[Picture: The cook] I DO not remember who was the author of the
observation that a great nation in a state of decay betakes itself to the
fine arts. Perhaps no one has made the observation yet. It is certainly
among the records of my brain, but I may possibly have put it there
myself. If so, I make it now, for the possibilities of originality are
getting scarce and will soon disappear from the face of the earth as
completely as the mastodon. The present application of the saying is to
the people of Goa, who, while they carry through the world patronymics
which breathe of conquest and discovery, devote their energies rather to
the violin and the art of cookery. The caviller may object to the
application of the words “fine art” to culinary operations, but the
objection rests on superficial thought. A deeper view will show that art
is in the artist, not in his subject or his materials. Perusal of the
Codes of the Financial Department showed me many years ago that the
retrenchment of my pay and allowances could be elevated to a fine art by
devotion of spirit, combined with a fine sense of law. And to Domingo
the preparation of dinner is indeed a fine art. Trammel his genius,
confine him within the limits of what is commonly called a “plain
dinner,” and he cannot cook. He stews his meat before putting it into a
pie, he thickens his custard with flour instead of eggs, he roasts a leg
of mutton by boiling it first and doing “littlee brown” afterwards; in
short, what does he not do? It is true of all his race. How loathsome
were Pedro’s mutton chops, and Camilo could not boil potatoes decently
for a dinner of less than four courses. But let him loose on a _burra
khana_, give him _carte blanche_ as to sauces and essences and spicery,
and all his latent faculties and concealed accomplishments unfold
themselves like a lotus flower in the morning. No one could have
suspected that the shame-faced little man harboured such resources. If
he has not always the subtlest perception of the harmonics of flavours,
what a mastery he shows of strong effects and striking contrasts, what
fecundity of invention, what a play of fancy in decoration, what manual
dexterity, what rapidity and certainty in all his operations! And the
marvel increases when we consider the simplicity of his implements and
materials. His studio is fitted with half a dozen small fireplaces, and
furnished with an assortment of copper pots, a chopper, two tin
spoons—but he can do without these,—a ladle made of half a cocoanut shell
at the end of a stick, and a slab of stone with a stone roller on it;
also a rickety table; a very gloomy and ominous looking table, whose
undulating surface is chopped and hacked and scarred, begrimed,
besmeared, smoked, oiled, stained with juices of many substances. On
this table he minces meat, chops onions, rolls pastry and sleeps; a very
useful table. In the midst of these he hustles about, putting his face
at intervals into one of his fires and blowing through a short bamboo
tube, which is his bellows, such a potent blast that for a moment his
whole head is enveloped in a cloud of ashes and cinders, which also
descend copiously on the half-made tart and the _soufflé_ and the
custard. Then he takes up an egg, gives it three smart raps with the
nail of his forefinger, and in half a second the yoke is in one vessel
and the white in another. The fingers of his left hand are his strainer.
Every second or third egg he tosses aside, having detected, as it passed
through the said strainer that age had rendered it unsuitable for his
purposes; sometimes he does not detect this. From eggs he proceeds to
onions, then he is taking the stones out of raisins, or shelling peas.
There is a standard English cookery book which commences most of its
instructions with the formula, “wash your hands carefully, using a nail
brush.” Domingo does not observe this ceremony, but he often wipes his
fingers upon his pantaloons. It occurs to me, however, that I do not
wisely pursue this theme; for the mysteries of Domingo’s craft are no fit
subject for the gratification of an irreverent curiosity. Those words of
the poet,
“Where ignorance is bliss,
’Tis folly to be wise,”
have no truer application. You will reap the bliss when you sit down to
the savoury result.
Though Domingo is naturally shy, and does not make a display of his
attainments, he is a man of education, and is quite prepared, if you wish
it, to write out his menu. Here is a sample:—
_Soup_.
Salary Soup.
_Fis_.
Heel fish fry.
_Madish_.
Russel Pups. Wormsil mole.
_Joint_.
Roast Bastard.
_Toast_.
Anchovy Poshteg.
_Puddin_.
Billimunj. Ispunj roli.
I must take this opportunity to record a true story of a menu, though it
does not properly pertain to Domingo, but an ingenious Ramaswamy, of
Madras. This man’s master liked everything very proper, and insisted on
a written _menu_ at every meal. One morning Ramaswamy was much
embarrassed, for the principal dish at breakfast was to be devilled
turkey. “Devil very bad word,” he said to himself; “how can write?” At
last he solved the difficulty, and the dish appeared as “D—d turkey.”
Our surprise at Domingo’s attainments is no doubt due very much to the
humble attire in which we are accustomed to see him, his working dress
being a _quondam_ white cotton jacket and a pair of blue checked
pantaloons of a strong material made in jails, or two pairs, the sound
parts of one being arranged to underlie the holes in the other. When
once we have seen the gentleman dressed for church on a festival day,
with the beaver which has descended to him from his illustrious
grandfather’s benevolent master respectfully held in his hand, and his
well brushed hair shining with a bountiful allowance of cocoanut
ointment, surprise ceases. He is indeed a much respected member of
society, and enjoys the esteem of his club, where he sometimes takes
chambers when out of employment. By his fellow servants, too, he is
recognised as a professional man, and called The Maistrie, but, like
ourselves, he is an exile, and, like some of us, he is separated from his
wife and children, so his thoughts run much upon furlough and ultimate
retirement, and he adopts a humble style of life with the object of
saving money. In this object he succeeds most remarkably. Little as we
know of the home life of our Hindoo servants, we know almost less about
that of Domingo, for he rarely has his family with him. Is he a fond
husband and an indulgent father? I fancy he is when his better nature is
uppermost, but I am bound to confess that the cardinal vice of his
character is cruelty, not the passive cruelty of the pure Asiatic, but
that ferocious cruelty which generally marks an infusion of European
blood. The infusion in him has filtered through so many generations that
it must be very weak indeed, but it shows itself. When I see an
emaciated crow with the point of its beak chopped off, so that it cannot
pick up its food, or another with a tin pot fastened with wire to its
bleeding nose, I know whose handiwork is there. Domingo suffers
grievously from the depredations of crows, and when his chance comes he
enjoys a savage retribution. Some allowance must be made for the
hardening influence of his profession; familiarity with murder makes him
callous. When he executes a _moorgee_ he does it in the way of sport,
and sits, like an ancient Roman, _verso pollice_, enjoying the spectacle
of its dying struggles.
According to his lights Domingo is a religious man; that is to say, he
wears a necklace of red beads, eats fish on Fridays, observes festivals
and holidays, and gives pretty liberally to the church under pressure.
So he maintains a placid condition of conscience while his monthly
remittance to Goa exceeds the amount of his salary. He rises early on
Sunday morning to go to confession, and I would give something to have
the place, just one day, of the good father to whom he unbosoms himself.
But perhaps I am wrong. I daresay he believes he has nothing to confess.
One story more to teach us to judge charitably of Domingo. A lady was
inveighing to a friend against the whole race of Indian cooks as dirty,
disorderly, and dishonest. She had managed to secure the services of a
Chinese cook, and was much pleased with the contrast. Her friend did not
altogether agree with her, and was sceptical about the immaculate
Chinaman. “Put it to the test,” said the lady; “just let us pay a visit
to your kitchen, and then come and see mine.” So they went together.
What need to describe the _Bobberjee-Khana_? They glanced round, and
hurried out, for it was too horrible to be endured long. When they went
to the Chinaman’s kitchen, the contrast was indeed striking. The pots
and pans shone like silver; the table was positively sweet; everything
was in its proper place, and Chang himself, sitting on his box, was
washing his feet in the soup tureen!