Cooking is a gift, not an art. Eating is an art, not a gift. In
combination a grace is developed. No great culinary triumph was ever
perfected by accident.
Charles Lamb’s essay on roast pig was responsible for a tidal wave
of burnt pork that swept over England in the nineteenth century.
Mr. Lamb led a hungry empire to the belief that only through an
act of incendiarism could a suckling porker be converted into a
delicacy; whereas, as a matter of fact, the perfection of roast pork,
golden-brown and unseared by fire, were possible only in the oven.
Lucullus, the good Roman gourmet, had his meals cooked in a mint.
He required that his masterpieces be served on gold and silver and
crystal, and spread on a table of lapis lazuli. The sauces compiled for
him were worth more than the food upon which they were poured. He was
the high priest of extravagance and luxury. A single meal stood him a
fortune. He had more regard for the cost than for the cooking. It is
said that his death was hastened by dyspepsia.
* * * * *
In the early seventies a French nobleman, living in the neighborhood
of Barbizon, was found seated at the table with his face in a plate
of soup. Because of the fact that a butcher knife had been inserted
via the back between his fourth and fifth rib on the left side, he was
quite dead. Clues led nowhere. It became one of the mysteries.
Long afterward an old man tottered into the office of the Prefect and
announced that he wished to make a confession.
“Proceed,” said the official.
“’Twas I,” responded the ancient, “who delivered the death stroke to
the Duke de la —— thirty-five years ago.”
“What inspired you to make this confession?”
“Pride.”
“I do not comprehend. The details, if you please.”
“By profession I was a chef,” said the self-accused. “The Duke, at a
fabulous price, enticed me into his service. His first request was that
I make for him a perfect consomme. _Voilà!_ For three days I prepared
this perfection. With my own hand I placed before him the soup tureen.
With my own hand I ladled it out. He inhaled its divine essence; and
then, Your Honor, _he reached for the salt_. _Mon Dieu!_ I destroy him!”
The Prefect embraced the artist and took him out to lunch. Thus art
was vindicated and the incident closed. In the chemistry of cooking,
“enough is too much.”
* * * * *
The immortals who have contributed recipes to this volume were born
with a silver spoon not in their mouths, but in their hands. The cap
and apron, not the cap and bells, is the garb in which they perform.
Secrets handed down through generations are thrown with a wanton hand
on the pages that comprise this volume. Sauces from the south, chowders
from New England, barbecued masterpieces from the west, grilled
classics from field and stream, ragouts, stews, desserts, dressings
are hung within reach of all, like garlic clusters from the rafters of
opportunity. Reach up and help yourself.
Be not disturbed by occasional jocund phrases in this symposium. Behind
them is probably concealed a savory or a flavor. A long paragraph
may conclude with full particulars concerning the architecture of a
gastronomic dream. Turn the pages slowly lest you be overwhelmed by the
richness of the menu.
* * * * *
The late King Edward, upon bidding the later Carlos of Portugal
God-speed back to his native shores, inquired: “By what were you most
impressed during your visit to the British Isles?”
“Roast beef,” said Carlos, expanding in ecstasy.
“And what else?” inquired Edward.
“Well,” said Carlos, “the boiled beef wasn’t so damned bad.”
* * * * *
It is one thing to cook food, and another to consume it. This inspired
tome is the product of cooks who are not afraid to take their own
medicine. The names of many of the dishes catalogued herein lies on the
tongues of the mob, but the delicacies themselves do not. This book
brings within the reach of all opportunities that up to now have been
denied them. Given a first class stove, a few simple ingredients and a
copy of this book, hunger can be abolished wherever English is read.
* * * * *
Rossini, the musician, also a chef, after writing the score of _The
Barber of Seville_, was informed by the director that a prelude
was required immediately. Rossini repaired to his kitchen, cooked
himself a perfect dinner, consumed it alone, and went to bed where
in a reclining position with score sheets all about him, he wrote a
brilliant introduction to his brilliant opera. Suddenly a gust of wind
entered unbidden at the window and scattered the precious sheets about
the room. Several disappeared through the lattice. Rossini, heavy
with the consequences of his culinary genius, re-wrote a fresher and
better prelude, tucked it under his corpulent person and rolled over
for a final nap, after which he hastened to the opera house with his
masterpiece. His best work was done on a full stomach.
* * * * *
Brillat-Savarin, author of “Gastronomy as a Fine Art,” rather
whimsically names “Gasteria” the tenth and fairest of the Muses. The
writers of this book name her as the first.