after a bad day on the Stock Exchange, although there is little of the
Poor Man about it save the name.
Put a finely-shredded onion and a walnut of butter in the Chafing Dish
and fry to a light brown colour, then add a heaped teaspoonful of flour
and stir well; pour in a pint of stock, add pepper and salt to taste.
Peel and slice a potato and scatter it in the soup; let the mixture
come to a boil, and then allow it to simmer for ten minutes. Just
before serving stir into it the yolk of an egg, well beaten up, and a
dozen sippets of dry toast. This is a soothing and easy soup, but it
requires the stockpot, unless you make use of one of the many varieties
of concentrated bouillon or beef-tea, which certainly save a lot of
trouble.
Palestine Soup.
Another simple soup, which moreover has the advantage of not requiring
stock, is Palestine or Jerusalem Artichoke soup. By the way, we misname
this vegetable strangely. It was imported into Great Britain from
Italy, and being the tuber of a variety of sunflower, is there termed
_Girasole_, because the flower turns to the sun. We, in our insular
ignorance, corrupted _Girasole_ to _Jerusalem_, and then, wishing to
refine the latter word, committed a further solecism by calling the
soup made therefrom _Palestine_ soup. Could any little exercise in
culinary etymology be more ridiculous, or more typical?
Pick out six good-sized Jerusalem artichokes, boil them in the Chafing
Dish with a pinch of salt; when quite soft, put them through a fine
sieve and place the extract on one side. Then put a pint of milk in the
dish and boil it with a teaspoonful of Paprika pepper, two cloves and a
dash of nutmeg, and a couple of sprigs of parsley. Let it boil up for
a minute and then strain it, and also put it aside. Melt a walnut of
butter in the dish and stir into it a dessert-spoonful of corn-flour,
to which add the strained milk, and, lastly, the artichoke extract,
keeping the spirit-lamp flame low, so that the mixture shall not boil.
When it has simmered for five minutes and become thoroughly amalgamated
the soup is ready to serve, and very good it is, or ought to be, if
the cooking has been artfully and carefully carried out.
Creçy (Carrot) Soup.
Carrot Soup is not only excessively nice and nourishing, but it has
also a curious historical interest. The best French carrots come from
the neighbourhood of Creçy, and Carrot Soup is therefore generally
known as Creçy Soup. Now the famous battle of that name, where Edward
the Black Prince won his three-feather badge and motto of _Ich Dien_,
was fought on Saturday, August 26, 1346, and Court gossip relates that
to this day the Prince of Wales has Creçy Soup for dinner every 26th of
August. I am unable to verify the statement, but trust that it may be
true; anyway it is a pretty fable.
To make Carrot Soup, cut up three or four fair-sized carrots into thin
round slices, put them in the Chafing Dish with a wineglass of sherry,
two cloves, a sprinkling of nutmeg, and a good bunch of parsley; pour
over it a cupful of stock and let it nearly boil, but not quite. When
the carrots are quite soft and almost pulpy, mash them well in a
soup-plate and, discarding anything hard in the mixture, replace it
in the Chafer with two more cups of stock, a teaspoon of sugar, and
just before it boils drop in a walnut of butter, and take it off the
flame. Toasted dice are the usual accompaniment, and the soup, if well
concocted, is very hard to beat for honest, toothsome fare.
The menus of three Buckingham Palace dinners tell me that his Majesty
the King partook of Bisque d’Ecrevisse on May 30, 1902, of Clear
Turtle or Cold Consommé on June 2, and of Consommé Riche on June 13.
The second of these quotations is from the interesting programme of
the fare offered to the members of the Jockey Club at the King’s Derby
Dinner, one item of which was Cassolettes à la Jockey Club, presumably
a creation of his Majesty’s chef, Monsieur Ménager.
President Loubet was less lucky when he went on his visit to Algiers in
April 1903. After a review of ten thousand native horsemen at Krieder,
he was tendered a native banquet by the chiefs, which began with
Locust Soup. But even this is not so unappetising as the recipe of a
Monsieur Dagin, an entomologist, for Cockroach Soup. It is made thus:
“Pound your cockroaches in a mortar; put them in a sieve and pour in
boiling water or beef-stock. Connoisseurs prefer this to real bisque.”
Possibly; but I do not recommend it for the Chafing Dish.
On the other hand, real bird’s-nest soup is a great luxury. As
Consommé aux Nids d’Hirondelles it occasionally appears on a menu; and
the Chinese, I understand, call it Yen-War-Gung. There is a subtle
taste of the sea in the gelatinous lining of the swallow’s nest,
which is exquisite and delicate. The Japanese make a soup from black
seaweed, but I cannot speak of it from experience. There lies before
me a curious Latin menu of a feast given by, or to, certain German
professors whose culinary Latin seems to me to be a trifle canine. Two
lines of it read “Sorbitio cum globulis jecoralibus et lucanicis,” and
“Jus et linguis bovinis factum cum panificio.” These I take to mean
liver soup with sausage, and ox-tongue soup with bread.
But esoteric food-stuffs are more interesting for their quaintness
than for any intrinsic merit, and I prefer to turn to the degustation
of a Potage Germiny, for instance. This is the invention of the great
Casimir, of the Maison d’Or, who has placed it on record that “the
happiest day of my life was the day on which I invented the Potage
Germiny. It is made of sorrel, the yolks of eggs, and cream. It was
for a dinner given by the Marquis de Saint-Georges, the author of
‘Les Mousquetaires de la Reine.’ I had racked my brains to discover
something wonderful, unique; and finally I evolved the potage. When the
Marquis had tasted it he sent for me. I never saw a man more moved.
He threw his arms around me and exclaimed in unutterable accents:
‘Casimir, this is not a soup; it is a masterpiece!’”
This is a veritable human document.
William the Conqueror had a cook called Tezelin, who one day served
him with a white soup called Dillegrout. His Majesty was so pleased
that he made Tezelin Lord of the Manor of Addington. Good cooks were
appreciated thenadays. But we have lost the recipe for Dillegrout.
Attempts have often been made to cook according to ancient recipes, but
rarely with success. The curious in these matters may be referred to
Smollett’s observations in “Peregrine Pickle” on certain experiments
to cook practically according to the recipes of Apicius. They ended
disastrously.
A last word on soup. The French _cuisine bourgeoise_ (the best in the
world) believes in good strong meat for its soups, and not, as we
erroneously suppose, makes shift--and good shift too--out of any odds
and ends; “any old thing,” as the Americans say. On the contrary, _pour
faire sourire le pot-au-feu_ (delightful expression!) you must have
good material, and plenty of it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CHAPTER· IV·
FISH·]
“In a restaurant, when a waiter offers you turbot, ask for salmon, and
when he offers you a sole, order a mackerel; as language to man, so
fish has been given to the waiter to disguise his thoughts.”--P. Z.
DIDSBURY.
The fish of Great Britain is, beyond all manner of doubt, the very best
in the world. It is, therefore, only right and proper that its original
flavour should be preserved by simply boiling or frying it, and eating
it with what some of the old cook-books call its “Analogies,” which
presumably means its traditional accompaniments: lemon, brown bread and
butter, and so much as may be of its own liquor, or a Court Bouillon of
the simplest. There are so many ways of spoiling fish that the Chafer
can never go far wrong if he rejects all but the most primitive,
although it is not necessary to revert to the aboriginal braising upon
the hot ashes of a nearly extinct wood fire, without the intervention
of any implement of stone or earthenware whatever. This method is,
however, still in practice to-day in many parts of Portugal (and
possibly elsewhere) before the doors of the houses of the wage-earners,
and in the taverns of the commoner folks.
Without going to extremes, there is a decent self-respecting kind of
cookery, to the value and charm of which the great Carême refers in his
“Cuisinier Français” (1828), and which he calls, appropriately enough,
_le genre mâle et élégant_.
The genius of Carême, however, occasionally led him to a state of
self-appreciation which is supreme in its bathos. He says, for
instance, in a kind of retrospect of his contributions to the culinary
art: “I contemplated from behind my ovens the kitchens of India, China,
Egypt, Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany and Switzerland, and I felt their
ignoble fabric of routine crumbling under my critical blows.” These
are, indeed, “prave ’orts!”
Herrings are extraordinarily healthy--and cheap. They are caught by the
million--who also eat them; and whether fresh or dried, raw or salted,
they are one of Nature’s delicacies. Fresh herrings offer the largest
amount of nutriment for one penny of any kind of animal food. A fresh
herring weighing 4½ ozs. contains 240 grains of carbon and 36 grains
of nitrogen; and a dried herring weighing 3 oz. contains 269 grains of
carbon and 41 grains of nitrogen. It is obvious by this what smoking
will do by decreasing weight and increasing nutriment.
Red herrings are by no means to be despised, though it is a mistake
to imagine that they are caught in a state of redness. In that fine
old book, “The Yarmouth Fisherman,” which is not much read nowadays,
piscator says to the tourist: “Sir, we lay ourselves out to oblige all
the gents that come from London, but we cannot make a red herring swim.”
Thereanent is a quaint signboard outside the Schifferhaus in the old
Hanseatic town of Lübeck, one of the most beautiful taverns in the
world, and the haunt of old sea-dogs since the sixteenth century.
The signboard represents a fisherman and two amateurs angling from a
boat; the former has caught a fine kipper and the latter are looking
supremely disgusted. The legend under the picture runs: “One Cannot
Please Everybody.”
Kippers and their kin have never lacked admirers, and it is on record
that the Emperor Charles V. made a pilgrimage to the tomb of the
venerable Dutchman who is supposed to have invented pickled herrings.
Fried Herrings.
To come from herrings in the abstract to herrings in the concrete,
try this in Chaffinda: Two very fresh herrings, very clean and dry.
Fry them in three tablespoons of oil or two of butter, with a squeeze
of lemon, salt, pepper, six peppercorns and a tablespoon of vinegar.
After they have cooked for eight minutes put the fish aside in a hot
dish. Then cut a good-sized Spanish onion into rings, fry these in the
oil left by the herrings till they are of a dark brown colour, taking
great care not to burn them. When ready, which should be in about six
minutes, heap them round the herrings and serve with quarters of lemon.
This is a lordly dish, and if properly concocted it leaves you in that
state that you will love all mankind--and even tolerate the Chinese.
Dean Nowell, or Noel, a clerical Izaak Walton, and Dean of St. Paul’s
(1507-1602) said that the only thing wrong with the herring was that
it preferred the sea to the river. The Dean angled much in the Ash
at Hadham; he wrote the Church Catechism, invented bottled beer (by
accident), and fished for perch and souls. Peace be to his!
There are as many ways of cooking the herring as there are days in the
year; even Bismarck invented one, but there are other fish in the sea
which demand Chaffinda’s attention, and however enticing the subject
may be, it will not do to linger over it.
The lordly salmon was not always so honoured in its exclusiveness as
it is to-day. In our grandfathers’ time it was still frequenting the
Thames, and London servants, when engaged, used to stipulate that they
were not to be fed on it more than twice a week.
Chafed Salmon.
This is as good a way as any of treating the salmon in the Chafing Dish:
Put two tablespoonsful of butter in the pan and when it is melting stir
in gradually a tablespoon of flour, and keep on stirring till it is
smooth; add a wineglass of water, the juice of a whole lemon, a small
onion cut in rings, and the yolks of two eggs, hard-boiled and mashed
up. When all these ingredients are well mixed, put in a thick slice
of previously boiled cold salmon, simmer it for eight minutes. Tinned
salmon, of the very best brands only, may also be used, and the result
is fairly satisfactory, but tinned goods are of course only a _pis
aller_ at best.
They do say that the Devil never goes to Cornwall because they put
everything into a pie down there, and he is afraid he might be put
into one too. I heard of Stargazer Pie in Cornwall, and imagined that
it referred to the Riviera fish which is not succulent--indeed, barely
edible. But I learned that Stargazer Pie is really Pilchard Pie, the
heads of the fish popping up through the crust.
Cod Pudding.
A good Cornish way of cooking cod is to make a pudding of it, which is
quite chaffable. Use a thick slice of cold cooked cod. Remove skin and
bones and flake it up smallish with a couple of forks. Put it in the
Chafing Dish with two tablespoons of butter and one of chopped onions;
hot it up, and whilst heating (lower the flame before actual boiling)
add gradually enough milk to make the fish of the consistency of mashed
potatoes; add pepper and salt, and serve it with sippets of toast. It
will like you much.
Souchet of Sprats.
Now for sprats; a good supper dish, and eke for breakfast too, because
they are so fat that no butter or oil is required, but plenty of
salt and pepper. Buy a pint of fresh sprats, soak and dry them very
carefully, handling them as little as possible. Cook them as a water
souchet or Zootje, an old Dutch method, formerly much honoured at
Greenwich fish dinners, and originally made of flounders. But flounders
are not convenient for a Chafing Dish, so you must perforce fall back
on sprats. Don’t slip!
Cut off the heads and tails of the sprats and put them into the pan
with a cupful of thin bouillon, three sprigs of parsley, half a sliced
carrot, and plenty of salt and pepper. Let this boil up for ten
minutes. Take it off; strain the liquor, return the fish to the pan
with three more sprigs of parsley and another sliced half carrot. Boil
up again for five minutes this time. A squeeze of lemon and a glass of
sherry to be added just before serving, of course with the sauce round
the fish.
It has always been said, although it is scarcely provable, that fish,
owing to the phosphorus, is good as a brainmaker. A visitor at a
Devonshire fishing village asked the parson what was the principal diet
of the villagers. “Fish mostly,” said the Vicar. “But I thought fish
was a brain food, and these are the most unintelligent folk I ever
saw,” remarked the tourist. “Well,” replied the parson, “just think
what they would look like if they didn’t eat fish!”
In America the lobster is a frequent victim of the Chafing Dish, and
there are many and diverse ways of torturing his succulent flesh
therein. I will give three recipes of a more simple nature, all of
which have been tried and proven not guilty of indigestion. I should
premise, however, that to my individual taste a lobster is only really
good in two ways. First, plain boiled and eaten cold with a vinaigrette
sauce; and, secondly, as a simple salad with lettuce and perchance a
stray tomato. However, there may be others with different tastes, and
to such I commend the following:
Buttered Lobster.
First, Buttered Lobster. Beat up two egg yolks with two tablespoons of
butter until it makes a smooth cream; add a wineglass of milk or cream,
a pinch of black pepper, and half a teaspoon of Paprika. Put it in the
Chafing Dish with the meat of a lobster cut into inch pieces, add the
coral. Let it simmer for ten minutes, keeping the flame well under
control.
Polly Lobster.
The next recipe is called Polly Lobster, and it is toothsome. Cut up
the lobster into inch lumps, put it in the dish with two or three
tablespoons of salad oil, according to its size; add three or four
whole onions, a small bunch of chives, pepper and salt, a wineglass of
sherry, and three quartered tomatoes. Let it boil up for a couple of
minutes, squeeze a lemon over it, and serve.
Flattered Lobster.
The last variation on the lobster theme is somewhat elaborate. It
is termed Flattered Lobster, the reason being, I opine, because of
the many added attractions to the crustacean’s native simplicity. It
is not quite orthodox perhaps, but extraordinarily nice. Cut up the
meat of a large lobster into cubes. Make a mixture of two tablespoons
of Worcester sauce, the same of vinegar, a wineglass of claret, a
dessertspoon of made mustard (French for choice), salt and Paprika to
taste. Put the lobster in the Chafer and pour the mixture over it,
adding a tablespoon of butter and the like of flour. Let it all heat up
gently and slowly; that is, begin with a full flame and reduce after
five minutes. Then pour in a liqueur glass of brandy, and heat it up
again with full flame for eight minutes, stirring it all the time. The
result is surprising.
A fish story which is not without charm is told of a seaside village
school of very rough fishing lads. The teacher gave them this sum to
do: “If two herrings cost three half-pence, what would thirty cost?”
After ten minutes’ hard work he noticed one of the boys had filled his
copy-book full of figures. “Well, Jim, what’s your answer?” “Please,
teacher, ’alf a crown.” “Wrong, Jim, try again. If two herrings----”
“Wait a bit, teacher,” the lad interrupted, “’errings you said. ’Ow
silly of me; I was a-reckoning of ’em like ’addocks.”
Prawns lend themselves most kindly to Chafing-Dish cookery, and can be
treated in sundry appetising ways. Fresh prawns are of course quite the
best, but the Barataria canned article is not to be despised, if they
be carefully washed before using; and there are one or two brands of
bottled prawns which cook excellently.
Digestive Prawns.
Shell two dozen prawns, put them in the Chafing Dish with half a pint
of milk, half a teaspoon of Paprika, a pinch of salt, and a sprinkling
of nutmeg. Keep stirring till near boiling-point, then lower the flame;
add a glass of sherry and two beaten eggs; simmer for eight minutes,
and then serve on toast.
Prawn Wiggle.
The next is an American recipe and rejoices in the name of Prawn
Wiggle. Melt three tablespoons of butter in the dish, and two
tablespoons of flour mixed with a teaspoon of salt and a good pinch
of pepper. Stir up and then pour in gradually half a pint of milk.
As soon as the sauce thickens add a cupful of prawns and a cupful of
cold cooked green peas. Mix up well and simmer for eight minutes. The
pink and green form a delightsome colour blend, suggesting certain
well-known racing colours, and the combined flavours are most delicate.
But why “wiggle”? Well, why not?
Prawns on the Grass.
Prawns on the Grass is recommendable, easy, and decorative for the
supper-table. Butter lightly the bottom of the Chafing Dish, half
fill it with carefully prepared cooked cold spinach; on this put a
dozen prawns, two eggs, hard-boiled and cut in quarters; arrange these
symmetrically, add pepper, salt, and a cupful of milk. Cover up and
let it simmer steadily for ten to twelve minutes. Serve in the Chafing
Dish with sippets of toast.
It is impossible to treat here of the delectable crayfish, crawfish,
and langouste; they are all cookable and easily digested. Best of all,
perhaps, are the Oder Krebse, and the Swedish Kräftor, with their
delightful and unique flavour and sweetness, but they must be eaten
near where they are born in order to be appreciated.
In the company of chaste Chaffinda it is easy to enjoy a _maigre_
day, for she deals so delicately with fish that one is almost tempted
to envy the days of “Cecil’s Fast.” It will be remembered that Lord
Burleigh introduced a Bill to enjoin the eating of fish only on certain
days, on all creeds alike, in order to restore the fish trade.
It would be highly improper to devote a chapter to fish without
referring to Vatel committing suicide on his sword (or was it a
skewer?), but the story is as stale as the fish would be when it did
arrive after all. A century ago his memory was rather painfully
honoured by roasted slices of cod on a spit, the dish being called _à
la Vatel_.
To many worthy folk, painters in particular, the magic word trout
immediately suggests Varnishing Day at the Paris Salon, and _déjeuner_
at Ledoyen’s. Trout with green sauce is the staple traditional dish
of the day. A couple of years ago I had the curiosity to inquire how
much was eaten, and the _maître d’hôtel_ gave me the following figures:
250 lbs. of trout; 15 gallons of green sauce; 120 chickens; 80 ducks;
40 saddles of lamb; 170 bundles of asparagus; and 100 baskets of
strawberries. Besides this, the usual thousand and one odds and ends
of a miscellaneous _carte du jour_. Painters have proverbially good
appetites.
Oysters.
Purposely, and of _malice prepense_, I am carefully omitting all
mention of the cooking of oysters in any shape or form. I consider
it _néfaste_--almost sacrilegious. Our natives are so exquisitely
succulent, so absolutely perfect in their delicacy, that to paint the
lily or to gild refined gold were pickaninny peccadilloes compared
to the cooking of the oyster. It is different, I believe, in the
United States of America, where there are various kinds of oysters,
some requiring, almost demanding, cooking to render them palatable.
Transatlantic cookery books are full of oyster recipes, in many of
which the true oyster flavour must be entirely obliterated by the
superadded condiments. This may be a question of gastronomic supply and
demand. But my humble Chafing Dish shall not be defiled by the torture
of the innocent bivalve. _Dixi!_
Trout in Small Broth.
To return to trout. The fresh-water fish, the darling product of
the stream, cannot be too respectfully approached, whether from an
angling or a culinary point of view. Izaac Walton, in his inimitable
charm and wisdom, has much to say thereon. Unfortunately his methods
are impracticable in a Chafing Dish. I find the best way to treat a
trout is with a Court Bouillon. This is how to make it: Mix a glass
of sherry, a tablespoon of vinegar, a glass of water, two bay leaves,
a dozen peppercorns, a bunch of parsley, a sliced onion, and a pinch
of salt. Amalgamate these materials thoroughly. Have your trout well
cleaned and dried. Pop him into the Chafing Dish and cover him with the
Court Bouillon. Let it cook slowly but steadily for twenty minutes.
Then eat it with thanks and praise.
Smothered Turbot.
Here is a good way of preparing the remains of turbot. It is called
Smothered Turbot, and is founded on an old Hastings fishwife’s recipe.
Butter the inside of the Chafing Dish; spread thereon a layer of bread
crumbs, chopped mushrooms, parsley, cut-up lemon peel, pepper and salt.
Break up the cold cooked turbot small and make a second layer thereof.
Add two tablespoons of butter, and then another layer the same as the
first. Heat up and keep at a good heat for twelve minutes. Serve it in
the Chafing Dish.
Sardines in a Hurry.
Sardines are one of the handiest of standbys for the Chafist. But get
the best brands and smallish fish; the large ones are apt to suggest
pilchards, which, although good in their way, are not sardines.
Sardines in a Hurry are done thusly: Take the sardines out of the box
carefully on to a plate, pour boiling water over them, and drain it
off at once. Take off all the skin, bone them, and cut off the tails.
Prepare thin strips of hot buttered toast, put a sardine on each strip,
pepper and salt it, pour over it a modicum of plain melted butter and a
squeeze of lemon juice. Put them into the Chafing Dish and hot up for
five minutes.
Waldorf Sardines.