ignorance of Snorter and Pogson, might say, “True, these gentlemen know
nothing of household economy, being occupied with other more important
business elsewhere. But what are their wives about? Lady Pogson in
Harley Street has nothing earthly to do but to mind her poodle, and her
mantua-maker's and housekeeper's bills. Mrs. Snorter in Belford Place,
when she has taken her drive in the Park with the young ladies, may
surely have time to attend to her husband's guests and preside over
the preparations of his kitchen, as she does worthily at his hospitable
mahogany.” To this I answer, that a man who expects a woman to
understand the philosophy of dinner-giving, shows the strongest evidence
of a low mind. He is unjust towards that lovely and delicate creature,
woman, to suppose that she heartily understands and cares for what she
eats and drinks. No: taken as a rule, women have no real appetites.
They are children in the gormandizing way; loving sugar, sops, tarts,
trifles, apricot-creams, and such gewgaws. They would take a sip of
Malmsey, and would drink currant-wine just as happily, if that accursed
liquor were presented to them by the butler. Did you ever know a
woman who could lay her fair hand upon her gentle heart and say on her
conscience that she preferred dry sillery to sparkling champagne? Such
a phenomenon does not exist. They are not made for eating and drinking;
or, if they make a pretence to it, become downright odious. Nor can
they, I am sure, witness the preparations of a really great repast
without a certain jealousy. They grudge spending money (ask guards,
coachmen, inn-waiters, whether this be not the case). They will give
their all, heaven bless them to serve a son, a grandson, or a
dear relative, but they have not the heart to pay for small things
magnificently. They are jealous of good dinners, and no wonder. I have
shown in a former discourse how they are jealous of smoking, and other
personal enjoyments of the male. I say, then, that Lady Pogson or Mrs.
Snorter can never conduct their husbands' table properly. Fancy either
of them consenting to allow a calf to be stewed down into gravy for one
dish, or a dozen hares to be sacrificed to a single puree of game, or
the best Madeira to be used for a sauce, or half a dozen of champagne to
boil a ham in. They will be for bringing a bottle of Marsala in place of
the old particular, or for having the ham cooked in water. But of
these matters--of kitchen philosophy--I have no practical or theoretic
knowledge; and must beg pardon if, only understanding the goodness of a
dish when cooked, I may have unconsciously made some blunder regarding
the preparation.
Let it, then, be set down as an axiom, without further trouble of
demonstration, that a woman is a bad dinner-caterer; either too great
and simple for it, or too mean--I don't know which it is; and gentlemen,
according as they admire or contemn the sex, may settle that matter
their own way. In brief, the mental constitution of lovely woman is such
that she cannot give a great dinner. It must be done by a man. It can't
be done by an ordinary man, because he does not understand it. Vain
fool! and he sends off to the pastry-cook in Great Russell Street or
Baker Street, he lays on a couple of extra waiters (green-grocers in the
neighborhood), he makes a great pother with his butler in the cellar,
and fancies he has done the business.
Bon Dieu! Who has not been at those dinners?--those monstrous
exhibitions of the pastry-cook's art? Who does not know those made
dishes with the universal sauce to each: fricandeaux, sweet-breads, damp
dumpy cutlets, &c., seasoned with the compound of grease, onions, bad
port-wine, cayenne pepper, curry-powder (Warren's blacking, for what
I know, but the taste is always the same)--there they lie in the old
corner dishes, the poor wiry Moselle and sparkling Burgundy in the
ice-coolers, and the old story of white and brown soup, turbot, little
smelts, boiled turkey, saddle-of-mutton, and so forth? “Try a little of
that fricandeau,” says Mrs. Snorter, with a kind smile. “You'll find
it, I think, very nice.” Be sure it has come in a green tray from Great
Russell Street. “Mr. Fitz-Boodle, you have been in Germany,” cries
Snorter, knowingly; “taste the hock, and tell me what you think of
THAT.”
How should he know better, poor benighted creature; or she, dear
good soul that she is? If they would have a leg-of-mutton and
an apple-pudding, and a glass of sherry and port (or simple
brandy-and-water called by its own name) after dinner, all would be very
well; but they must shine, they must dine as their neighbors. There
is no difference in the style of dinners in London; people with five
hundred a year treat you exactly as those of five thousand. They WILL
have their Moselle or hock, their fatal side-dishes brought in the green
trays from the pastry-cook's.
Well, there is no harm done; not as regards the dinner-givers at least,
though the dinner-eaters may have to suffer somewhat; it only shows
that the former are hospitably inclined, and wish to do the very best in
their power,--good honest fellows! If they do wrong, how can they help
it? they know no better.
And now, is it not as clear as the sun at noonday, that A WANT exists
in London for a superintendent of the table--a gastronomic agent--a
dinner-master, as I have called him before? A man of such a profession
would be a metropolitan benefit; hundreds of thousands of people of the
respectable sort, people in white waistcoats, would thank him daily.
Calculate how many dinners are given in the City of London, and
calculate the numbers of benedictions that “the Agency” might win.
And as no doubt the observant man of the world has remarked that the
freeborn Englishman of the respectable class is, of all others, the most
slavish and truckling to a lord; that there is no fly-blown peer but he
is pleased to have him at his table, proud beyond measure to call him
by his surname (without the lordly prefix); and that those lords whom he
does not know, he yet (the freeborn Englishman) takes care to have their
pedigrees and ages by heart from his world-bible, the “Peerage:” as
this is an indisputable fact, and as it is in this particular class of
Britons that our agent must look to find clients, I need not say it is
necessary that the agent should be as high-born as possible, and that he
should be able to tack, if possible, an honorable or some other handle
to his respectable name. He must have it on his professional card--
THE HONORABLE GEORGE GORMAND GOBBLETON,
Apician Chambers, Pall Mall.
Or,
SIR AUGUSTUS CARVER CRAMLEY CRAMLEY,
Amphitryonic Council Office, Swallow Street.
or, in some such neat way, Gothic letters on a large handsome
crockeryware card, with possibly a gilt coat-of-arms and supporters, or
the blood-red hand of baronetcy duly displayed. Depend on it plenty of
guineas will fall in it, and that Gobbleton's supporters will support
him comfortably enough.
For this profession is not like that of the auctioneer, which I take to
be a far more noble one, because more varied and more truthful; but in
the Agency case, a little humbug at least is necessary. A man cannot be
a successful agent by the mere force of his simple merit or genius in
eating and drinking. He must of necessity impose upon the vulgar to a
certain degree. He must be of that rank which will lead them naturally
to respect him, otherwise they might be led to jeer at his profession;
but let a noble exercise it, and bless your soul, all the “Court Guide”
is dumb!
He will then give out in a manly and somewhat pompous address what has
before been mentioned, namely, that he has seen the fatal way in which
the hospitality of England has been perverted hitherto, accapare'd by
a few cooks with green trays. (He must use a good deal of French in his
language, for that is considered very gentlemanlike by vulgar people.)
He will take a set of chambers in Canton Gardens, which will be richly
though severely furnished, and the door of which will be opened by
a French valet (he MUST be a Frenchman, remember), who will say, on
letting Mr. Snorter or Sir Benjamin Pogson in, that “MILOR is at
home.” Pogson will then be shown into a library furnished with massive
bookcases, containing all the works on cookery and wines (the titles
of them) in all the known languages in the world. Any books, of course,
will do, as you will have them handsomely bound, and keep them under
plate-glass. On a side-table will be little sample-bottles of wine, a
few truffles on a white porcelain saucer, a prodigious strawberry or
two, perhaps, at the time when such fruit costs much money. On the
library will be busts marked Ude, Careme, Bechamel, in marble (never
mind what heads, of course); and, perhaps, on the clock should be a
figure of the Prince of Conde's cook killing himself because the fish
had not arrived in time: there may be a wreath of immortelles on the
figure to give it a more decidedly Frenchified air. The walls will be of
a dark rich paper, hung round with neat gilt frames, containing plans
of menus of various great dinners, those of Cambaceres, Napoleon,
Louis XIV., Louis XVIII., Heliogabalus if you like, each signed by the
respective cook.
After the stranger has looked about him at these things, which he does
not understand in the least, especially the truffles, which look like
dirty potatoes, you will make your appearance, dressed in a dark dress,
with one handsome enormous gold chain, and one large diamond ring; a
gold snuff-box, of course, which you will thrust into the visitor's paw
before saying a word. You will be yourself a portly grave man, with
your hair a little bald and gray. In fact, in this, as in all other
professions, you had best try to look as like Canning as you can.
When Pogson has done sneezing with the snuff, you will say to him,
“Take a fauteuil. I have the honor of addressing Sir Benjamin Pogson, I
believe?” And then you will explain to him your system.
This, of course, must vary with every person you address. But let us
lay down a few of the heads of a plan which may be useful, or may
be modified infinitely, or may be cast aside altogether, just as
circumstances dictate. After all I am not going to turn gastronomic
agent, and speak only for the benefit perhaps of the very person who is
reading this:--
“SYNOPSIS OF THE GASTRONOMIC AGENCY OF THE HONORABLE GEORGE GOBBLETON.
“The Gastronomic Agent having traversed Europe, and dined with the best
society of the world, has been led naturally, as a patriot, to turn
his thoughts homeward, and cannot but deplore the lamentable ignorance
regarding gastronomy displayed in a country for which Nature has done
almost everything.
“But it is ever singularly thus. Inherent ignorance belongs to man; and
The Agent, in his Continental travels, has always remarked, that the
countries most fertile in themselves were invariably worse tilled than
those more barren. The Italians and the Spaniards leave their fields to
Nature, as we leave our vegetables, fish, and meat. And, heavens! what
richness do we fling away, what dormant qualities in our dishes do
we disregard,--what glorious gastronomic crops (if the Agent may
be permitted the expression)--what glorious gastronomic crops do we
sacrifice, allowing our goodly meats and fishes to lie fallow! 'Chance,'
it is said by an ingenious historian, who, having been long a secretary
in the East India House, must certainly have had access to the best
information upon Eastern matters--'Chance,' it is said by Mr.
Charles Lamb, 'which burnt down a Chinaman's house, with a litter of
sucking-pigs that were unable to escape from the interior, discovered to
the world the excellence of roast-pig.' Gunpowder, we know, was invented
by a similar fortuity.” [The reader will observe that my style in the
supposed character of a Gastronomic Agent is purposely pompous and
loud.] “So, 'tis said, was printing,--so glass.--We should have drunk
our wine poisoned with the villanous odor of the borachio, had not
some Eastern merchants, lighting their fires in the Desert, marked the
strange composition which now glitters on our sideboards, and holds the
costly produce of our vines.
“We have spoken of the natural riches of a country. Let the reader think
but for one moment of the gastronomic wealth of our country of England,
and he will be lost in thankful amazement as he watches the astonishing
riches poured out upon us from Nature's bounteous cornucopia! Look at
our fisheries!--the trout and salmon tossing in our brawling streams;
the white and full-breasted turbot struggling in the mariner's net; the
purple lobster lured by hopes of greed into his basket-prison, which
he quits only for the red ordeal of the pot. Look at whitebait, great
heavens!--look at whitebait, and a thousand frisking, glittering,
silvery things besides, which the nymphs of our native streams bear
kindly to the deities of our kitchens--our kitchens such as they are.
“And though it may be said that other countries produce the
freckle-backed salmon and the dark broad-shouldered turbot; though trout
frequent many a stream besides those of England, and lobsters sprawl
on other sands than ours; yet, let it be remembered, that our native
country possesses these altogether, while other lands only know them
separately; that, above all, whitebait is peculiarly our country's--our
city's own! Blessings and eternal praises be on it, and, of course, on
brown bread and butter! And the Briton should further remember, with
honest pride and thankfulness, the situation of his capital, of London:
the lordly turtle floats from the sea into the stream, and from the
stream to the city; the rapid fleets of all the world se donnent
rendezvous in the docks of our silvery Thames; the produce of our coasts
and provincial cities, east and west, is borne to us on the swift lines
of lightning railroads. In a word--and no man but one who, like The
Agent, has travelled Europe over, can appreciate the gift--there is no
city on earth's surface so well supplied with fish as London!
“With respect to our meats, all praise is supererogatory. Ask the
wretched hunter of chevreuil, the poor devourer of rehbraten, what they
think of the noble English haunch, that, after bounding in the Park of
Knole or Windsor, exposes its magnificent flank upon some broad silver
platter at our tables? It is enough to say of foreign venison, that THEY
ARE OBLIGED TO LARD IT. Away! ours is the palm of roast; whether of the
crisp mutton that crops the thymy herbage of our downs, or the noble ox
who revels on lush Althorpian oil-cakes. What game is like to ours? Mans
excels us in poultry, 'tis true; but 'tis only in merry England that the
partridge has a flavor, that the turkey can almost se passer de truffes,
that the jolly juicy goose can be eaten as he deserves.
“Our vegetables, moreover, surpass all comment; Art (by the means of
glass) has wrung fruit out of the bosom of Nature, such as she grants to
no other clime. And if we have no vineyards on our hills, we have gold
to purchase their best produce. Nature, and enterprise that masters
Nature, have done everything for our land.
“But, with all these prodigious riches in our power, is it not painful
to reflect how absurdly we employ them? Can we say that we are in the
habit of dining well? Alas, no! and The Agent, roaming o'er foreign
lands, and seeing how, with small means and great ingenuity and
perseverance, great ends were effected, comes back sadly to his own
country, whose wealth he sees absurdly wasted, whose energies are
misdirected, and whose vast capabilities are allowed to lie idle. . . .”
[Here should follow what I have only hinted at previously, a vivid and
terrible picture of the degradation of our table.] “. . . Oh, for a
master spirit, to give an impetus to the land, to see its great power
directed in the right way, and its wealth not squandered or hidden, but
nobly put out to interest and spent!
“The Agent dares not hope to win that proud station--to be the destroyer
of a barbarous system wallowing in abusive prodigality--to become a
dietetic reformer--the Luther of the table.
“But convinced of the wrongs which exist, he will do his humble endeavor
to set them right, and to those who know that they are ignorant (and
this is a vast step to knowledge) he offers his counsels, his active
co-operation, his frank and kindly sympathy. The Agent's qualifications
are these:-- '1. He is of one of the best families in England; and has
in himself, or through his ancestors, been accustomed to good living
for centuries. In the reign of Henry V., his maternal
great-great-grandfather, Roger de Gobylton' [the name may be varied, of
course, or the king's reign, or the dish invented], 'was the first
who discovered the method of roasting a peacock whole, with his
tail-feathers displayed; and the dish was served to the two kings at
Rouen. Sir Walter Cramley, in Elizabeth's reign, produced before
her Majesty, when at Killingworth Castle, mackerel with the famous
GOOSEBERRY SAUCE, &c.'
“2. He has, through life, devoted himself to no other study than that of
the table: and has visited to that end the courts of all the monarchs of
Europe: taking the receipts of the cooks, with whom he lives on terms of
intimate friendship, often at enormous expense to himself.
“3. He has the same acquaintance with all the vintages of the Continent;
having passed the autumn of 1811 (the comet year) on the great Weinberg
of Johannisberg; being employed similarly at Bordeaux, in 1834; at
Oporto, in 1820; and at Xeres de la Frontera, with his excellent
friends, Duff, Gordon and Co., the year after. He travelled to India and
back in company with fourteen pipes of Madeira (on board of the Samuel
Snob' East Indiaman, Captain Scuttler), and spent the vintage season in
the island, with unlimited powers of observation granted to him by the
great houses there.
“4. He has attended Mr. Groves of Charing Cross, and Mr. Giblett of
Bond Street, in a course of purchases of fish and meat; and is able at
a glance to recognize the age of mutton, the primeness of beef, the
firmness and freshness of fish of all kinds.
“5. He has visited the parks, the grouse-manors, and the principal
gardens of England, in a similar professional point of view.”
The Agent then, through his subordinates, engages to provide gentlemen
who are about to give dinner-parties--“1. With cooks to dress the
dinners; a list of which gentlemen he has by him, and will recommend
none who are not worthy of the strictest confidence.
“2. With a menu for the table, according to the price which the
Amphitryon chooses to incur.
“3. He will, through correspondence, with the various fournisseurs of
the metropolis, provide them with viands, fruit, wine, &c., sending to
Paris, if need be, where he has a regular correspondence with Messrs.
Chevet.
“4. He has a list of dexterous table-waiters (all answering to the name
of John for fear of mistakes, the butler's name to be settled according
to pleasure), and would strongly recommend that the servants of the
house should be locked in the back-kitchen or servants' hall during the
time the dinner takes place.
“5. He will receive and examine all the accounts of the
fournisseurs,--of course pledging his honor as a gentleman not to
receive one shilling of paltry gratification from the tradesmen he
employs, but to see that the bills are more moderate, and their goods of
better quality, than they would provide to any person of less experience
than himself.
“6. His fee for superintending a dinner will be five guineas: and The
Agent entreats his clients to trust ENTIRELY to him and his subordinates
for the arrangement of the repast,--NOT TO THINK of inserting dishes
of their own invention, or producing wine from their own cellars, as
he engages to have it brought in the best order, and fit for immediate
drinking. Should the Amphitryon, however, desire some particular dish
or wine, he must consult The Agent in the first case by writing, in the
second, by sending a sample to The Agent's chambers. For it is manifest
that the whole complexion of a dinner may be altered by the insertion
of a single dish; and, therefore, parties will do well to mention their
wishes on the first interview with The Agent. He cannot be called upon
to recompose his bill of fare, except at great risk to the ensemble of
the dinner and enormous inconvenience to himself.
“7. The Agent will be at home for consultation from ten o'clock until
two, earlier if gentlemen who are engaged at early hours in the City
desire to have an interview: and be it remembered, that a PERSONAL
INTERVIEW is always the best: for it is greatly necessary to know not
only the number but the character of the guests whom the Amphitryon
proposes to entertain,--whether they are fond of any particular wine or
dish, what is their state of health, rank, style, profession, &c.
“8. At two o'clock, he will commence his rounds; for as the metropolis is
wide, it is clear that he must be early in the field in some districts.
From 2 to 3 he will be in Russell Square and the neighborhood; 3 to 3
3/4, Harley Street, Portland Place, Cavendish Square, and the environs;
3 3/4 to 4 1/4, Portman Square, Gloucester Place, Baker Street, &c.;
4 1/4 to 5, the new district about Hyde Park Terrace; 5 to 5 3/4, St.
John's Wood and the Regent's Park. He will be in Grosvenor Square by 6,
and in Belgrave Square, Pimlico, and its vicinity, by 7. Parties there
are requested not to dine until 8 o'clock; and The Agent, once for all,
peremptorily announces that he will NOT go to the palace, where it is
utterly impossible to serve a good dinner.”
“TO TRADESMEN.
“Every Monday evening during the season the Gastronomic Agent proposes
to give a series of trial-dinners, to which the principal gormands of
the metropolis, and a few of The Agent's most respectable clients, will
be invited. Covers will be laid for TEN at nine o'clock precisely. And
as The Agent does not propose to exact a single shilling of profit from
their bills, and as his recommendation will be of infinite value to
them, the tradesmen he employs will furnish the weekly dinner gratis.
Cooks will attend (who have acknowledged characters) upon the same
terms. To save trouble, a book will be kept where butchers, poulterers,
fishmongers, &c. may inscribe their names in order, taking it by turns
to supply the trial-table. Wine-merchants will naturally compete every
week promiscuously, sending what they consider their best samples, and
leaving with the hall-porter tickets of the prices. Confectionery to
be done out of the house. Fruiterers, market-men, as butchers and
poulterers. The Agent's maitre-d'hotel will give a receipt to each
individual for the articles he produces; and let all remember that The
Agent is a VERY KEEN JUDGE, and woe betide those who serve him or his
clients ill!
“GEORGE GORMAND GOBBLETON.
“CARLTON GARDENS, June 10, 1842.”
Here I have sketched out the heads of such an address as I conceive a
gastronomic agent might put forth; and appeal pretty confidently to the
British public regarding its merits and my own discovery. If this be not
a profession--a new one--a feasible one--a lucrative one,--I don't
know what is. Say that a man attends but fifteen dinners daily, that
is seventy-five guineas, or five hundred and fifty pounds weekly, or
fourteen thousand three hundred pounds for a season of six months: and
how many of our younger sons have such a capital even? Let, then, some
unemployed gentleman with the requisite qualifications come forward. It
will not be necessary that he should have done all that is stated in the
prospectus; but, at any rate, let him SAY he has: there can't be much
harm in an innocent fib of that sort; for the gastronomic agent must be
a sort of dinner-pope, whose opinions cannot be supposed to err.