The turkey is certainly one of the most glorious presents made by
the new world to the old.
Those persons who always wish to know more than others, say that
the turkey was known to the ancients, and was served up at the
wedding feast of Charlemagne. They say it is an error to attribute
the importation to the Jesuits. To these paradoxes but two things
can be opposed:
1st. The name of the bird proves its origin, for at one time
America was called the West Indies.
2d. The form of the bird is altogether foreign.
A well informed man cannot be mistaken about it.
Though already perfectly satisfied, I made much deep research in
the matter. I will not inflict my studies on my readers, but will
only give them the results:
1. The turkey appeared in Europe about the end of the seventeenth
century.
2. That it was imported by the Jesuits who sent a large number
especially to a farm they had near Bouges.
3. That thence they spread gradually over France, and in many
localities a turkey to this day is called a Jesuit.
4. Only in America has the turkey been found in a wild state, (it
is unknown in Africa.)
5. That in the farms of North America, where it is very common, it
has two origins, either from eggs which have been found and
hatched or from young turkeys caught in the woods. The consequence
is they are in a state of nature and preserve almost all their
original plumage.
Overcome by this evidence I bestow on the good fathers a double
portion of gratitude, for they imported the Quinquina yet known as
"Jesuit's bark."
The same researches informed us that the turkey gradually became
acclimated in France. Well informed observers have told me that
about the middle of the last century of twenty young turkeys
scarcely ten lived, while now fourteen out of every twenty mature.
The spring rains are most unfortunate to them; the large drops of
rain striking on their tender heads destroy them.
DINDONOPHILES.
The turkey is the largest, and if not the finest, at least the
most highly flavored of the gallinaceous family.
It has also the advantage of collecting around it every class of
society.
When the virgin dresses, and farmers of our countries wish to
regale themselves in the long winter evenings, what do they roast
before the fire of the room in which the table is spread? a
turkey.
When the mechanic, when the artist, collects a few friends to
enjoy a relief which is the more grateful because it is the rarer;
what is one of the dishes always put on the table? a turkey
stuffed with Lyons sausage and with chestnuts of Lyons.
In the highest gastronomical circles, in the most select reunions,
where politics yield to dissertations on the taste, for what do
people wait? What do they wish for? a dinde truffe at the second
course. My secret memoirs tell me that its flavor has more than
once lighted up most diplomatic faces.
FINANCIAL INFLUENCE OF THE TURKEY.
The importation of turkeys became the cause of a great addition to
the public fortune, and occasioned a very considerable commerce.
By raising turkeys the farmers were able the more surely to pay
their rents. Young girls often acquired a very sufficient dowry,
and towns-folk who wished to eat them had to pay round prices for
them.
In a purely financial point of view turkeys demand much attention.
I have reason to believe, that between the first of November and
the end of February, three hundred dindon truffees are consumed
per diem. The sum total is 30,000 turkeys.
The price of every turkey in that condition is at least twenty
francs, and the sum of the whole is not less than 720,000 francs--
a very pretty sum of money. One must add a similar sum for the
fowls, pheasants, pullets and partridges, suffered in the same
way, and which are every day exhibited in the provision shops, as
a punishment for beholders who are too poor to buy them.
EXPLOIT OF THE PROFESSOR.
While I was living at Hartford, in Connecticut, I was lucky enough
to kill a wild turkey. This exploit deserves to be transmitted to
posterity, and I tell it with especial complaisance as I am myself
the hero.
An American farmer had invited me to hunt on his grounds; he lived
in the remotest part of the State, [Footnote: Brillat-Savarin uses
the French words "derrieres de l'etat" and translates them in
English, in parenthesis "Backwoods."] and promised me partridges,
grey squirrels and wild turkeys. [Footnote: He also translates in
the same manner "dindes sauvages" welp cocks.] He also permitted
me to bring a friend or two if I pleased.
One fine day in October, 1794, therefore, with a friend, I set out
with the hope of reaching the farm of Mr. Bulow, five mortal
leagues from Hartford, before night.
Though the road was hardly traced, we arrived there without
accident, and were received with that cordial hospitality
expressed by acts, for before we had been five minutes on the
farm, dogs, horses and men were all suitably taken care of.
About two hours were consumed in the examination of the farm and
its dependencies. I would describe all this if I did not prefer to
display to the reader the four buxom daughters of Mr. Bulow, to
whom our arrival was a great event.
Their ages were from sixteen to twenty-four, and there was so much
simplicity in their persons, so much activity and abandon, that
every motion seemed full of grace.
After our return from walking we sat around a well furnished
table. A superb piece of corned beef, a stewed goose, and a
magnificent leg of mutton, besides an abundance of vegetables and
two large jugs of cider, one at each end of the table, made up our
bill of fare.
When we had proven to our host, that in appetite at least, we were
true huntsmen, we began to make arrangements for our sport. He
told us where we would find game, and gave us land-marks to guide
us on our return, not forgetting farm-houses where we could obtain
refreshments.
During this conversation the ladies had prepared excellent tea, of
which we drank several cups, and were then shown into a room with
two beds, where exercise and fatigue procured us a sound sleep.
On the next day we set out rather late, and having come to the end
of the clearings made by Mr. Bulow, I found myself in a virgin
forest for the first time. The sound of the axe had never been
heard there.
I walked about with delight, observing the blessings and ravages
of time which creates and destroys, and I amused myself by tracing
all the periods on the life of an oak since the moment when its
two leaves start from the ground, until it leaves but a long black
mark which is the dust of its heart.
My companion, Mr. King, reproached me for my moodiness, and we
began the hunt. We killed first some of those pretty grey
partridges which are so round and so tender. We then knocked down
six or seven grey squirrels, highly esteemed in America, and at
last were fortunate enough to find a flock of turkeys.
They rose one after the other, flying rapidly and crying loudly.
Mr. King fired on the first and ran after it. The others were soon
out of shot. The most sluggish, of all arose at last, not ten
paces from me. It flew through an opening, I fired and it fell
dead.
One must be a sportsman to conceive the extreme pleasure this shot
caused me. I siezed on the superb bird and turned it over and over
for a quarter of an hour, until I heard my companion's voice
calling for assistance. I hurried to him and found that he called
me to aid him in looking for a turkey he claimed to have killed,
but which had disappeared.
I put my dog on the scent but he led us into an under growth, so
thick and thorny that a snake could scarcely penetrate it; I had
then to give up the search, and my companion was in a bad humor
all day long.
The rest of the day scarcely deserves the honors of printing. On
our return we lost ourselves in boundless woods, and we were in
not a little danger of having to stay out all night, when the
silvery tones of Mr. Bulow's daughters, and the deep bass of their
father, who had come to look for us, guided us home.
The four sisters were fully armed with clean dresses, new ribbons,
pretty hats, and so carefully shod that it was evident that they
had formed a high opinion of us. I tried to make myself agreeable
to the one of the ladies who took my arm, a thing she did as
naturally as if it had belonged to her jure conjugali.
When we reached the farm supper was ready, but before we sat down
to the table we drew near to a bright and brilliant fire which had
been lighted for us, though the season did not indicate that such
a a precaution was necessary. We found it very comfortable,
fatigued as we were, and were rested as if by enchantment.
This custom doubtless comes from the Indians who always have a
fire in their huts. It may be, this is a tradition of St. Francis
de Sales, who said that fire was good eleven months of the year
(non liquet).
We ate as if we were famished; a large bowl of punch enabled us to
finish the evening, and a conversation, which our host made
perfectly free, led us far into the night.
We spoke of the war of Independence, in which Mr. Bulow [Footnote:
The M. Bulow of whom Savarin speaks, is none other than Lieut.
Col. Bellows of the Connecticut Line, many of whose relations yet
remain in the Valley of the Connecticut.] had served as a field
officer of M. de La Fayette, who every day becomes greater in the
eyes of the Americans, who always designate him as "the Marquis"
of agriculture, which at that time enriched the United States, and
finally of my native land, which I loved the more because I was
forced to leave it.
When wearied of conversation the father would say to his eldest
daughter, "Maria, give us a song." She without any embarrassment
sung the American national airs. The complaints of Mary Stuart and
of Andre, all popular in America. Maria had taken a few lessons,
and in that remote country passed for a virtuosa; her singing
though, derived its charm from the quality of her voice, which was
at once clear, fresh and accentuated.
On the next day, in spite of Mr. Bulow's persuasions, we set out.
I had duties to discharge; and while the horses were being
prepared, Mr. Bulow took me aside and used these remarkable words.
"You see in me, sir, a happy man, if there be one under heaven;
all that you see here is derived from my own property. My
stockings were knit by my daughters, and my cloths were furnished
by my flocks. They also, with my garden, furnish me with an
abundance of healthy food. The greatest eulogium of our government
is, that in the State of Connecticut there are a thousand farmers
as well satisfied as I am, the doors of whom have no locks.
"Taxes are almost nothing, and as long as they be paid any one can
sleep calmly. Congress favors national industry as much as it can,
and merchants are always ready to take from us whatever we wish to
sell. I have ready money for a long time, for I have just sold at
twenty-four dollars a barrel, flour I usually receive eight for.
"All this is derived from the liberty we have acquired, and
established on good laws. I am master of my own house; and you
will not be astonished when you know that we never fear the sound
of the drum, and, except on the 4th of July, the glorious
anniversary of our Independence, neither soldiers, uniforms, nor
bayonets are seen."
On my way back I seemed absorbed by profound reflection. Perhaps
the reader may think I mused on my host's parting words; I had
very different thoughts, however, for I was studying how I should
cook my turkey. I was in some trouble, for I feared I would not
find all I needed at Hartford, and wished to make a trophy of my
spolia opima.
I make a painful sacrifice in suppressing the details of the
profound science I exhibited in the preparation of an
entertainment, to which I invited several friends. Suffice it to
say that the partridge wings were served en papillote, and the
grey squirrels stewed in madeira.
The turkey, which was our only roast dish, was charming to the
sight, flattering to the sense of smell, and delicious to taste.
Therefore, until the last fragment was eaten, there were heard
around the table, "Very good;" "Exceedingly good;" "Dear sir; what
a nice piece." [Footnote: The flesh of the wild turkey is more
highly colored and more perfumed than the domestic fowl. I am glad
to learn that my amiable colleague, M. Bosc, had killed many in
Carolina, which he found excellent, and far better than those in
Europe. He therefore recommends that they be allowed the largest
liberty, that they be driven into the woods and fields, to enhance
the flavor and bring it as nearly as possible back to the original
species.--Annales d'Agriculture cah. du 28 Fevr. 1821.] By game we
mean all wild animals which are fit to eat, and live in a state of
natural liberty.
We say fit to eat, because many animals which are in a state of
nature are not fit to eat. Such as foxes, crows, pies, wild-cats,
etc. They are called in French Betes puantes vermin.
Game is divided into three series.
The first contains all birds, from the grive to the smallest of
the feathered tribe.
The second ascends from the rail to the snipe, partridge, and
pheasant, including the rabbit and the hare; it is divided into
three categories, of the marsh, hairy, and feathered.
The third, which bears the name of venison, is composed of the
wild-boar, kid, and all other horny-footed cattle.
Game is one of the great luxuries of our tables; it is a healthy,
warm, highly-flavored and high tasted flesh, easily digested,
whenever one is hungry.
These qualities, however, are not so inherent as not to a certain
degree to depend on the skill of the cook. Put some water, salt
and beef into a pot, and you can obtain from them a very good
soup. Substitute venison for the beef, and the result will not be
fit to eat. Butcher's meat, in this respect, has the advantage.
Under the manipulation, however, of a skilful cook, game undergoes
various modifications and transformations, and furnishes the
greater portions of the dishes of the transcendental kitchen.
Game derives, also, a great portion of its value from the soil on
which it is fed. The taste of a Perigord partridge is very
different from that of one from Sologne, and the hare killed in
the vicinity of Paris is a very different dish from one shot on
the hills of Valromey or upper Dauphiny. The latter is probably
the most perfumed of all beasts.
Among small birds, beyond all doubt, the best is the "beccafico."
It becomes at least as fat as the red-throat or the ortolan, and
nature has besides given it a slight bitterness, and a peculiar
and exquisite perfume, which enables it to fill and delight all
the gustatory organs. Were the beccafico as large as a pheasant,
an acre of land would be paid for it.
It is a pity this bird is so rare, that few others than those who
live in the southern departments of France, know what it is.
[Footnote: I am inclined to think the bird is utterly unknown in
America.--TRANSLATOR.] Few people know how to eat small birds. The
following method was imparted confidentially to me by the Canon
Charcot, a gourmand by profession, and a perfect gastronome,
thirty years before the word gastronomy was invented:
Take a very fat bird by the bill and sprinkle it with salt, take
out the entrailles, I mean gizzard, liver, etc., and put it whole
in your mouth. Chew it quickly, and the result will be a juice
abundant enough to permeate the whole organ. You will then enjoy a
pleasure unknown to the vulgar.
"Odi profanum vulgus et arceo." HORACE.
The quail, of all game properly so-called, is the nicest and the
most pleasant. A very fat quail is pleasant both to eat, see, and
smell. Whenever it is either roasted, or served en papillote, a
great folly is committed, because its perfume is very volatile,
and when ever in contact with a liquid, its flavor is dissolved
and lost.
The snipe is a charming bird, but few people know all its charms.
It is in its glory only when it has been cooked under the
huntsman's eyes; and the huntsman must have killed it. Then the
roast is perfected according to rule, and the mouth is inundated
with pleasure.
Above the preceding, and above all others, the pheasant should be
placed. Few mortals, however, know exactly how to cook it.
A pheasant eaten only a week after its death is not good as a
partridge or a pullet, for its merit consists in its aroma.
Science has considered the expansion of this aroma, experience has
utilised science, so that a pheasant ready for the spit is a dish
fit for the most exalted gourmands.
In the varieties will be found a recipe for roasting a pheasant, a
la Sainte Alliance. The time has come when this method, hitherto
concentrated in a small circle of friends, should be made known
for the benefit of humanity. A pheasant with truffles is not good
as one would be apt to think it. The bird is too dry to actuate
the tubercle, and the scent of the one and the perfume of the
other when united neutralize each other--or rather do not suit.