November's fog, there flutters and waddles a big white bird, a saviour
of men. It is the noble goose, the goose, ridiculed and misunderstood,
that comes chivalrously and fearlessly to the rescue; the goose that
once saved Rome's Capitol, the goose still honoured as most alert of
sentinels within Barcelona's cathedral precincts, the goose that,
followed by a goose-girl, is the beloved of artists. Because of its
nobility of character, its devotion, wherein it rivals benevolent
mastiff and kindly terrier, its courage, its strength, St Michael,
glorious and effulgent archangel, took it for his own bird of birds,
to be so intimately connected with him that now to show respect to
the Saint is to eat the goose. The Feast of Michaelmas, to the
right-minded and the orthodox, means roast goose and apple sauce.
Soulless authorities, burrowing in mouldy records, can find no better
reason for this close relationship than that, at September's close,
great is the number of geese cackling in homely barnyard, great their
perfection. Numerous generations since England's fourth Edward sat
upon the throne (and who can say how many before his time?), have held
the cooking of the goose for dinner as no less sacred a ceremony on
the Angel's feast day than the morning's service in church. And this,
would the pugnacious Michael have permitted for such gross material
considerations? Never; let it be said once and for all: never. He knew
the goose for the bird that lays the golden egg; he knew full well its
dignity and might that make it still a terror to be met on lonely
common by them who use its name as symbol of silliness; he knew that
strong as well as faint hearted hesitate to say "Bo" discourteously to
any goose, whether it be a wanderer in French pastures or one of the
dust-raising flock, in the twilight, cackling homeward over
Transylvanian highways. In a word, Michael knew his bird; and our duty
it is to believe in it a dish for Michaelmas with the blind,
unquestioning allegiance of perfect faith. Coarse its flesh may be in
comparison with the dainty duck and tender chicken; commonplace in
comparison with the glorious grouse and proud partridge. The modest,
respectable _bourgeois_ it may seem among poultry. And yet, if the
Archangel has chosen it for his own, who shall say him nay? Study
rather to disguise its native coarseness, to enliven its excellent
dulness.
To roast it is the simplest form the Michaelmas celebration allows.
See first that your fire be very good; take care to singe the
sacrificial goose with a piece of white paper, and baste it with a
piece of butter; drudge it (the word is Mrs Glasse's) with a little
flour, and when the smoke begins to draw to the fire, and it looks
plump, baste it again and drudge it with a little flour, and take it
up. In sober mood, stuff it with sage and onion; in more flamboyant
moments, let your choice rest upon chestnuts. Tradition insists upon
a little good gravy in a basin by itself, and some apple-sauce in
another; but sauce of gooseberries, not to be had fresh, however, for
Michaelmas, is the _gourmet's_ choice.
A hint as to carving. How many a beautiful bird, or majestic joint,
has been shamelessly insulted by ill-trained carver! Of old the master
of the household accepted the "dissection of a goose" after the High
Dutch fashion and the Italian both, his own predilections leaning
rather toward the High Dutch, "for they cut the breast into more
pieces, and so by consequence fill more Plates"--good thrifty burghers
that they were. Learn then, and master "the order how they carve and
how they send it away; as (1), on the first Plate a thigh; (2),
another thigh; (3), a side of the rump, with a piece of the breast;
(4), the other side of the rump, with another piece of the breast;
(5), a wing; (6), the other wing; (7), the rest of the stomach, upon
which, if there be little of the brawn left, you may joyn the two
small forked bones; to the eighth, the merry-thought, with the rest of
the rump, and any else, at your discretion. If you will, you may join
some of the breast with the best piece which you always present to the
most considerable person at the table first, and take notice too, by
the bye, the brawn of the breast ought to be for the most part served
out first." Give heed unto these directions, and far wrong you may not
go.
Days are when simple expression of faith is all too inadequate. The
devout yearns for something more ornate, something more elaborate. Let
the outcome of this yearning be _oie à la chipolata_, and Michael in
Paradise will smell the sweet savour and smile. It is difficult, but
delicious. Cover the bottom of your stew-pan with lard; place upon it
two or three slices of beef and ham, a bouquet of parsley and chives,
three carrots and two or three onions, a touch of garlic, a few
cloves, thyme, laurel leaves, basil, and salt, and thus you will have
prepared a sweet, soft bed for your goose. Immediately disturb the
bird's slumbers by pouring over it a glass of good Madeira, a bottle
of white wine, a glass of cognac, and two or three spoonfuls of strong
bouillon made of fowls. Now put your pan on the fire, stew your goose
for an hour, lift it out, arrange it on a fair dish, and envelop it in
the very richest _chipolata_ it is in your power to make. And what is
a _chipolata_? An Italian creation half sauce, half _ragoût_;
fashioned of carrots and turnips, and chestnuts and onions, and
sausage and mushrooms, and artichokes and celery, and strong veal
gravy.
Archangelic smiles must broaden into silent laughter at the mere
mention of "a Potage of Green Geese." It is a conceit redolent of the
olden time, when gaiety was still ranked among the cardinal virtues,
and men ate their fill with no fear of a dyspeptic to-morrow. Since it
is an ancient masterpiece, in the ancient words must it be explained,
or else it will be dishonoured in the telling. "Take your Green-geese
and boyl them the usual way, and when they are boyled take them up and
fry them whole in a frying-pan to colour them, either with the fat of
bacon or hog's-lard, called nowadays _manège de pork_; then take
ginger, long pepper, and cloves; beat all this together, and season
them with this spice; a little parsley and sage, and put them into a
little of the same broth that they were boyled in, and sprinkle a
little grated cheese over them, and let them have a little stew, and
then dish them up with sipets under them." A brave disguise, truly,
for humblest goose.
In a pie likewise--unless the fashioning thereof be entrusted to the
indiscreet cook--it presents a brave appearance. Walls of crust line a
spacious dish; a pickled dried tongue is boiled; a fowl and a goose
are boned; seasoning is wrought of mace, beaten pepper, and salt; and
then, Oh the marvel of it! fowl is lain in the goose, tongue in the
fowl, goose in the dish. A half a pound of butter separates bird from
pastry cover. And, hot or cold, pleasure may be had in the eating. Not
the highest pleasure, perhaps, but still pleasure not to be scorned.
If you would boil a goose, see, as you respect your stomach, that it
be first salted for a week. With onion sauce it may be becomingly
adorned, or again, with simple cabbage, boiled, chopped small, and
stewed in butter. Or, plunge gaily into the _rococo_ style, and
decorate it _à l' Arlésienne_; stuffed with onions and chestnuts,
boiled in company with carrots and celery and onions and parsley and
cloves, floated in tomato sauce, it is as chock full of playful
surprises as the _Cartuja_ of Granada. Another device to be
recommended is the grilling of the legs and the serving them with
_laitues farcies_--and Michael will laugh outright; or _à la
Provençale_, and words fail; or _aux tomates_, the love-apples that
not the hardest heart can resist. Of the great and good Carême these
are the suggestions; treasure them up, therefore, where memory may not
rust or aspiration decay, for the dinner may come when you will be
glad to have them at hand.
Of the giblets and liver of the goose is there not a long, exultant
chapter yet to be written? In far Strasburg geese, in perpetual
darkness and torture, fatten with strange morbid fat, that the
sensitive, who shrink from a bull fight and cry out against the
cruelty of the cockpit, may revel in _pâté de foie gras_. So long as
the world lives, may there still be this delectable _pâté_ to delight.
But why not be honest: admit that between the torture of the bull that
we may see, and the torture of the goose that we may eat, difference
there is none? Give sensitiveness full play, and sordid vegetarianism
is the logical result.
SPRING CHICKEN
Gluttony, it has been written--and with wisdom--deserves nothing but
praise and encouragement. For two reasons. "Physically, it is the
result and proof of the digestive organs being perfect. Morally, it
shows implicit resignation to the commands of nature, who, in ordering
man to eat that he may live, gives him appetite to invite, flavour to
encourage, and pleasure to reward." But there is a third reason, too
often overlooked even by the professional glutton: love of good eating
is an incentive to thought, a stimulus to the imagination. The man of
the most active mind and liveliest fancy is he who eats well and
conscientiously considers each dish as it is set before him.
The test seldom fails. Run through the list of poets and painters of
your acquaintance; do not they who eat best write the finest verse and
paint the strongest pictures? Those who pretend indifference and live
on unspeakable messes are betrayed in the foolish affectation and
tedious eccentricity of their work; those who feel indifference are
already beyond hope and had better far be selling tape across counters
or adding up figures in loathsome ledgers. Memory, borrowing from her
store-house of treasures, lingers with tender appreciation and regret
upon one unrivalled breakfast, exquisitely cooked, exquisitely served,
and exquisitely eaten, when lilacs were sweet and horse-chestnuts
blossoming in the boulevards and avenues of Paris. And he upon whose
table the banquet was spread is an artist who towers head and
shoulders above the pigmies of his generation. It were rash, indeed,
to maintain that because he eats daintily therefore he paints like the
master he is; but who, on the other hand, would dare aver that because
he paints supremely well therefore is he the prince of _gourmets_?
Here cause and effect are not to be defined by cold logic, not to be
labelled by barren philosophy. One thing alone is certain; if love of
good eating will not create genius it can but develop it.
Consequently, it would be impossible to think too much of what you are
eating to-day and purpose to eat to-morrow. It is your duty above all
things to see that your food is in harmony with place and season. The
question now is, what beast or bird is fitting holocaust for the first
warm months of spring? Beef is too heating, too substantial; mutton
too monotonous, veal too prosaic. Lamb hath charm, but a charm that by
constant usage may be speedily exhausted. Does not mint sauce, pall at
times? Place, then, your trust in the poultry-yard that your pleasure
may be long in the spring.
To begin with, poultry pleases because of its idyllic and pastoral
associations. The plucked birds, from shop windows, flaunting their
nakedness in the face of the world, recall the old red-roofed
farmhouse among the elms, and the pretty farmer's daughter in neat,
fresh gingham, scattering grain in the midst of her feathered
favourites; they suggest the first cool light of dawn and the
irrepressible cock crowing the glad approach of day; in a word, they
are reminders of the country's simple joys--unendurable at the time,
dear and sacred when remembered in town.
The gentle little spring chicken is sweet and adorable above all its
kindred poultry. It is innocent and guileless as Bellini's angels,
dream-like and strange as Botticelli's. It is the very concentration
of spring; as your teeth meet in its tender, yielding flesh, you
think, whether you will or no, of violets and primroses, and hedgerows
white with may; you feel the balmy breath of the south wind; the world
is scented for you with lilac and narcissus; and, for the time being,
life is a perfect poem. But--why is there always a but?--your cook has
it in her power to ruin the rhythm, to make of melodious lyric the
most discordant prose. No less depends upon the being who cooks the
chicken than upon the hen who laid the egg. If hitherto you have
offended through heedlessness, see now that you approach the subject
with a determination to profit.
Of all ways of cooking a spring chicken, frying is first to be
commended; and of all ways of frying the American is most sympathetic.
Fried chicken! To write the word is to be carried back to the sunny
South; to see, in the mind's eye, the old, black, fat, smiling
_mammie_, in gorgeous bandana turban, and the little black
piccaninnies bringing in relays of hot muffins. Oh, the happy days of
the long ago! It is easy to give the _recipe_, but what can it avail
unless the _mammie_ goes with it? Another admirable device is in
broiling. One fashion is to divide your chicken down the back and
flatten it, seeing, as you have a heart within you, that no bones be
broken. Set it lovingly on a trivet placed for the purpose in a
baking-tin into which water, to the depth of an inch, has been poured.
Cover your tin; bake the sweet offering for ten minutes or so; take it
from the oven; touch it delicately with the purest of pure olive oil,
and for another ten minutes broil it over a good brisk fire. And if in
the result you do not taste heaven, hasten to the hermit's cell in the
desert, and, for the remainder of your days, grow thin on lentils and
dates.
Or, if you would broil your chicken after the fashion of infallible
Mrs Glasse, slit it as before, season it with pepper and salt, lay it
on a clear fire at a great distance, broil first the inside, then the
out, cover it with delicate bread-crumbs, and let it be of a fine
brown, but not burnt. And keep this note carefully in your mind: "You
may make just what sauce you fancy."
To roast a spring chicken will do no harm, but let it not be overdone.
Twenty minutes suffice for the ceremony. Bacon, in thinnest of thin
slices, gracefully rolled, is not unworthy to be served with it. In
boiling, something of its virginal flavour may be sacrificed, but
still there is compensating gain; it may be eaten with white mushroom
sauce, made of mushrooms and cream, and seasoned with nutmeg and mace.
Here is a poem, sweeter far than all songs of immortal choirs or the
weak pipings of our minor singers.
As the chicken outgrows the childish state, you may go to Monte Carlo
in search of one hint at least, for its disposal. There you will learn
to cut it into quarters, to stew it in wine and shallots, to add, at
the psychological moment, tomatoes in slices, and to serve a dish that
baffles description. Or you may journey to Spain, and find that
country's kitchen slandered when you eat _poulet au ris à l'
Espagnole_, chicken cooked in a _marmite_ with rice, artichokes, green
and red chillies, and salad oil, and served, where the artist dwells,
in the blessed _marmite_ itself--in unimaginative London, even, you
may buy one, green or brown, whichever you will, at a delightful shop
in Shaftsbury-avenue. Again, you may wander to Holland--it is a short
journey, and not disagreeable by way of Harwich--and be ready to swear
that no fashion can surpass the Dutch of boiling chickens with rice or
vermicelli, spicing them with pepper and cloves, and, at table,
substituting for sauce sugar and cinnamon. But to omit these last two
garnishments will not mean a mortal sin upon your conscience. In more
festive mood hasten at once to France, and there you will be no less
certain that the way of ways is to begin to broil your chicken,
already quartered, but, when half done, to put it in a stew-pan with
gravy, and white wine, salt and pepper, fried veal balls, onions, and
shallots, and, according to season, gooseberries or grapes. Do you not
grow hungry as you read? But wait: this is not all. As the beautiful
mixture is stewing--on a charcoal fire if possible--thicken the liquor
with yolks of eggs and the juice of lemon, and for ever after bless
Mrs Glasse for having initiated you into these noble and ennobling
mysteries.
Braise your chicken, fricassee it, make it into mince, croquettes,
krameskies; eat it cold; convert it into galantine; bury it in aspic;
do what you will with it, so long as you do it well, it can bring you
but happiness and peace.
THE MAGNIFICENT MUSHROOM
From remote ages dates the triumph of the mushroom--the majestic,
magnificent mushroom. Glorious Greeks feasted on it and were glad.
What say Poliochus and Antiphanes? What Athenæus? In verse only, could
be duly praised those fragrant mushrooms of old, which were roasted
for dinner and eaten with delicate snails caught in the dewy morning,
and olives tenderly pounded; washed down with wine, good if not over
strong or of famous vintage. O the simple, happy days of long ago!
There are times when the classic simplicity and dignity of the Greek
you may emulate, and your amusement find in mushrooms dressed with
vinegar, or honey and vinegar, or honey, or salt. But then, all other
courses must be in keeping. The snails and olives must not be omitted.
Maize there must be, well winnowed from the chaff, and rich, ripe
purple figs. And, who knows? the full flavour thereof might not be
yielded to the most earnest adventurer were couches not substituted
for stiff, ungainly chairs. By many a lesser trifle has digestion
been, if not ruined, influenced for ill.
But the classic experiment, if repeated too often, might seem very
odious. The modern _gourmand_, or artist, is a romanticist, whether he
will or no. No screaming red waistcoat marks the romantic movement in
the kitchen, and yet there it has been stronger even than in art and
literature. The picturesque must be had at any cost. Simplicity is not
spurned, far from it; but it must be seasoned with becoming sprinkling
of romance. What could be simpler than the common mushroom grilled, so
self-sufficient in its chaste severity that it allows but salt and
pepper and butter to approach it, as it lies, fragrant and delicious,
on its gridiron, calling, like another St Lawrence, to be turned when
one side is fairly done. And yet when, ready to be served, its rich
brown beauty is spread upon the paler brown of the toast, and above
rests butter's brilliant gold, have you not an arrangement as
romantic in conception as the "Ernani" of the master, or the pastoral
of Corot? Paltry meats and undesirable vegetables should not be
allowed to dispute supremacy with it. Serve it alone, as you respect
yourself. Do not make your breakfast or dinner table as preposterous a
blunder as the modern picture gallery.
Should simplicity pall upon you--and moments there are when it cannot
fail to pall--enrich your grilled mushrooms with a sauce of melted
butter and onions and parsley, and a single note of garlic, and the
result will be enchanting mushrooms _à la bourdelaise_. If _au beurre_
you would eat them, to accord with your passing mood of suave
serenity, stew them gently and considerately in daintiest stew-pan
your kitchen can provide, and let cayenne and powdered mace exult, as
the romantic elements of the stirring poem.
A still more poetic fancy may be met and sweetly satisfied by _ragoût_
of mushrooms. Listen reverently, for it is food fit to be set before
the angels. Over the mushrooms, first boiled on a quick fire, pour a
gill of pure red wine--and the best Burgundy thus used will not be
wasted; then scatter spices, mace, and nutmeg, with a discreet hand;
boil once more; pour the marvellous mixture upon five or six--or more,
if wanted--yolks of eggs, hard-boiled; garnish the dish with grilled
mushrooms, and bless the day that you were born, predestined, as you
were, from all eternity for this one interval of rapture.
Possibility of rapture there is likewise in a white _fricassée_ of
mushrooms, which, if you have your own happiness at heart, you cannot
afford to despise. Secure then, without delay--for who would play fast
and loose with happiness?--a quart of fresh mushrooms. Clean them with
hands as tender as if bathing a new-born babe. In three spoonfuls of
water, and three of milk, let them boil up three times. See that
temptation leads you not to violate the sanctity of this thrice-three.
Nutmeg, mace, butter, a pint of rich thick cream alone, at this
juncture, will appease the saucepan's longings. Shake well; and all
the time, mind you. Be careful there is no curdling, or
else--damnation. The masterpiece once triumphantly achieved and set
upon a table covered with a fair white cloth, great will be the
rejoicing in the Earthly Paradise of your dining-room.
Another sensation, another thrill awaits you in mushrooms _au gratin_.
Here, indeed, is romanticism gone mad. Grated bacon, shallots, a
_bouquet garni_, mace, pepper and salt, eggs and butter share the
baking-dish with the mushrooms; bread-crumbs complete the strange,
subtle combination, upon which you may break your fast, dine, sup and
sleep, as Valentine upon the very naked name of love. A sorry plight
were yours if love, fickle and fading, could be preferred to a dish of
mushrooms fashioned so fantastically.
"And oh! what lovely, beautiful eating there is in this world!" It is
Heine who said it--Heine who, for a good dinner, would have given
twice the three hundred years of eternal fame offered by Voltaire for
a good digestion. But lovely and beautiful are but feeble words when
it is a question of the mess of mushrooms, for which who would not
sacrifice eternal fame for ever, in all cheerfulness and glee?
The reigning sultana in the mushroom's harem is the brilliant golden
egg. Sweet symphonies in brown and gold are the dishes their union
yields. _OEufs brouillés aux champignons_--has not the very name a
pretty sound? It is a delight best suited to the midday breakfast; a
joyous course to follow the anchovy salad, the eel well smoked, or
whatever dainty _hors d'oeuvre_ may stimulate to further appetite. The
eggs, scrambled and rivalling the buttercup's rich gold, are laid
delicately on crisp toast, and present a couch, soft as down, for a
layer of mushrooms. Let Ruskin rave of Turner's sunsets, let the glory
of the Venetians be a delight among art critics; but when did Turner
or Titian or Tintoret invent a finer scheme of colour than egg and
mushroom thus combined for the greater happiness of the few? A silver
dish or one of rarest porcelain should be frame for a picture so
perfect.
Borrow a hint from the Hungarians, and vary the arrangement to your
own profit. Make a _purée_ of the mushrooms, as rich as cream permits,
and offer it as foundation for eggs poached deftly and swiftly: a
harmony in soft dove-like greys and pale yellow, the result. It is an
admirable contrivance, a credit to Szomorodni-drinking Magyars. And
there is no known reason why it should not be eaten on Thames side as
on the banks of the Danube. Szomorodni, in its native splendour, alas!
is not to be had in London town. But, without sacrilege, Chablis or
Graves, or Sauterne may take its place. To drink red wine would be to
strike a false note in the harmony.
Another day, another dish, which you cannot do better than make
_omelette aux champignons_. And if you will, you may eat it even as it
was prepared for Royal Stuarts by Master Cook Rose, who wrote almost
as prettily as he cooked. Thus:--"Stove your champignons between two
dishes, season them with salt, pepper, and nutmeg, then make an
omelette with a dozen of eggs, and when he is ready cover him over
with your champignons, and fold him up, triangle-wise, and serve him
with the juice of lemons over him." A royal dish, indeed.
Creatures of infinite resources, eggs and mushrooms meet in cases to
produce a new and distinct joy. The mushrooms, stewed in milk
thickened with the yolks of raw eggs and bread-crumbs, line the little
fluted china cases; into each a fresh egg is broken; then more
mushrooms and bread-crumbs are spread gently above; a shallow pan, its
bottom just covered with hot water, receives the cases, and ten
minutes in the oven will complete a triumph which, once tasted, you
may well remember all the days of your life.
The kidney is loved by the mushroom scarce less tenderly than the egg.
_Rognons aux champignons_, fragrant rich, ravishing, may also be
claimed by the happy midday hour. And like so many a noble dish, it
lavishes upon you the pleasures of anticipation. For the kidneys, cut
in slices and laid in thickened gravy, must stew slowly, slowly--never
boiling, unless you would have them vie with leather in consistency.
At an early stage the mushrooms, also in pieces, may be added, and
pepper and salt according to inclination. And slowly, slowly let the
stewing continue. At the last supreme moment pour in a glass of
generous red wine, or if it please you more, Marsala, and serve
without delay. Chambertin, or Nuits, at peace in its cradle, is
surely the wine decreed by fate to drink with so sublime a creation.
With the tender _filet_, mushrooms prove irresistible; with the
graceful cutlet they seem so ravishing that even _sauce Soubise_, the
once inseparable, may for the moment be easily forgotten. And veal is
no less susceptible to its charms: let _noisettes de veau aux
champignons_ be the _entrée_ of to-morrow's dinner, and you will
return thanks to your deliverer from the roast!