times! the
half-yearly rates. Bank accounts dwindle; spirits sink; life seems but
a blank and dreary desert.