misfortune surely to be avoided. To this lettuce he would add herbs of
every kind; nay, even oysters, or tortoise eggs, or anchovies, or
olives--in fact, the subject is one which has sent his ever delightful
imagination to work most riotously. But, in all humility, must it
still be urged that the cabbage lettuce is best ungarnished, save, it
may be, by a touch of the unrivalled celery or slices of the adorable
tomato--never, if yours be the heart of an artist, by the smallest
fragment of the coarse, crude, stupid beetroot.
The _romaine_, or _cos_, however, is none the worse for Dumas'
suggestions; indeed, it is much the better. Its long stiff leaves, as
they are, may not be "fatigued" with anything approaching ease or
success. It is to be said--with hesitation perhaps, and yet to be
said--that they make the better salad for being cut before they are
put into the bowl. As if to atone for this unavoidable liberty, dainty
additions may not come amiss: the tender little boneless anchovies,
fish of almost any and every kind--most admirably, salmon and a bit of
red herring in conjunction--cucumbers, celery, tomatoes, radishes--all
will blend well and harmoniously. Be bold in your experiments, and
fear nothing. Many failures are a paltry price to pay for one perfect
dish.
Of other green salads the name is legion: endive, dandelion leaves,
chicory, chervil, mustard and cress, and a hundred and more besides
before the resources of France--more especially the Midi--and Italy be
exhausted. And none may be eaten becomingly without the oil and
vinegar dressing; all are the pleasanter for the _soupçon_ of onion,
and the egg, hard-boiled; a few gain by more variegated garniture.
But these minor salads--as they might be classed--pale before the
glories of the tomato: the _pomodoro_ of the Italian, the _pomme
d'amour_ of the Provençal--sweet, musical names, that linger tenderly
on the lips. And, indeed, if the tomato were veritably the "love
apple" of the Scriptures, and, in Adam's proprietorship, the olives
already yielded oil, the vines vinegar, then the tragedy in the Garden
of Eden may be explained without the aid of commentary. Many a
man--Esau notably--has sold his birthright for less than a good tomato
salad.
Dante's _Inferno_ were too good for the depraved who prepare it, as if
it were a paltry pickle, with a dosing of vinegar. It must first
receive the stimulus of the onion; then its dressing must be fortified
by the least suspicion of mustard--English, French, or German, it
matters not which--and if the pleasure that follows does not reconcile
you to Paradise lost, as well might you live on dry bread and cold
water for the rest of your natural days. The joys of the epicure,
clearly, are not for you. It seems base and sordid to offer for so
exquisite a delicacy hygienic references. But the world is still full
of misguided men who prize "dietetic principles" above the delights of
gluttony; once assured that from the eating of the tomato will come
none of the evils "to which flesh is _erroneously supposed_ to be
heir," they might be induced to put tomato salad, made in right
fashion, to the test. Then must they be confirmed faddists indeed, if
they do not learn that one eats not merely to digest.
To the mystical German, the potato first revealed virtues undreamed of
by the blind who had thought it but a cheap article of food to satisfy
hunger, even by the French who had carried it to such sublime heights
in their _purées_ and _soufflés_, their _Parisiennes_ and
_Lyonnaises_. Not until it has been allowed to cool, been cut in thin
slices, been dressed as a salad, were its subtlest charms suspected.
To the German--to that outer barbarian of the midday dinner--we owe at
least this one great debt of gratitude. Like none other, does the
potato-salad lend itself to the most fantastic play of fancy. It
stimulates imagination, it awakens ambition. A thousand and one ways
there be of preparing it, each better than the last. With celery, with
carrots, with tomatoes, with radishes, with parsley, with cucumber,
with every green thing that grows--in greatest perfection with okras,
the vegetable dear to Hungarian and American, unknown to poor
Britons--it combines graciously and deliciously, each combination a
new ecstasy. And, moreover, it is capable of endless decoration; any
woman with a grain of ingenuity can make of it a thing of beauty, to
look upon which is to sharpen the dullest appetite. So decorative are
its possibilities, that at times it is a struggle to decide between
its merits as an ornament and its qualities as a delicacy. For truth
is, it becomes all the more palatable if dressed and "fatigued" an
hour or so before it is eaten, and the oil and vinegar given time to
soak through every slice and fragment. The wise will disdain, for the
purpose, the ordinary potato, but procure instead the little, hard
"salad potato," which never crumbles; it comes usually from Hamburg,
and is to be bought for a trifle in the German _delicatessen_ shops of
London.
Poetic in the early spring is the salad of "superb asparagus"--pity it
should ever be eaten hot with drawn butter!--or of artichoke, or of
cucumber--the latter never fail to sprinkle with parsley, touch with
onion, and "fatigue" a good half hour before serving. Later, the
French bean, or the scarlet runner should be the lyrical element of
the feast. And in winter, when curtains are drawn and lamps lit, and
fires burn bright, the substantial _Soissons_, for all its memories of
French commercials, is not to be despised. But, if your soul aspires
to more ethereal flights, then create a vegetable salad--cauliflower,
and peas, and potatoes, and beans, and carrots in rhythmical
proportions and harmonious blending of hues.
THE SALADS OF SPAIN
They are still many and delicious as when Beckford ate them and was
glad, a hundred and more years ago. The treasures of the Incas have
dwindled and disappeared; the Alhambra has decayed and been restored
on its high hill-top; the masterpieces of Velasquez have been torn
from palace walls, to hang in convenient rows in public museums; the
greatness of Spain has long been waning. But the Spaniard still mixes
his salads with the art and distinction that have been his for
centuries. Herein, at least, his genius has not been dimmed, nor his
success grown less. And so long as this remains true, so long will
there be hope of a new Renaissance in the Iberian peninsula. By a
nation's salads may you judge of its degree of civilisation; thus
tested, Spain is in the van, not the rear, of all European countries.
It is no small achievement to give distinctive character to national
salads, to-day that the virtue of vinegar and oil and the
infallibility of incomparable onion are universally acknowledged and
respected. And yet Spain, in no idle spirit of self-puffery, can boast
of this achievement. She has brought to her _insalada_ a new element,
not wholly unknown elsewhere--in Hungary, for instance--but one which
only by the Spaniard has been fully appreciated, constantly
introduced, and turned to purest profit. This element--need it be
said?--is the pepper, now red, now green. The basis of the Spanish
salad may be--nay, is--the same as in other lands: tomato, cucumber,
lettuce, beans, potatoes. But to these is added pepper--not miserably
dried and powdered, but fresh and whole, or in generous slices--and
behold! a new combination is created, a new flavour evolved. And it is
a flavour so strong, yet subtle withal, so aromatic and spicy, so
_bizarre_ and picturesque--dream-inspiring as the aroma of green
Chartreuse, stimulating as Cognac of ripe years--that the wonder is
its praises hitherto have not been more loudly sung, its delights more
widely cultivated. The trumpet-note struck by the glowing scarlet is
fitting herald of the rapturous thrills that follow in the eating. Not
more voluptuous than the salad thus adorned were the beauties of the
harem, who doubtless feasted upon it under the cypresses and myrtles
of Andalusia.
The tendency of the Spaniard is ever to harmony, intricate and
infinite. Is not his dish of dishes his _olla cocida_? Is not his
favourite course of vegetables the _pisto_? And so likewise with his
salads: now he may give you tomato just touched with pepper, cucumber
just enlivened by the same stirring presence. But more often he will
present you an arrangement which, in its elaboration, may well baffle
the first investigation of the student. Peppers, as like as not of
both species, tomatoes, cucumber, onion, garlic cut fine as if for a
mince of greens--"pepper hash," the American crudely calls an
arrangement closely akin in motive--are mingled together so deftly,
are steeped in vinegar and oil so effectually, as to seem, not many in
one, but _the_ one in many, the crowning glory of the glorious
vegetable world of the South. Nothing in common has this delectable
salad with the _macédoine_, which the Spaniard also makes. Peas and
carrots, potatoes and tomatoes, beans and cauliflowers meet to new
purpose, when peppers, red and ardent, wander hither and thither in
their midst waging war upon insipidity, destroying, as if by fire, the
tame and the commonplace. Again, lettuce untainted by garlic,
resisting the slightest suspicion of complexity, may answer for the
foolish foreigner who knows no better. But in lettuce prepared for
himself the Spaniard spares not the fragrant garlic; neither does he
omit his beloved peppers, while he never rebels, rejoicing rather, if
occasional slices of cucumber and tomatoes lie hid between the cool
green leaves.
But fish furnishes him with text for still more eloquent flights,
still loftier compositions. A _mayonnaise_ he can make such as never
yet was eaten under milder suns and duller skies; and a _mayonnaise_
far from exhausts his all but unlimited resources. Sardines he will
take, or tunny, or any fish that swims, and that, already cooked, has
been either shut up long weeks in protecting tins or left but a few
hours to cool. Whatever the fish chosen, he places it neatly and
confidently at the bottom of his dish; above it he lays lettuce leaves
and garlic and long brilliant slices of scarlet pepper; round about it
he weaves a garniture of olives and hard-boiled eggs that reveal their
hearts of gold. The unrivalled, if cosmopolitan, sauce of vinegar and
oil is poured upon the whole and made doubly welcome. But details are
varied in every fish salad served in Spain; only in its perfection
does it prove unalterable.
These, and their hundred offshoots were conceived in serious moments.
But once, in sheer levity of spirit and indolence, the gay Andalusian
determined to invent a salad that, to the world beyond his snowy
Sierras, would seem wildest jest, but to himself would answer for food
and drink, and, because of its simplicity and therefore cheapness,
save him many a useless hour of gaining his dinner at the sweat of his
brow. And so, to the strumming of guitars and click of castanets, now
never heard save in books of travel through Andalusia, _gaspacho_
appeared; destined to be for ever after the target for every
travel-writer's wit, the daily fare of its inventor and his
descendants. To the Andalusian _gaspacho_ is as _macaroni_ to the
Neapolitan, _bouillabaisse_ to the Provençal, chops and steaks to the
Englishman. In hotels, grotesquely French or pretentiously English,
where butter comes out of tins, and salad is garlicless, _gaspacho_
may be but surreptitiously concocted for the secret benefit of the
household. But go to the genuine Andalusian _posada_ or house, travel
in Andalusian boat, or breakfast at Andalusian buffet, and ten to one
_gaspacho_ figures on the _menu_.
To describe it, Gautier must be borrowed from. What would you? When
the master has pronounced upon any given subject, why add an
inefficient postscript? When a readymade definition, admirably
rendered, is at your command, why be at the pains of making a new one
for yourself? Never be guilty of any work when others may do it for
you, is surely the one and only golden rule of life. Listen, then, to
the considerate Gautier: "_Gaspacho_ deserves a description to itself,
and so we shall give here the recipe which would have made the late
Brillat-Savarin's hair stand on end. You pour water into a soup
tureen, to this water you add vinegar" (why omit the oil, you
brilliant but not always reliable poet?), "shreds of garlic, onions
cut in quarters, slices of cucumber, some pieces of pepper, a pinch of
salt; then you add bits of bread, which are left to soak in this
agreeable mess, and you serve cold." It should be further explained
that, in the season, tomatoes are almost invariably introduced, that
they and all the greens are chopped up very fine, and that the whole
has the consistency of a _julienne_ supplied with an unusually lavish
quantity of vegetables. It is eaten with a spoon from a soup plate,
though on the _menu_ it appears as a course just before the sweets.
This explanation made, listen again to Gautier, who writes in
frivolous mood. "With us, dogs but tolerably well bred would refuse to
compromise their noses in such a mixture. It is the favourite dish of
the Andalusians, and the prettiest women, without fear, swallow at
evening great spoonfuls of this infernal soup. _Gaspacho_ is held to
be most refreshing, an opinion which to us seems a trifle daring, and
yet, extraordinary as it may be found at the first taste, you finish
by accustoming yourself to it, and even liking it."
He was right. _Gaspacho_ has its good points: it is pleasant to the
taste, piquant in its very absurdity; it is refreshing, better than
richly-spiced sauces when the sun shines hot at midday. Andalusians
have not been labouring under a delusion these many years. The pepper
is a stimulant; vinegar, oil, and water unite in a drink more cooling
and thirst-quenching than abominable red wine of Valdepeñas. Would you
be luxurious, would you have your _gaspacho_ differ somewhat from the
poor man's, drop in a lump of ice, and double will be your pleasure in
the eating.
Like all good things _gaspacho_ has received that sincerest form of
flattery, imitation; and, what is more gratifying, received it at
home. Lettuce, cut in tiny pieces, is set floating in a large bowl of
water, vinegar, and oil, well seasoned with salt. Refreshing this also
is claimed to be; though so strange a sight is it to the uninitiated
that a prim schoolma'am, strayed from Miss Wilkins's stories into
Andalusia, has been seen to throw up hands of wonder, and heard to
declare that that salad would find a niche in her diary, to which, as
a rule, she confided nothing less precious than her thoughts. Happy
Spain, to have so conquered! What is Granada to the possession of so
chaste a tribute?
THE STIRRING SAVOURY
First impressions have their value: they may not be dismissed in
flippancy of spirit. But for this reason must last impressions be held
things of nought, not worthy the consideration of ambitious or
intelligent man? First impressions at times are washed away by the
rich, fast stream of after-events, even as the first on a slate
disappear under the obliterating sponge; last impressions remain to
bear testimony after the more tangible facts have passed into the
_ewigkeit_. Else, where the use of the ballade's _envoy_, of the final
sweet or stirring scene as the curtain falls upon the play?
It is the same with all the arts--with love, too, for that matter,
were there but space to prove it. Love, however, dwindles in
importance when there is question of dinner or breakfast. Life
consists of eating and drinking, as greater philosophers than Sir
Andrew Aguecheek have learned to their infinite delight, have
preached to the solace of others. Therefore, so order your life that
the last impressions of your eating and drinking may be more joyful,
more beautiful than the first; then, and only then, will you have
solved that problem of problems which, since the world began, has set
many a Galahad upon long and weary quest. It behoves you to see that
the feast, which opened with ecstasy, does not close with platitude,
and thus cover you with shame and confusion. A paltry amateur, a
clumsy bungler, is he who squanders all his talent upon the soup, and
leaves the savoury to take care of itself. Be warned in time!
The patriotic claim the savoury as England's invention. Their
patriotism is pretty and pleasing; moreover, it is not without a
glimmering of truth. For to England belongs the glorious discovery
that the dinner which ends with a savoury ends with rapture that
passeth human understanding! The thing itself has its near of kin, its
ancestors, as one might say. Caviar, olives, lax, anchovies, herrings'
roe, sardines, and as many more of the large and noble family--do not
these appear as _antipasti_ in Italy? In Russia and Scandinavia do
they not, spread symmetrically on side table, serve the purpose of
America's cocktail? And among the palms, as among the pines, coldness
is held to be an essential quality in them. Hot from the ardent oven,
the Parisian welcomes their presence between the soup and the fish,
and many are the enthusiasts who declare this to be the one and only
time for their discreet appearance upon the _menu_. Reason is in the
plea: none but the narrow-minded would condemn it untested and
untried. He who prizes change, who rebels even against the monotony of
the perfect, may now and again follow this fashion so gaily applauded
by _gourmets_ of distinction. But, remembering the _much_ that depends
upon last impressions, the wise will reserve his savoury to make
therewith a fair, brave ending.
There still walk upon this brutal earth poor heedless women who, in
the innocence of their hearts, believe that the one destiny of cheese
is to lie, cut up in little pieces, in a three-cornered dish, which it
shares with misplaced biscuits and well-meaning rolls of butter, and,
it may be, chilling celery. But cheese, which in many ways has
achieved such marvels, may be wrought into savouries beyond compare.
As _soufflé_, either _au Gruyère_ or _au Parmesan_, it becomes light
and dainty as the poet's lyric, and surely should be served only on
porcelain of the finest. It is simple to say how the miracle is
worked: a well-heated oven, a proper saucepan, butter, water, pepper,
salt and sugar in becoming proportions, the yolks of eggs and grated
Parmesan, the whites of the eggs added, as if an afterthought; and
twenty-five minutes in the expectant oven will do the rest. But was
ever lyric turned out by rule and measure? Even the inspired artist
has been known to fail with his _soufflé_. Here, indeed, is a miracle,
best entrusted to none but the genius.
_Canapé au Parmesan_ has pretensions which the result justifies. On
the bread, fried as golden as the haloes of Fra Angelico's angels, the
grated Parmesan, mingled with salt and pepper, is spread. A Dutch oven
yields temporary asylum until the cheese be melted, when, quicker than
thought, the _canapés_ are set upon a pretty dish and served to happy
mortals. _Ramaquins_ of cheese, in cases or out, can boast of charms
the most seductive. Nor in _gougère_ or _beignet_ or _bouchée_ will
Parmesan betray confidence. Again, in _pailles_, or straws, on fire
with cayenne, and tied with fluttering ribbons into enticing bunches,
this happy child of the South reveals new powers of seduction. So long
as there is cheese to command, the most fastidious need not wander far
in search of savouries.
The anchovy may be made a dangerous rival to Parmesan. Whole, or in
paste, it yields enchanting harmonies, burning and fervent as lover's
prayer. Let your choice fall upon the boneless anchovies of France, if
you would aim at the maximum of pleasure and the minimum of labour.
True it is that labour in the kitchen is ever a joy; but, expended
upon one creation when it might be divided among many, must not
sacrifice of variety in sensation be the price paid? Fried after the
fashion of whitebait, sprinkled with _paprika_, and refreshed with
lemon juice, anchovies become quite irresistible as _Orlys d'anchois_.
Prepared in cases, like Parmesan, they are proof against criticism as
_tartelettes_. Now figuring as _petites bouchées_, now as
_rissolettes_, they fail not to awaken new and delicious emotions.
They simply clamour for certain exquisite combinations, to-day with
hard-boiled egg passed through a sieve, to-morrow with olives from
sunny Provence; thin brown bread and butter, or toast, the crisp
foundation. But rarely do they go masquerading so riotously as in the
garb of _croûtes d'anchois_: first, the golden _croûton_, then a slice
of tomato, then a slice of cucumber, then a layer of caviar, then a
layer of anchovies scarlet with _paprika_ and garnished with leaves of
chervil; and behold! you have a pyramid more memorable far than any
raised on Egyptian sands--a pyramid that you need not travel silly
miles to see: it is yours, any day and any hour, for the ordering.
Lax laid lightly on toast is a pale rose triumph. _Olives
farcies_--caper and anchovy chief ingredients of the _farce_--come
like a flaming ray of southern sunlight. Haddock is smoked in the land
across the border solely that it may ravish the elect in its grandest
phase as _croustades de merluche fumée_. By the shores of the blue
Mediterranean, sardines are packed in tins that the delicate diner of
the far north may know pleasure's crown of pleasure in _canapé de
sardines diablées_. Caviar craves no more elaborate seasoning than
lemon juice and _paprika_ can give; herring roe sighs for devilled
biscuit as friendly resting-place. Shrimp and lobster vie with one
another for the honour either _bouchée_ or _canapé_ bestows. And ham
and tongue pray eagerly to be grated and transformed into bewildering
_croûtes_. The ever-willing mushroom refuses to be outsped in the
blessed contest, but murmurs audibly, "_Au gratin_ I am adorable;"
while the egg whispers, "Stuff me, and the roses and raptures are
yours!"
But what would the art of eating be without the egg? In two strange
and striking combinations it carries the savoury to the topmost rung
in the ladder of gastronomy. Its union with inexhaustible anchovy and
Bombay duck has for issue "Bombay toast," the very name whereof has
brought new hope to staid dons and earnest scholars. Pledged to
anchovies once more and butter and cream--Mormon-like in its choice of
many mates--it offers as result "Scotch woodcock," a challenge to fill
high the glass with Claret red and rare.
Endless is the stimulating list. For cannot the humble bloater be
pressed into service, and the modest cod? Do not many more vegetables
than spinach, that plays so strong a part in _Raviole à la Genoese_,
answer promptly when called upon for aid? And what of the gherkin?
What of the almond--the almond mingled with caviar and cayenne? And
what of this, that, and the other, and ingenious combinations by the
score? Be enterprising! Be original! And success awaits you.
INDISPENSABLE CHEESE
With bread and cheese and kisses for daily fare, life is held to be
perfect by the poet. But love may grow bitter before cheese loses its
savour. Therefore the wise, who value the pleasures of the table above
tender dalliance, put their faith in strong Limburger or fragrant
Brie, rather than in empty kisses. If only this lesson of wisdom could
be mastered by all men and women, how much less cruel life might be!