mushrooms to _Béchamel_, one of the great mother sauces, and you will
have the wonder that Carême, its creator, served first to the
Princesse de B. How resist so aristocratic a precedent? _Grasse_, or
_maigre_, you can make it, as the season demands. Or to a like end you
may devote that other marvel, _purée de champignons à la Laguipierre_,
whose patron was the great Louis de Rohan, and into whose mysteries
Carême was initiated by the "Grand M. Dunan." Ham, tomato, nutmeg,
pepper, lemon juice, are the chief ingredients that enter into its
composition. Who, after testing it, will dare find naught but vexation
and vanity in the reign of the Sixteenth Louis? Subtle variation may
be had by substituting as foundation, _sauce à la régence_ or _sauce à
la princesse_ for _sauce Béchamel_; while a sensation apart springs
from the lofty alliance between oysters and mushrooms.
How natural that for masterpieces in mushrooms royalty so often has
stood sponsor! Upon the Prince of Wurtemberg rests the glorious
responsibility of Seine shad _à la purée de champignons_. If history
records not his name, a prince--in spirit at least--must also have
been the first happy man to eat red mullets _aux champignons_, or eels
_aux huîtres et aux champignons_; show yourself as princely before you
are a week older. While a king was he who first smiled upon that
kingly _ragoût_ of mushrooms, mussels, and shrimps. Be you a king in
your turn--there are few pleasures equal to it.
"For white fowls of all sort," Mrs Glasse recommends her mushroom
sauce, thus giving loose reins to the artist's fancy. The fowl may be
boiled, and then rich with cream must be the sauce that redeems it
from insipidity. It may be roasted, and then let the mushrooms be
somewhat more in evidence. Or it may be broiled, and then mayhap it
would be wise to grill the mushrooms whole, instead of converting them
into sauce. Or--here is another suggestion, and be thankful for
it--mince your chicken, which toast will receive gladly as a covering
and set upon it, as already upon _oeufs brouillés_, the mushrooms
grilled in butter. Long might you live, far might you wander, before
chancing upon another delicacy so worthy. Though, truth to tell--and
where gastronomy is the subject it is always best to be
honest--_croquettes de poulet aux champignons_ seem well-nigh
worthier. If you would decide for yourself, try both, and joy go with
you in the trying.
An afterthought: dress livers with mushroom sauce, and this is the
manner in which it should be done. "Take some pickled or fresh
mushrooms, cut small--both if you have them--and let the livers be
bruised fine, with a good deal of parsley chopped small, a spoonful or
two of catchup, a glass of white wine, and as much good gravy as will
make sauce enough; thicken it with a piece of butter rolled in flour.
This does for either roast or boiled."
For the rest, how count the innumerable ways in which the mushroom
adds to the gaiety of the gourmand? What would the _vol-au-vent_ be
without it? What the "Fine Pye," made otherwise of carps and
artichokes and crayfishes' feet and lobster claws and nutmeg and
cloves alone? What, according to the "Complete Court Cook," so proper
for the second course as the patty all of mushrooms? What garniture
fairer for "ragoo" or _fricassée_, according to the same authority,
than mushroom _farcis_? But, however they may be served and eaten,
mushrooms you must make yours at any cost. To say that you do not like
them is confession of your own philistinism. Learn to like them;
_will_ to like them, or else your sojourn on this earth will be a
wretched waste. You will have lived your life in vain if, at its
close, you have missed one of its finest emotions.
THE INCOMPARABLE ONION
Too often the poet sees but the tears that live in an onion; not the
smiles. And yet the smiles are there, broad and genial, or subtle and
tender. "Rose among roots," its very name revives memories of pleasant
feasting; its fragrance is rich forecast of delights to come. Without
it, there would be no gastronomic art. Banish it from the kitchen, and
all pleasure of eating flies with it. Its presence lends colour and
enchantment to the most modest dish; its absence reduces the rarest
dainty to hopeless insipidity, and the diner to despair.
The secret of good cooking lies in the discreet and sympathetic
treatment of the onion. For what culinary masterpiece is there that
may not be improved by it? It gives vivacity to soup, life to sauce;
it is the "poetic soul" of the salad bowl; the touch of romance in the
well-cooked vegetable. To it, sturdiest joint and lightest stew, crisp
rissole and stimulating stuffing look for inspiration and charm--and
never are they disappointed! But woe betide the unwary woman who would
approach it for sacrilegious ends. If life holds nothing better than
the onion in the right hand, it offers nothing sadder and more
degrading than the onion brutalised. Wide is the gulf fixed between
the delicate sauce of a Prince de Soubise, and the coarse, unsavoury
sausage and onion mess of the Strand. Let the perfection of the first
be your ideal; the horrid coarseness of the latter shun as you would
the devil.
The fragrance of this "wine-scented" esculent not only whets the
appetite; it abounds in associations glad and picturesque. All Italy
is in the fine, penetrating smell; and all Provence; and all Spain. An
onion or garlic-scented atmosphere hovers alike over the narrow
_calli_ of Venice, the cool courts of Cordova, and the thronged
amphitheatre of Arles. It is only the atmosphere breathed by the Latin
peoples of the South, so that ever must it suggest blue skies and
endless sunshine, cypress groves and olive orchards. For the traveller
it is interwoven with memories of the golden canvases of Titian, the
song of Dante, the music of Mascagni. The violet may not work a
sweeter spell, nor the carnation yield a more intoxicating perfume.
And some men there have been in the past to rank the onion as a root
sacred to Aphrodite: food for lovers. To the poetry of it none but the
dull and brutal can long remain indifferent.
Needless, then, to dwell upon its more prosaic side: upon its power as
a tonic, its value as a medicine. Medicinal properties it has, as the
drunkard knows full well. But why consider the drunkard? Leave him to
the tender mercies of the doctor. _Gourmandise_, or the love of good
eating, here the one and only concern, is opposed to excess. "Every
man who eats to indigestion, or makes himself drunk, runs the risk of
being erased from the list of its votaries."
The onion is but the name for a large family, of which shallots,
garlic, and chives are chief and most honoured varieties. Moreover,
country and climate work upon it changes many and strange. In the
south it becomes larger and more opulent, like the women. And yet, as
it increases in size, it loses in strength--who shall say why? And
the loss truly is an improvement. Our own onion often is strong even
unto rankness. Therefore, as all good housewives understand, the
Spanish species for most purposes may be used instead, and great will
be the gain thereby. Still further south, still further east, you will
journey but to find the onion fainter in flavour, until in India it
seems but a pale parody of its English prototype. And again, at
different seasons, very different are its most salient qualities. In
great gladness of heart everyone must look forward to the dainty
little spring onion: adorable as vegetable cooked in good white sauce,
inscrutable as guardian spirit of fresh green salad, irreproachable as
pickle in vinegar and mustard.
Garlic is one of the most gracious gifts of the gods to men--a gift,
alas! too frequently abused. In the vegetable world, it has something
of the value of scarlet among colours, of the clarionet's call in
music. Brazen, and crude, and screaming, when dragged into undue
prominence, it may yet be made to harmonise divinely with fish and
fowl, with meat, and other greens. Thrown wholesale into a salad, it
is odious and insupportable; but used to rub the salad bowl, and then
cast aside, its virtue may not be exaggerated. For it, as for lovers,
the season of seasons is the happy spring time. Its true home is
Provence. What would be the land of the troubadour and the Félibre
without the _ail_ that festoons every greengrocer's shop, that adorns
every dish at every banquet of rich and poor alike? As well rid
_bouillabaisse_ of its saffron as of its _ail_; as well forget the
_pomme d'amour_ in the sauce for _macaroni_, or the rosemary and the
thyme on the spit with the little birds. The verse of Roumanille and
Mistral smells sweet of _ail_; Tartarin and Numa Roumestan are heroes
nourished upon it. It is the very essence of _farandoles_ and
_ferrades_, of bull-fights and water tournaments. A pinch of _ail_, a
_coup de vin_, and then--
Viva la joia,
Fidon la tristessa!
And all the while we, in the cold, gloomy north, eat garlic and are
hated for it by friends and foes. Only in the hot south can life
_ail_-inspired pass for a _galejado_ or jest.
To the onion, the shallot is as the sketch to the finished picture;
slighter, it may be; but often subtler and more suggestive. Unrivalled
in salads and sauces, it is without compare in the sumptuous seasoning
of the most fantastic viands. It does not assert itself with the fury
and pertinacity of garlic; it does not announce its presence with the
self-consciousness of the onion. It appeals by more refined devices,
by gentler means, and is to be prized accordingly. Small and brown, it
is pleasant to look upon as the humble wild rose by the side of the
_Gloire de Dijon_. And, though it never attain to the untempered
voluptuousness of the onion, it develops its sweetness and strength
under the hottest suns of summer: in July, August, and September, does
it mature; then do its charms ripen; then may it be enjoyed in full
perfection, and satisfy the most riotous gluttony.
Shallots for summer by preference, but chives for spring: the delicate
chives, the long, slim leaves, fair to look upon, sweet to smell,
sweeter still to eat in crisp green salad. The name is a little poem;
the thing itself falls not far short of the divine. Other varieties
there be, other offshoots of the great onion--mother of all; none,
however, of greater repute, of wider possibilities than these. To know
them well is to master the fundamental principles of the art of
cookery. But this is knowledge given unto the few; the many, no doubt,
will remain for ever in the outer darkness, where the onion is
condemned to everlasting companionship with the sausage--not
altogether their fault, perhaps. In cookery, as in all else, too often
the blind do lead the blind. But a few years since and a "delicate
diner," an authority unto himself at least, produced upon the art of
dining a book, not without reputation. But to turn to its index is to
find not one reference to the onion: all the poetry gone; little but
prose left! And this from an authority!
The onion, as a dish, is excellent; as seasoning it has still more
pleasant and commodious merits. The modern _chef_ uses it chiefly to
season; the ancient _cordon bleu_ set his wits to work to discover
spices and aromatic ingredients wherewith to season it. Thus,
according to Philemon,--
If you want an onion, just consider
What great expense it takes to make it good;
You must have cheese, and honey, and sesame,
Oil, leeks, and vinegar, and assafoetida,
To dress it up with; for by itself the onion
Is bitter and unpleasant to the taste.
A pretty mess, indeed; and who is there brave enough to-day to test
it? Honey and onion! it suggests the ingenious contrivances of the
mediæval kitchen. The most daring experiment now would be a dash of
wine, red or white, a suspicion of mustard, a touch of tomato in the
sauce for onions, stewed or boiled, baked or stuffed. To venture upon
further flights of fancy the average cook would consider indiscreet,
though to the genius all things are possible. However, its talents for
giving savour and character to other dishes is inexhaustible.
There is no desire more natural than that of knowledge; there is no
knowledge nobler than that of the "gullet-science." "The discovery of
a new dish does more for the happiness of the human race than the
discovery of a planet!" What would be Talleyrand's record but for that
moment of inspiration when, into the mysteries of Parmesan with soup,
he initiated his countrymen? To what purpose the Crusades, had
Crusaders not seen and loved the garlic on the plains of Askalon,
and brought it home with them, their one glorious trophy. To a pudding
Richelieu gave his name; the Prince de Soubise lent his to a sauce,
and thereby won for it immortality.
A benefactor to his race indeed he was: worthy of a shrine in the
Temple of Humanity. For, plucking the soul from the onion, he laid
bare its hidden and sweetest treasure to the elect. Scarce a sauce is
served that owes not fragrance and flavour to the wine-scented root;
to it, _Béarnaise_, _Maître d'Hôtel_, _Espagnole_, _Italienne_,
_Béchamel_, _Provençale_, and who shall say how many more? look for
the last supreme touch that redeems them from insipid commonplace. But
_Sauce Soubise_ is the very idealisation of the onion, its very
essence; at once delicate and strong; at once as simple and as perfect
as all great works of art.
The plodding painter looks upon a nocturne by Whistler, and thinks how
easy, how preposterously easy! A touch here, a stroke there, and the
thing is done. But let him try! And so with _Sauce Soubise_. Turn to
the first cookery book at hand, and read the _recipe_. "Peel four
large onions and cut them into thin slices; sprinkle a little pepper
and salt upon them, together with a small quantity of nutmeg; put them
into a saucepan with a slice of fresh butter, and steam gently"--let
them smile, the true artist would say--"till they are soft." But why
go on with elaborate directions? Why describe the exact quantity of
flour, the size of the potato, the proportions of milk and cream to be
added? Why explain in detail the process of rubbing through a sieve?
In telling or the reading these matters seem not above the
intelligence of a little child. But in the actual making, only the
artist understands the secret of perfection, and his understanding is
born within him, not borrowed from dry statistics and formal tables.
He may safely be left to vary his methods; he may add sugar, he may
omit nutmeg; he may fry the onions instead of boiling, for love of the
tinge of brown, rich and sombre, thus obtained. But, whatever he does,
always with a wooden spoon will he stir his savoury mixture; always,
as result, produce a godlike sauce which the mutton cutlets of
Paradise, vying with Heine's roast goose, will offer of their own
accord at celestial banquets. What wonder that a certain famous French
count despised the prosaic politician who had never heard of cutlets
_à la Soubise_?
However, not alone in sauce can the condescending onion come to the
aid of dull, substantial flesh and fowl. Its virtue, when joined to
sage in stuffing, who will gainsay? Even chestnuts, destined to stuff
to repletion the yawning turkey, cannot afford to ignore the
insinuating shallot or bolder garlic; while no meat comes into the
market that will not prove the better and the sweeter for at least a
suspicion of onion or of _ail_. A barbarian truly is the cook who
flings a mass of fried onions upon the tender steak, and then thinks
to offer you a rare and dainty dish. Not with such wholesale brutality
can the ideal be attained. The French chef has more tact. He will take
his _gigot_ and sympathetically prick it here and there with garlic or
with chives, even as it is roasting; and whoever has never tasted
mutton thus prepared knows not the sublimest heights of human
happiness. Or else he will make a _bouquet garni_ of his own, entirely
of these aromatic roots and leaves, and fasten it in dainty fashion to
the joint; pleasure is doubled when he forgets to remove it, and the
meat is placed upon the table, still bearing its delicious decoration.
Moods there be that call for stronger effects: moods when the blazing
poppy field of a Monet pleases more than the quiet moonlight of a
Cazin; when Tennyson is put aside for Swinburne. At such times, call
for a shoulder of mutton, well stuffed with onions, and still further
satiate your keen, vigorous appetite with a bottle of Beaune or
Pomard. But here, a warning: eat and drink with at least a pretence of
moderation. Remember that, but for an excess of shoulder of mutton and
onions, Napoleon might not have been defeated at Leipzig.
But at all times, and in all places, onions clamour for moderation. A
salad of tomatoes buried under thick layers of this powerful esculent
must disgust; gently sprinkled with chopped-up chives or shallots, it
enraptures. Potatoes _à la Lyonnaise_, curried eggs, Irish stew,
_Gulyas_, _ragoût_, alike demand restraint in their preparation, a
sweet reasonableness in the hand that distributes the onion.
For the delicate diner, as for the drunkard, onion soup has charm. It
is of the nature of _sauce Soubise_, and what mightier recommendation
could be given it? Thus Dumas, the high priest of the kitchen, made
it: a dozen onions--Spanish by preference--minced with discretion,
fried in freshest of fresh butter until turned to a fair golden
yellow, he boiled in three pints or so of water, adequately seasoned
with salt and pepper; and then, at the end of twenty full minutes, he
mixed with this preparation the yolks of two or three eggs, and poured
the exquisite liquid upon bread, cut and ready. At the thought alone
the mouth waters, the eye brightens. The adventurous, now and again,
add ham or rice, vegetables or a _bouquet garni_. But this as you
will, according to the passing hour's leisure. Only of one thing make
sure--in Dumas confidence is ever to be placed without doubt or
hesitation.
Dumas' soup for dinner; but for breakfast the unrivalled omelette of
Brillat-Savarin. It is made after this fashion: the roes of two carp,
a piece of fresh tunny, and shallots, well hashed and mixed, are
thrown into a saucepan with a lump of butter beyond reproach, and
whipped up till the butter is melted, which, says the great one,
"constitutes the speciality of the omelette;" in the meantime, let
some one prepare, upon an oval dish, a mixture of butter and parsley,
lemon juice, and chives--not shallots here, let the careless note--the
plate to be left waiting over hot embers; next beat up twelve eggs,
pour in the roes and tunny, stir with the zeal and sympathy of an
artist, spread upon the plate that waits so patiently, serve at once;
and words fail to describe the ecstasy that follows. Especially, to
quote again so eminent an authority, let the omelette "be washed down
with some good old wine, and you will see wonders," undreamed of by
haschish or opium eater.
When the little delicate spring onion is smelt in the land, a shame,
indeed, it would be to waste its tender virginal freshness upon sauce
and soup. Rather refrain from touching it with sharp knife or cruel
chopper, but in its graceful maiden form boil it, smother it in rich
pure cream, and serve it on toast, to the unspeakable delectation of
the devout. Life yields few more precious moments. Until spring comes,
however, you may do worse than apply the same treatment to the older
onion. In this case, as pleasure's crown of pleasure, adorn the
surface with grated Gruyère, and, like the ancient hero, you will wish
your throat as long as a crane's neck, that so you might the longer
and more leisurely taste what you swallow.
Onions _farcis_ are beloved by the epicure. A nobler dish could scarce
be devised. You may make your forcemeats of what you will, beef or
mutton, fowl or game; you may, an' you please, add truffles,
mushrooms, olives, and capers. But know one thing; tasteless it will
prove, and lifeless, unless bacon lurk unseen somewhere within its
depths. Ham will answer in a way, but never so well as humbler bacon.
The onion that lends itself most kindly to this device is the Spanish.
One word more. As the _ite missa est_ of the discourse let this
truth--a blessing in itself--be spoken. As with meat, so with
vegetables, few are not the better for the friendly companionship of
the onion, or one of its many offshoots. Peas, beans, tomatoes,
egg-plant are not indifferent to its blandishments. If honour be paid
to the first pig that uprooted a truffle, what of the first man who
boiled an onion? And what of the still mightier genius who first used
it as seasoning for his daily fare? Every _gourmet_ should rise up and
call him blessed.
THE TRIUMPHANT TOMATO
The triumph of the tomato has given hungry men and women a new lease
of pleasure. Sad and drear were the days when the _gourmet_ thought to
feast, and the beautiful scarlet fruit had no place upon his table.
The ancient _chef_ knew it not, nor the mediæval artist who, even
without it, could create marvellous works the modern may not hope to
rival. Like so many good things, it first saw the light in that happy
Western Continent where the canvas-back duck makes its home and shad
swim in fertile rivers. What, indeed, was life, what the gift of
eating, before the Columbus of the kitchen had discovered the tomato,
the turkey, and the yellow Indian corn? Reflect upon it, and be
grateful that you, at least, were not born in the Dark Age of cookery!
Poor, stupid man! a treasure was presented to him freely and
generously, and he thrust it from him. The tomato offered itself a
willing sacrifice, and he scorned it, mistaking gold for dross. The
American--and long years in purgatory will not redeem his
fault--looked upon it with suspicion. To-day, it is true, he honours
it aright: in the summer-time he bows down before its gay freshness;
in the winter he cherishes it in tins. It has become as indispensable
to him as salt or butter. He values it at its true worth. But still,
half a century has not passed since he doubted it, heaping insults
upon its trusting sweetness. He fancied poison lurked within it. O the
cruel fancy! There it was, perfect and most desirable, and he, blind
fool, would not touch it until endless hours of stewing had lessened,
if not utterly destroyed, its fresh young charms. And the Englishman
was no wiser. Within the last decade only has he welcomed the stranger
at his gates, and at the best his welcome has been but halting and
half-hearted. The many continue obstinately to despise it; the few
have pledged their allegiance with reservations. The Latin, and even
the wild Hun, were converted without a fear of misgiving while the
Anglo-Saxon faltered and was weak. Many and beautiful are the strange
dishes the tomato adorns in Magyarland. Was there ever a _menu_ in
sunny Italy that did not include this meat or that vegetable _al
pomodoro_? The very Spaniard, whom rumour weds irrevocably to garlic,
nourishes a tender passion for the voluptuous red fruit, and wins
rapture from it. And deep and true is the Provençal's love for his
_pomme d'amour_; is not the name a measure of his affection? The Love
Apple! Were there, after all, tomatoes in Judea, and were these the
apples that comforted the love-sick Shulamite?
Now that the tomato has forced universal recognition; now that in
England it lends glory of colour to the greengrocer's display; now
that the hothouse defeats the cruel siege of the seasons, and mild
May, as well as mellow September, yields apples of love, pause a
moment, turn from the trivial cares of life, to meditate upon its
manifold virtues.