the aromatic little Tangerine competing gaily and guilelessly with the
ordinary orange of commerce. There is scarce another fruit that grows
with which it does not assimilate, with which it does not mingle, to
the infinite advantage of the ardent _gourmet_. This, none knows
better than the Spaniard, slandered sorely when reported a barbarian
at table. If some of his refinements we could but imitate, artists
truly we might be considered. He it is who first thought to pour upon
his strawberries, not thick cream, but the delicate juice of the
orange freshly cut. Here is a combination beyond compare; and is there
not many another that might be tested as profitably? Orange and
apricot, orange and plum, orange and peach. Experiment; for even
where failure follows, will not a new sensation have been secured? The
failure need never be repeated. But to each new success will be
awarded life eternal.
ENCHANTING COFFEE
A perfectly wise man is he who is fully expert and skilful in the true
use of sensualities, as in all other duties belonging to life. In the
household where wisdom rules, dinner, from savoury _hors d'oeuvre_ to
aromatic coffee, will be without reproach--or suspicion. The foolish
devote their powers to this course or that, and in one supreme but
ill-advised endeavour exhaust their every resource. Invention carries
them no further than the soul; even discreet imitation cannot pilot
them beyond the _entrée_. With each succeeding dish their folly
becomes more obvious, until it culminates in the coffee, which,
instead of the divine elixir it should be, proves but a vile,
degrading concoction of chicory. Here is the chief among gastronomic
tests; the hostess who knows not how to prepare a cup of coffee that
will bring new light to her guests' eyes, new gaiety to their talk, is
not worthy to receive them; the guest, who does not know good coffee
when it is set before him deserves to be cast into outer darkness and
fed for evermore upon brimstone and treacle. Better far throw pearls
before swine, than pour good coffee into the cups of the indifferent.
The sympathies of the gourmand are all for the mighty ones of old--for
an Epicurus in Greece, a Lucullus in Rome--to whom the gods had not
yet given the greatest of their gifts, coffee. Sad indeed the banquet,
dreamy the evening uncheered, unblessed by fragrant Mocha or mild
Mysore. Poor mortals still stood without the gates of Paradise, never
once foreseeing the exquisite joys to come, unconscious of the penalty
they paid for living so much too soon. And while they thus dwelt in
sorrowful ignorance, shepherds, leading their flocks through sweet
pasture-land, paused in their happy singing to note that the little
kids and lambs, and even staid goats and sheep, waxed friskier and
merrier, and frolicked with all the more light-hearted abandonment
after they had browsed upon a certain berry-bearing bush. Thyme and
lavender, mint and marjoram, never thus got into their little legs,
and sent them flying off on such jolly rambles and led them into such
unseemly antics. And the shepherds, no doubt, plucked the berry and
tasted it, and found it good. And one day--who knows how?--by chance,
they roasted it, and the fragrance was as incense in their nostrils.
And then, another time they pounded it, and, it may be by merest
accident, it fell into the water boiling over the fire for their
midday meal. And thus, first, coffee was made.
To Abyssinia, otherwise an unknown factor in the history of good
living, belongs the credit of producing the first coffee-drinkers. All
honour where honour is due. The debt of the modern to Greece and Rome
is smaller far than to that remote country which not one man in ten,
to whom coffee is a daily necessity, could point out upon the map.
Arabs, wandering hither and thither, came to Abyssinia as they
journeyed, and there drank the good drink and rejoiced. Among them
were pious Moslems, who at times nodded over prayers, and, yawning
pitifully as texts were murmured by lazy lips, knew that damnation
must be their doom unless sleep were banished from their heavy eyes
at prayer time. And to them as to the sheep and lambs, as to the goats
and kids, the wonder-working berry brought wakefulness and gaiety. And
into Arabia the Happy, they carried it in triumph, and coffee was
drunk not for temporal pleasure but for spiritual uses. It kept
worshippers awake and alert for the greater glory of Allah, and the
faithful accepted it with praise and thanksgiving.
But, again, like the flocks in Abyssinian pastures, it made them too
alert, it seems. After coffee, prayer grew frolicsome, and a faction
arose to call it an intoxicant, to declare the drinking of it a sin
against the Koran. Schisms followed, and heresies, and evils dire and
manifold. But coffee fought a good fight against its enemies and its
detractors; and from Arabia it passed to Constantinople, from Turkey
to England, and so on from country to country, until in the end there
was not one in Europe, or in the New World (which men had not then so
long discovered), but had welcomed the berry that clears the clouded
brain and stimulates the jaded body.
To all men its finest secrets have not been revealed. Dishonoured by
many it has been and still is. Unspeakable liquids, some thick and
muddy, others thin and pale, borrow its name with an assurance and
insolence that fool the ignorant. Chicory arrogantly and
unscrupulously pretends to compete with it, and the thoughtless are
deceived, and go their way through life obdurate and unrepentant,
deliberately blinding themselves to the truth. Others understand not
the hour and the place, and order it at strange moments and for
stranger functions. Americans there be who, from thick, heavy, odious
cups, drink it, plentifully weakened with milk, as the one proper and
fit accompaniment for dinner; a spoonful of coffee follows a spoonful
of soup; another is prelude to the joint; a second cup poisons the
sweet. On the other hand, be it admitted in fairness, no coffee is
purer and better than that of the American who has not fallen into
such mistaken courses. And he who doubts should, without delay, drop
in at Fuller's in Regent Street, or the Strand, where to taste is to
believe.
In the afternoon, plump German matrons and maids gather about the
coffee-pot, and fancy, poor souls! that they, of all womankind, are
most discriminating in their choice of time and opportunity. Gossip
flows smoothly on; household matters are placidly discussed; and the
one and only end of coffee remains for them, now and always, unknown
and unsuspected. In their blameless innocence and guileless
confidence, may they have whatever happiness belongs by right to the
race of humble and unaspiring housewives.
In England the spurious is preferred to the genuine; and rare, indeed,
is the house or restaurant, the hotel or lodgings, where good coffee
is the portion of blundering humanity. Over the barbarous depths into
which the soul-inspiriting berry has been dragged in unhappy Albion,
it is kinder to draw a veil.
But in the inscrutable East, the cradle of mysticism, where no problem
discourages earnest seekers after truth, coffee may yet be had in full
perfection. In the West, France is not without her children of light,
and in the tall glass of the _café_ or the deep bowl of the _auberge_
coffee sometimes is not unworthy of the name, though chicory, the
base, now threatens its ruin. However, Austria, nearer to the
mother-country, makes the coffee of France seem but a paltry
imitation, so delicious is the beautiful brown liquid, flowing in rich
perennial streams in every _café_, gilded or more modest. And yet
Austria, in her turn, is eclipsed, wholly and completely, by the home
of Attila and Kossuth. Drink, if only once, coffee on the banks of the
Danube, while gipsies "play divinely into your ear," and life will
never more seem quite so meaningless.
It is not easy to understand why the multitude continue content with a
bad substitute when the thing itself, in all its strength and
sweetness, may be had for the asking. A little knowledge, a trifle
more experience, and good coffee may be the solace and stimulus of the
honest Briton, as of the wily Turk, the wandering Arab, and the fierce
Magyar.
Know then, first, that your coffee berries must be pure and
unadulterated. Turn a deaf ear to the tempter who urges economy and
promises additional flavour. Against chicory, protest cannot be too
urgent or violent. It is poison, rank and deadly. The liver it
attacks, the nerves it destroys, and the digestion it disorganises
hopelessly, disastrously. To the well-trained palate it is coarse
beyond redemption. The fictitious air of strength it lends to the
after-dinner cup delights the ignorant and saddens the wise. But why
waste too recklessly good paper and type upon so degrading a topic?
Why not say once and for all that chicory is impossible and revolting,
an insult to the epicure, a cruel trial to the sybarite, a crime to
the artist? Renounce it before it is too late, and put your trust in
the undrugged berries from Arabia or Brazil, from Java or Porto Rico.
Mocha is irreproachable, though it loses nothing when blended with
Java or Mysore.
As the painter mixes his colours upon his palette until the right tint
springs into being, so, if in befitting humility and patience, you
blend coffee with coffee, know that, the day is at hand when the
perfect flavour will be born of the perfect union. From venturing to
recommend one harmony above all others, the most daring would refrain;
Mocha and Java might inspire hymns of praise in Paradise; and yet
many _gourmets_ would yearn for a keener, stronger aroma, many sigh
for a subtler. As in matters of love, for yourself must you choose and
decide.
Sacrilegious indeed it were if, after infinite trouble and tender care
in your choice, you delivered the blend of your heart to the
indifferent roasting pans, or cylinders, of any chance grocer. Roast
it yourself, so that the sweet savour thereof fills your house with
delicious memories of the Eastern bazaar and the Italian _piazza_.
Roast it in small quantities, no more at a time than may be needed for
the "little breakfast," or the after-dinner cup. And roast it fresh
for each meal. Be not led astray by the indolent and heedless who
prize the saving of labour above the pleasures of drink, and, without
a blush of shame, would send you to a shop to buy your berries
roasted. The elect listen not to the tempting of the profane. In a
saucepan, with lid, may the all-important deed be done. Or else a
vessel shaped for the solemn rite may be bought. But whichever be
used, let your undivided attention direct the process; else the
berries will be burnt. A small piece of pure, irreproachable butter in
the pan or "drum" will prove a friendly ally. While still hot, place
the brown berries--carefully separating those done to a turn from the
over-burnt, if any such there be--in the expectant mill, and grind at
once.
If much depend upon the roasting, no less is the responsibility that
rests with the grinding. The working of the mill, soft and low as
heard from afar, makes most musical accompaniment to dinner's later
courses. It is guarantee of excellence, certificate of merit. Thus
trusted to the mill, when time presses, none of the coffee's essence
can escape, none of its aroma. And there is art in the grinding:
ground exceeding small it may answer for boiling, but not for
filtering or dripping; and so be wary. If picturesqueness of
preparation have charms for you, then discard the mill and, vying with
the Turks, crush the berries in a mortar with a wooden crusher. The
difference in results, though counted vast by the pedant, in truth
exists not save in the imagination.
And now collect your thoughts in all seriousness and reverence, for
the supreme moment has come. The berries are roasted and ground: the
coffee is to be made! And how? That's the problem to the Englishwoman
to whom good coffee is a mystery as unfathomable as original sin or
papal infallibility. How? By a process so ridiculously easy as to be
laughed to scorn by the complex modern. In all art it is the
same--simplicity, the fruit of knowledge and experience, is a virtue
beyond compare. But poor blind humans, groping after would-be ideals,
seek the complicated, mistaking it to be the artistic. Arguing then,
from their own foolish standpoint, they invent strange and weird
machines in which they hope to manufacture perfection; coffee-pots,
globular in shape, which must be turned suddenly, swiftly, surely, at
the critical instant, else will love's labour all be lost;
coffee-pots, with glass tubes up which the brown liquid rushes, then
falls again, a Niagara in miniature; coffee-pots with accommodating
whistles blowing shrill warning to the slothful; coffee-pots that
explode, bomb-like, at the slightest provocation; coffee-pots that
splutter, overflow, burst, get out of order, and, in a word, do
everything that is dreadful and unseemly. Of these, one and all, fight
shy. Coffee calls not for a practical engineer to run the machine.
In three ways, so simple a child may understand, so perfect a god
might marvel, can the delectable drink, that gives wakefulness and a
clear brain, be made. In the first place, in ordinary pot, it may be
boiled, allowing a tablespoonful of the ground berries to a cup of
water, taking the pot off the fire, once the beautiful, seductive
brown froth is formed on the top, pouring in a small teaspoonful of
water that the grounds may settle; serve without delay, linger over it
lovingly, and then go forth gaily to conquer and rejoice.
In the second place--more to be commended--use a _cafétière_, or
filter of tin or earthenware, the latter by preference. Place the
coffee, ground not too fine, and in the same proportions, in the upper
compartment. Pour in slowly water that is just at the boiling point, a
little only at a time, keeping the kettle always on the fire that the
all-important boiling point may not be lost, and let the water filter
or drip slowly through the grounds spread in a neat layer. Some there
be who stand the pot or lower compartment in a pan of boiling water,
and they have reason with them. Others who, when all the water has
passed through to the pot below, set it to filtering, or dripping, a
second time, and they are not wholly wrong. But of all things, be
careful that the coffee does not cool in the process. Of life's many
abominations, lukewarm coffee is the most abominable.
The third of the three ways yields Turkish coffee. The special pots
for the purpose, with their open tops and long handles, are to be
found in one or more large Regent-street and Oxford-street shops. Get
the proper vessel, since it answers best, and is, however, a pleasure
to the eye, a stimulus to the imagination of all who at one happy
period of their lives have dwelt in Turkey or neighbouring lands. Now,
grind your coffee finer, but be faithful to the same proportions. Into
the water drop first the sugar, measuring it according to your taste
or mood, or leaving it out altogether if its sweetness offend you. Put
your pot on the fire, and when the water is boiling merrily, drop in
the coffee. To a boil, as kitchen slang has it, let it come, but gay
bubbles on its surface must be signal to lift off the pot; put it on
the fire again, almost at once, remove it bubbling a second time, put
it on again, and again remove it. This device repeated thrice will be
enough, though a fourth repetition can do no harm. A teaspoonful of
cold water will compel unruly grounds to settle. Pour the thick, rich,
brown liquid, as it breaks into beautiful yellow froth on the top,
into the daintiest cups your cupboard holds, and drink it and
happiness together.
To add cream or milk to Turkish coffee would be a crime; nor must more
sugar be dropped into its fragrant, luscious depths. Ordinary
after-dinner coffee should also be drunk without cream or milk, if
pleasure be the drinker's end. Indeed, a question it is whether it be
ever wise to dilute or thicken coffee and tea with milk, however well
boiled, with cream, however fresh. The flavour is destroyed, the aroma
weakened. But black coffee with breakfast would mean to begin the day
at too high a state of pressure, in undue exhilaration of spirits. To
speak honestly, coffee is no less a mistake in the morning hours than
Whisky-and-soda or Absinthe. But custom has sanctioned it; it has
become a bad habit from one end of the Continent to the other, in
innumerable otherwise wholly decorous British households. But slaves
of habit should wear their chains so that there is as little friction
and chafing as possible. Therefore, make your morning coffee strong
and aromatic and pure as if destined for after-dinner delights: but
pour into it much milk; half and half would prove proportions within
reason. Not out of the way is it to borrow a hint from provincial
France and serve _café-au-lait_ in great bowls, thus tacitly placing
it forever on a plane apart from _café noir_. Or else, borrow wisdom
from wily Magyar and frivolous Austrian, and exquisite, dainty,
decorative whipped cream heap up high on the surface of the morning
cup. Take train to-morrow for Budapest; haunt its _cafés_ and
kiosques, from the stately Reuter to the Danube-commanding Hungaria;
study their methods with diligence and sincerity; and then, if there
be a spark of benevolence within you, return to preach the glad
gospel of good coffee to the heathen at home. A hero you would be,
worthy countryman of Nelson and of Wellington; and thus surely should
you win for yourself fame, and a niche in Westminster Abbey.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Minor spelling inconsistencies, mainly hyphenated and accented
words, have been made consistent.
St. Estéphe changed to St. Estèphe.