of veal, and into the cavity thus made, just over the end of the bone,
put a well-flavored veal force-meat. Roll in the flank to cover the
kidney-fat, and bind it firmly with string or tape. Place a few small
veal bones with a few assorted vegetables, cut up, in a dripping-pan;
put the loin upon this bed, add half a pint of stock or water, and set
it in the oven for twenty minutes; in the meantime work together a
tablespoonful of flour with two tablespoonfuls of melted butter; draw
the joint from the oven, baste it with the flour and butter, return it
to the oven again, and baste occasionally until done.
Veal should be thoroughly done. When it is underdone it is decidedly
indigestible and should be avoided.
The breast of veal boned, with a layer of force-meat spread over the
inside and rolled and tightly bound, may be substituted for loin of
veal.
=Mutton.=—The choicest mutton in the United States comes from the
mountainous regions of Pennsylvania. The animals are semi-domestic and
almost as shy and as timid as a deer. In 1878 Col. Duffy, one of
Pennsylvania’s fish commissioners, dined a party of English gentlemen on
mountain-mutton, and they pronounced it the finest-flavored morsel of
_venison_ they had ever eaten.
=Roast Leg of Mutton.=—Take a leg of well-kept mutton, rub it lightly
with salt, and put it in a dripping-pan with a very little water; cut a
potato in two lengthwise, and set it under the leg; baste with a little
good dripping at first, and when within twenty minutes of being done,
dredge it with flour to get it frothed. Turn the joint two or three
times while cooking. Time, about a quarter of an hour to the pound.
=Loin of Mutton.=—Follow the directions given for roast leg of mutton,
but trim off all unnecessary fat, cover the joint with paper until
within twenty minutes of its being done, then remove, baste, and flour
slightly; serve with currant-jelly. If properly cooked and served _hot_
it is a royal dish, but if the fat is not turned to account, a very
expensive one.
=Lamb.=—Put a four or five pound joint of lamb in a dripping-pan with a
gill of stock or water; salt and pepper; roll two ounces of butter in a
very little flour, divide it into small pieces, and add it here and
there upon the meat; set the pan in a moderate oven, and baste
frequently until done.
Skim the fat from the gravy, and serve with the lamb; or serve mint
sauce with the joint.
=Mint Sauce.=—Wash the sprigs of mint, let them dry on a towel, strip
off the leaves, and chop them very fine; put in a sauce-boat with a
cupful of vinegar and four lumps of sugar; let it stand an hour, and
before serving stir all together. Mint sauce, if bottled, will keep for
some time, and be just as good, if not better, than it was the first
day.
=Saddle of Lamb.=—A saddle of lamb is a dainty joint for a small party.
Sprinkle a little salt over it, and set it in the dripping-pan, with a
few small pieces of butter on the meat; baste it occasionally with
tried-out lamb-fat; dredge a little flour over it a few minutes before
taking from the oven. Serve with the very best of currant-jelly, and
send to table with it a few choice early vegetables. Mint sauce may be
served with the joint, but in a very mild form.
=Pork.=—Pork, more than any other meat, requires to be chosen with the
greatest care. The pig, from its gluttonous habits, is particularly
liable to disease; and if killed and eaten when in an unhealthy
condition, those who partake of it will probably pay dearly for their
indulgence. Dairy-fed pork is the best; and knowing this fact, a number
of our first-class hotels raise their own pork on farms connected with
their country residences. Among them may be mentioned the Continental
Hotel, Philadelphia; the Astor, Union Square, Sturtevant, Hoffman, Fifth
Avenue, Windsor, and several other leading hotels in New York City. We
are indebted to Chas. Lamb for the history of roast pig. In his essays
he says: “The art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be
the elder brother), was accidentally discovered in the manner following:
The swineherd Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as his
manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the care
of his eldest son, Bo-bo, a great, lubberly boy, who, being fond of
playing with fire, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which,
kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their poor
mansion till it was reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage, what
was of much more importance, a fine litter of new farrowed pigs, no less
than nine in number, perished. Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as
you may think, not so much for the sake of the tenement—which his father
and he could easily build up again with a few dry branches, and the
labor of an hour or two, at any time—as for the loss of the pigs. While
he was thinking what he should say to his father, and wringing his
hands, an odor assailed his nostrils unlike any scent which he had
before experienced. What could it proceed from? Not from the burnt
cottage; he had smelt that before. Indeed, this was by no means the
first accident which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky
firebrand. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his
nether lip. He knew not what to think. He next stooped down to feel the
pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to
cool them he applied them in his booby fashion to his mouth. Some of the
crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and for the
first time in his life (in the world’s, indeed, for before him no man
had known it) he tasted—_crackling_! Again he felt and fumbled at the
pig. It did not burn him so much now; still, he licked his fingers from
a sort of habit. The truth at length broke into his slow understanding
that it was the pig that smelt so and the pig that tasted so delicious;
and surrendering himself up to the new-born pleasure, he fell to tearing
up whole handfuls of the scorched skin, with the flesh next it, and was
cramming it down his throat in his beastly fashion when his sire entered
amid the smoking rafters, and, finding how affairs stood, began to rain
blows upon the young rogue’s shoulders as thick as hailstones, which
Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been flies. The tickling
pleasure which he experienced in his lower regions had rendered him
quite callous to any inconveniences he might feel in those remote
quarters. Bo-bo’s scent, being wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon
raked out another pig, and, fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser
half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, ‘Eat,
eat! Eat the burnt pig, father! Only taste!’ It is needless to state
that both father and son despatched the remainder of the litter. Bo-bo
was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape. Nevertheless strange
stories got about; it was observed that Ho-ti’s cottage was burnt down
now more frequently than ever. As often as the sow farrowed, so soon was
the house of Ho-ti seen to be in a blaze. At length they were watched,
the terrible mystery discovered, and father and son summoned to take
their trial at Peking, then an inconsiderable assize town. Evidence was
given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and verdict about to
be pronounced, when the foreman of the jury begged that some of the
burnt pig of which the culprit stood accused might be handed into the
box. He handled it, and they all handled it; and burning their fingers
as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to
each of them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts and the
clearest charge which judge had ever given, to the surprise of the whole
court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters (they had Howards and Raymonds in
those days), and all present, without leaving the box, or any manner of
consultation whatever, they brought in a simultaneous verdict of not
guilty.”
=Dr. Kitchiner on Pork.=—“Take particular care it be done enough. Other
meats underdone are unpleasant, but pork is absolutely uneatable; the
sight of it is enough to appall the sharpest appetite, if its gravy has
the least tint of redness. Be careful of the crackling; if this be not
crisp, or if it be burned, you will be scolded.”
=The Turkey.=—The turkey, says Brillat-Savarin, “is the largest, and, if
not the most delicate, at least the most savory of domestic poultry. It
enjoys the singular advantage of assembling around it every class of
society. When our farmers and wine-growers regale themselves on a
winter’s evening, what do we see roasting before the kitchen fire, close
to which the white-clothed table is set? A turkey! When the useful
tradesman or the hard-worked artist invites a few friends to an
occasional treat, what dish is he expected to set before them? A nice
roast turkey stuffed with sausage-meat and Lyons chestnuts. And in our
highest gastronomical society, when politics are obliged to give way to
dissertations on matters of taste, what is desired, what is awaited,
what is looked out for at the second course? A truffled turkey. In my
‘Secret Memoirs’ I find sundry notes recording that on many occasions
its restorative juice has illumined diplomatic faces of the highest
eminence.”
Now, the average American could not be induced to eat a turkey stuffed
with sausage-meat; he would naturally say that if the useful tradesman
“or the hard-working artist” experienced any pleasure over such a
compound, he was welcome to it; to him sausage-meat was too suggestive
of pork and—mystery. But the Lyons chestnuts—ah! yes, that will do, for
he has tasted chestnut stuffing and has learned to like it. A
dissertation on truffles, while waiting for the “truffled turkey” to be
served, is all that is necessary to make him say he is passionately fond
of them in any form, otherwise he would be apt to ask the waiter to
remove the dressing from his plate, “as it was full of small pieces of
charcoal” (an actual occurrence).
=Roast Turkey.=—Singe the bird, and in drawing it preserve the heart,
gizzard, and liver; remove the gall-bag from the liver, and be very
careful not to break it, as if any of the liquid touches the bird no
amount of washing will remove the bitter taste. Cut off the neck close
to the body, and before doing so push back the skin of the neck so that
sufficient may be left on to turn over the back; remove a part of the
fat adhering to the skin; split the breast-bone from the inside, or
place several folds of cloth on the high breast-bone and break and
flatten it a little with a rolling-pin to make the bird look plump. Fill
the breast and body with stuffing; sew up the opening with coarse
thread; turn the neck-skin over the back and fasten it; truss the legs
close to the breast, the wings turn over the back, using skewers or
twine to hold them in proper position. Put the turkey in the
dripping-pan with a little hot water, dredge it with flour, and lay a
few small pieces of butter upon it, and the feet, scalded and scraped,
under it. Baste frequently. Time, from two to three hours, according to
the size of the bird.
Should he prove to be of doubtful age and rich in spurs and scaly feet,
parboil him. Put him in a saucepan or pot, cover with cold water, add a
teaspoonful of salt, and when the water comes to a boil take out the
bird and dry it well before stuffing it.
=Chestnut Stuffing.=—Roast a pint of chestnuts and peel off the outer
and inner skin; weigh them, and simmer half a pound of them for twenty
minutes in as much veal gravy as will cover them; drain and let them
cool; then pound them in a mortar with four ounces of butter, three
ounces of bread-crumbs, a trifle of grated lemon-peel and powdered mace,
salt, and a pinch of cayenne; bind the mixture with the yolks of three
eggs.
Chestnuts roasted or boiled may be added to almost any stuffing for
fowl, etc., and give general satisfaction. I once made a stuffing of
chestnuts, apple-sauce, bread-crumbs, and the proper seasoning for a
’possum, and all who tasted of it pronounced it a dainty dish. One of
the party, Dr. H——, never tires of talking about “that ’possum with the
chestnuts.”
=Oyster Stuffing.=—Remove the heart (or what some call the eye) from two
dozen oysters, mince them finely, pound them to a paste, and mix with
them five ounces of bread-crumbs, an ounce of butter, the grated rind of
half a lemon, a tablespoonful of chopped parsley, a pinch of cayenne, an
even teaspoonful of salt, and half a teaspoonful of pepper. When well
mixed bind the mixture with the yolk of an egg and a small quantity of
the oyster liquid added gradually.
=Bread Stuffing.=—Grate sufficient bread to fill the bird; moisten it
with milk, and season with salt, pepper, sweet marjoram, and the grated
rind of one lemon. Add a tablespoonful of butter, and bind the mixture
with yolk of egg. Add a few raw whole oysters, if desired.
=Roast Capon.=—They should be managed in the same way as turkeys, and
served with the same sauces. I cannot quite come to the conclusion that
a roast capon is equal in flavor to one boiled and served with egg
sauce.
=Roast Chicken.=—Singe your chickens and truss them carefully. Broilers,
as they are called, are better without stuffing, unless they are very
large. Season with salt, put small bits of butter over the meat, and
place them in the pan with a little water or veal stock; baste
occasionally and dredge with flour before taking from the oven. A few
tarragon leaves with the sauce are acceptable.
A spring chicken cooked in any style is not to be despised by any means,
but I quite agree with that appreciative epicure, Mr. Sam Ward, when he
said:
“To roast spring chickens is to spoil ’em;
Just split ’em down the back and broil ’em.”
=Roast Pigeon.=—Raise the skin from the breast-bones of the pigeons with
your finger; make a small quantity of finely-flavored stuffing, and
stuff it between the skin and flesh, using care not to break the skin.
Fasten a long, thin slice of bacon over the breasts of the birds with
toothpicks; put them in a dripping-pan with a little water, and dredge
with flour. When done remove the bacon, set them neatly around the edge
of a dish, fill the centre with new green peas or Godillot French peas,
and serve. (A favorite dish of the members of the Club of Lindenthorpe,
on the Delaware.)
=Roast Domestic Duck.=—Americans, as a rule, do not take kindly to
domestic duck, owing to its peculiar flavor and richness, and also to
the fact of the bird being usually accompanied with a very
highly-seasoned onion stuffing. Nevertheless, a young domestic duck
stuffed with a bread stuffing seasoned with salt, pepper, sage, and a
_suspicion_ of onion, is a dish that should often appear upon the tables
of our American families. A pair of ducklings with no other stuffing
than an onion placed inside the birds while roasting, and removed before
serving, will make a splendid dinner for a family of five or six. Serve
with apple-fritters or apple-sauce.
=Roast Goose.=—Singe, draw, and truss the goose, and, if an old one,
parboil it. The best stuffing for a goose is a sage-and-onion stuffing.
The way in which this is made must depend upon the taste of those who
have to eat it. If a strong flavor of onions is liked the onion should
be chopped raw. If this is not the case they should be boiled in one or
two waters, and mixed with bread-crumbs, powdered sage, salt and pepper,
nutmeg, and two small apples chopped fine; fill the bird with the
stuffing, sew it up with coarse thread, sprinkle salt over it, and set
it in a pan with a little warm water; baste frequently, and do not take
it from the oven until thoroughly cooked.
=Ham a la Russe.=—If the ham be hard and salty soak it for several
hours. If a fresh-cured Ferris ham it will not need soaking. Trim and
cut away all the rusty parts, and cover it with a coarse paste of flour
and water half an inch thick, and fasten it securely to prevent the
juice escaping. Time, from three to four hours, according to size of the
ham. Remove the paste and skin while the ham is hot, cover the fat with
a sugar paste (see boiled ham) moistened with port, and return it to the
oven a few minutes to brown.
The Continental Hotel, Philadelphia, makes a specialty of _Ham à la
Russe_, and it is a splendid dish served with champagne sauce.
=Canvas-Back Duck.=—Pluck, draw, and singe the duck; wipe out the blood
from the inside with a clean towel; cut off the head and neck, and put
them in the body of the duck, allowing the head to protrude. Sprinkle a
little celery-salt over the breast, with a bit of butter; put it on a
small buttered pan, and set it in the oven for seventeen minutes. Serve
with currant-jelly.
A few outer stalks of celery placed inside the duck will improve its
flavor.
A red-head duck stuffed with grated bread, chopped celery, seasoning,
and mixed with yolk of egg, will taste very much like a canvas-back.
A blue-winged teal duck is very nice broiled. Cut it down the back,
brush a little melted butter over it, and broil, keeping the inner part
of the duck to the fire most of the time. To roast a teal place a strip
of bacon over the breast and set it in the oven for fifteen minutes.
=Roast Venison.=—Take a leg of well-kept venison, wipe it thoroughly,
rub a little salt over it, and dredge with flour. Place it in a
dripping-pan with the ragged pieces you have trimmed off of it, and a
little water or wine. Put small bits of butter here and there over the
meat, set it in the oven, and baste frequently till done. If the leg is
not very fat it is a good plan to lard it with strips of bacon or pork.
Serve with currant-jelly, and don’t forget the hot plates.
I am not a lover of venison à l’Anglaise, for I do not fancy the flour
paste daubed over the meat as most English cooks prepare it, though the
buttered paper is an advantage when cooking large joints of game.
=Roast Prairie Chicken.=—The bird being a little strong, and its flesh
when cooked a little dry, it should be either larded or wide strips of
bacon or pork placed over its breast. A mild seasoned stuffing will
improve the flavor of old birds. Dust a little flour over them, baste
occasionally, and serve.
Pheasants may be managed in the same manner.
=Roast Quail.=—Pluck and draw the birds, rub a little butter over them,
tie a strip of bacon over the breasts, and set them in the oven for
twenty to twenty-five minutes.
=Roast Woodcock.=—Pluck the bird carefully, do not cut off the head or
draw the trail; punch a few holes in the back of the bird with a fork,
and lay it in the pan on a piece of buttered toast. A little salt is all
the seasoning required. Time, twenty minutes. A woodcock is the only
gamebird I send to table without currant-jelly; its own fine flavor
needs no bush.
=Roast Snipe.=—Pluck and draw the snipe, preserving the trail and head;
tie a thin strip of bacon over the breast; chop up the trail and spread
it on buttered toast (one slice for each bird); lay the birds in the pan
with the toast between them, and roast twenty minutes. Remove the bacon,
place the birds on the toast, and serve.
=Rail-Birds.=—Rail-birds are decidedly inferior to either snipe or
woodcock. They should be skinned, as much of their rankness lies in the
skin. The trail is a trifle too strong for the average American palate.
They make a very good pie; manage them as you would snipe for roasting,
broiling, etc.
=Reed-Birds.=—These delicious “lumps of sweetness,” as they are
appropriately called, are always acceptable, but to thoroughly
appreciate a reed-bird dinner one must mingle with the gunners on the
Delaware River as guest or member of one of the many clubs whose houses
are situated within a few hundred yards from the hunting-grounds.
After the judge’s decision as to who has _high boat_, the birds are
plucked (and, at some of the club-houses, drawn), arranged neatly in a
dripping-pan with bits of fresh country butter between them. They are
allowed to cook on one side a few minutes, and with a long-handled spoon
are turned over to brown the other side. A little salt is added, and
they are then placed upon a hot platter _en pyramide_ and the gravy
poured over them; they are then sent to table with fried chip potatoes.
The scene that follows baffles description. Not a voice is heard, “at
least as long as the birds last.” The painful silence is only broken by
the sounds of crumbling bones between the teeth of the assemblage, and
an occasional _More birds, Mr. Caterer!_ from that prince of gourmets,
Mayor S——.
=Reed-Birds a la Lindenthorpe.=—On “Ladies’ Day” the members of this
club are more particular than on “members’ day.” They prepare the birds
by drawing the trail and removing the heads; they then take large sweet
or Irish potatoes, cut them in two, scoop out the insides, and put an
oyster or a small piece of bacon inside of each bird, and put the birds
inside the potato, tie them up with twine, and bake until the potatoes
are done. The common twine is then removed and the potatoes are tied
with a narrow piece of white or colored tape, in a neat bow-knot, and
sent to table on a napkin.
_SALADS._
There is not a dish in the gastronomic vocabulary that varies in
composition more than a salad. And the reasons for it are many. Among
them may be mentioned climatic influences and the personal habits of
individuals. The individual who lives well, and who considers a meal
imperfect without a wine or malt beverage, will sooner or later learn to
use condiments to such an extent as to alarm the more temperate at
table. A salad prepared for the majority, he will tell you, cloys on his
palate; and, after the first mouthful he resorts to cayenne and vinegar
to “tone up” the salad to suit his taste. After this ungenerous act the
close observer will notice confusion upon the face of the
salad-composer, who felt confident that he had prepared a salad to suit
the taste of the most fastidious. But my friend the salad-mixer should
not get offended; he should keep in view one fact—that a palate abused
by the constant use of tobacco and other stimulants requires more sharp
and pungent seasoning than one accustomed to these things only in
moderation, and that a strictly temperate person requires less of
condiments than either of them.
The dyspeptic’s case is entirely different. He will complain of a salad
in any form, accusing the oil of causing all his trouble. But he is
wrong. Let him stop flooding his food with liquids that only dilute and
weaken the gastric juices of the stomach and he will soon be rid of
dyspepsia and learn to love salads as much as other people. The habit of
washing down each mouthful of food with liquids is a deplorable one, and
the person that does it invites dyspepsia by so doing. Persons who are
in the habit of eating salads late at night, and who complain of
indigestion next morning, will find it to their advantage to add half a
teaspoonful of chicken pepsin to each pint of Mayonnaise; by so doing
digestion is assisted, and everyone will feel very much better next day.
In catering for families I invariably add pepsin to the dressing, but
until now have kept it a secret, not liking the idea of being accused of
mixing medicine with the food. Nevertheless I have been amply rewarded
by receiving more orders than I could personally attend to.
The following letter will explain itself:
SHARPLESS & SONS, 801 to 807 Chestnut St.,
PHILADELPHIA, March 7, 1879.
_Mr. Murrey, Continental Hotel_:
DEAR SIR: Please send two quarts of chicken salad manipulated by
_yourself_; the last we had prepared by you left a pleasant
recollection. Send up promptly at five o’clock, and oblige,
C. H. HAMRICK.