As so often when my thought has gone forth in praise of things English, I
find myself tormented by an after-thought--the reflection that I have
praised a time gone by. Now, in this matter of English meat. A
newspaper tells me that English beef is non-existent; that the best meat
bearing that name has merely been fed up in England for a short time
before killing. Well, well; we can only be thankful that the quality is
still so good. Real English mutton still exists, I suppose. It would
surprise me if any other country could produce the shoulder I had
yesterday.
Who knows? Perhaps even our own cookery has seen its best days. It is a
lamentable fact that the multitude of English people nowadays never taste
roasted meat; what they call by that name is baked in the oven--a totally
different thing, though it may, I admit, be inferior only to the right
roast. Oh, the sirloin of old times, the sirloin which I can remember,
thirty or forty years ago! That was English, and no mistake, and all the
history of civilization could show nothing on the table of mankind to
equal it. To clap that joint into a steamy oven would have been a crime
unpardonable by gods and man. Have I not with my own eyes seen it
turning, turning on the spit? The scent it diffused was in itself a cure
for dyspepsia.
It is very long since I tasted a slice of boiled beef; I have a suspicion
that the thing is becoming rare. In a household such as mine, the
"round" is impracticable; of necessity it must be large, altogether too
large for our requirements. But what exquisite memories does my mind
preserve! The very colouring of a round, how rich it is, yet how
delicate, and how subtly varied! The odour is totally distinct from that
of roast beef, and yet it is beef incontestable. Hot, of course with
carrots, it is a dish for a king; but cold it is nobler. Oh, the thin
broad slice, with just its fringe of consistent fat!
We are sparing of condiments, but such as we use are the best that man
has invented. And we know _how_ to use them. I have heard an impatient
innovator scoff at the English law on the subject of mustard, and demand
why, in the nature of things, mustard should not be eaten with mutton.
The answer is very simple; this law has been made by the English
palate--which is impeccable. I maintain it is impeccable! Your educated
Englishman is an infallible guide in all that relates to the table. "The
man of superior intellect," said Tennyson--justifying his love of boiled
beef and new potatoes--"knows what is good to eat"; and I would extend it
to all civilized natives of our country. We are content with nothing but
the finest savours, the truest combinations; our wealth, and happy
natural circumstances, have allowed us an education of the palate of
which our natural aptitude was worthy. Think, by the bye, of those new
potatoes, just mentioned. Our cook, when dressing them, puts into the
saucepan a sprig of mint. This is genius. No otherwise could the
flavour of the vegetable be so perfectly, yet so delicately, emphasized.
The mint is there, and we know it; yet our palate knows only the young
potato.