children on the border-line of starvation. A certain exaggeratedly
selfish family man of my acquaintance, who for economic reasons lived
somewhere in the wilds of West Kensington, made it his unholy practice
to dine once a month with a couple of boon companions of the same sex
at the Carlton or Prince’s, and at the conclusion of a remarkable
dinner was wont to blurt out: “By George, I wish I could afford to
bring the wife and children here!”
Scouse.
Permit me now to suggest a trial of that very old and famous dish,
Scouse. It is prepared in the following fashion: Get one pound of
lean, dairy-fed pork, cooked and cold. Cut it into half-inch squares;
sprinkle them with flour, salt, Paprika, and dip them lightly in French
mustard. Put in the Chafing Dish three chopped onions, half a teaspoon
of sugar, one wine-glass of vinegar, three cloves, a blade of mace and
a bayleaf. Cover up and let it simmer, not boil, while the quantity
of liquid is reduced by one half. Add the pork with half a pint of
bouillon, and simmer for another ten minutes.
Young pork, like young veal, is always excellent, but it can be too
young. A sucking pig with lacklustre eye and a lemon in its jaws is
pathetic and none too appetising. Veal, in England at any rate, is
often tasteless and somewhat dull. Not so very long ago, in Ireland,
they used to kill newborn calves, bake them in an oven with potatoes,
and call the dish “Staggering Bob.”
Kabobs.
Kabobs have probably come to us from India, via the Cape. This is an
old Capetown-Malay recipe which is thoroughly reliable. Half a pound
of cold veal; the same of lean ham, both cut into slices a quarter
of an inch thick; three apples, and three onions. Cut the meat and
the vegetables into rounds with a knife or cutter, about the size of
a crown piece. Skewer them up on wooden (or, if you are a de Beers
shareholder, on silver) skewers, in the following order: (1) a round
of veal; (2) a round of apple; (3) a round of ham; (4) around of
onion. Sprinkle them with pepper, salt and curry-powder. Put them in
the Chafing Dish with a teacupful of bouillon and a walnut of butter;
simmer steadily for twenty minutes, then thicken the gravy with a
little flour, and serve either with boiled rice, or toast, or both.
Brigands’ Fowls.
Cold fowls lend themselves in a hundred ways to the kind attentions of
Chaffinda. Mention of quite a few of these must urge the gastronomer
to further experiments and discoveries. _Pollio à la Contrabandista_:
this is the way brigands cook, or ought to cook, fowls. Cut a cold
cooked fowl into neat joints. Put them into the Chafing Dish with four
tablespoons of olive oil, and heat up until the meat is of a light
brown colour, turning the pieces frequently. Then keep the flame lower
and simmering all the time; add four tomatoes cut into quarters, two
chopped green chillies, one shredded Spanish onion, one tablespoon of
Worcester sauce, the same of mushroom ketchup, and four cloves. Let it
simmer, closely covered, for at least fifteen minutes. It will then
prove a most savoury mess.
Howtowdie.
From Spain to Bonnie Scotland! This is how to cook Howtowdie. Cut up
a young fowl into handy joints. Put them into the Chafing Dish with
two walnuts of butter, a cupful of bouillon, three sprigs of parsley,
three small onions, salt and pepper. Simmer continuously until the
bird is tender. When half cooked add another cupful of bouillon to make
up for evaporation. When quite cooked put the fowl on to a hot dish,
surround it with poached eggs, then thicken the gravy in the pan with
a tablespoon of flour and a tablespoon of Worcester sauce; give it a
smart boil up and pour it over the fowl. This Howtowdie is adapted
from an excellent recipe in “The Scottish Cookery Book containing guid
plain rules for makin’ guid plain meats suitable for sma’ purses, big
families, and Scotch stomachs.”
Roman Fowl.
The preparation of Roman Fowl is simplicity itself. Pour four
tablespoons of olive oil into the Chafing Dish with a pinch of salt,
a teaspoon of Paprika, three cloves, and herbs to taste, but do not
overdo the herbs. When the oil is sizzling put in all the limbs of a
lightly boiled chicken, cut up. Cook it slowly, turning the meat so
that all the flesh is equally cooked all over. When done it should be
a delicate brown. Add half a cupful of tomato sauce and the same of
bouillon, also three shredded onions. Simmer for eight minutes, then
serve.
Creamed Chicken.
This is an American recipe, copied verbatim from an American
Chafing-Dish cookery book. Two cups cold chicken cut into small pieces,
one cup chicken stock, one cup milk or cream, two tablespoonfuls of
butter, one heaping tablespoonful of flour, salt and pepper. Cook the
butter and the flour together in the Chafing Dish; add the stock and
milk and stir until smooth; put in the chicken, salt and pepper, and
cook three minutes longer.
Other times, other manners. Contrast with the severe simplicity of the
above the sort of thing that gratified the palates of our forebears.
In the fourteenth century, Sacchetti says, a baked goose stuffed with
garlic and quinces was esteemed an excellent dish in Italy, and when
the Gonfalonier of Florence entertained a famous doctor he gave him the
stomach of a calf, boiled partridges, and pickled sardines.
Old Samuel Pepys, too, had a nice taste in food as in music, and other
things. His idea of “a fine dinner” was to this effect: “A dish of
marrowbones, a leg of mutton, a loin of veal, a dish of fowl; three
pullets and a dozen of larks, all in a dish; a great tart, a neat’s
tongue, a dish of anchovies, a dish of prawns, and cheese.”
For those who are curious in such things it is easy to find quaint
recipes in old books. For instance, if you want to know how to bake
a hedgehog in clay--and very good it is too--you have only to read
Albert Smith’s “Christopher Tadpole” and you will know all about it.
It is truly said that comparatively few people read Disraeli’s novels
nowadays, but those who are culinarily inclined would do well to turn
to the opening chapter of “Tancred,” where there is a delightful
conversation between a grand old _maître de bouche_, “Papa Prevost,”
and his pupil, the eminent chef, Leander. The pompous spirit of the
culinary artist is delightfully caught and the gastronomic jargon
wonderfully reproduced.
But gastronomy has never lacked its historians. Great painters have
come to its aid, as witness the glowing canvases of Snyders, Teniers,
Jordaens, Ruysdael, Jan Weenix, Melchior de Hondecoeter and Jan Fyt.
Their pictures of still life, the poulterers’ shops, the heaped baskets
of good cheer, the brilliant lobster, the callow lemon, the russet
hare, and the lustrous plumage of the pheasant, have inspired the hand
of the Masters, who must have appreciated all such culinary delicacies
in order to have painted them with such loving-kindness.
Yesterday’s Pheasant.
“If partridge had the woodcock’s thighs,
’Twould be the noblest bird that flies;
If woodcock had the partridge breast,
’Twould be the best bird ever drest.”
Yesterday’s Pheasant can be made into a most tempting dish by cutting
up the remains into convenient chunks, omitting the bones. Put one
tablespoon of butter in the Dish, add a tablespoon of flour, and keep
on stirring till the mixture is smooth and light brown. Add a glass of
claret, a tablespoon of Worcester sauce, pepper and salt, and bring
to a boil, stirring occasionally. Now put in the chunks of pheasant,
and simmer for eight minutes. An excellent accompaniment to this is
chestnut and celery salad.
Any game bird may be treated in like manner, save always the woodcock,
that little epitome of all that is toothsome and delicate. A curious
thing about the woodcock is its extraordinarily rapid digestion. A
single bird has been known to consume in a night more earthworms than
half filled a moderate-sized flowerpot.
Few people know the different expressions for flocks of birds. Here
are some of them: a building of rooks, a bevy of quails, a watch
of nightingales, a cast of hawks, a nide of pheasants, a muster of
peacocks, a plump of wildfowl, a flock of geese, a pack of grouse, a
chattering of choughs, a stand of plovers, and a wisp of snipe.
A woman I know had a very good cook, who was also a plain cook--or
rather, a plain-spoken cook. She had been in the place many years, and
much was forgiven her. The mistress, visiting the kitchen, inspected
a turkey, and remarked that it was a very thin bird. “Just you wait,
M’m, till I’ve stuffed it with chestnuts,” said the cook, “you won’t
know it then. It’ll be quite another thing. Just like you, M’m, when
you has your di’monds on.”
I do not advise the fabrication of elaborate entrées in the Chafing
Dish. They can be and have been done, but I mistrust them and find
ample scope for ingenuity, inventiveness, and novelty in the cates I
have already described, without venturing into the fields of fancy.
Vol-au-Vent, for instance, or Brains à la Poulette, or Spanish Cream
Pudding are all within the range of feasibility, but I leave the
recipes to those less timorous than myself. In fact, in this case, I am
at one with the waiter in the “Bab Ballads” who hurled the most awful
threat in culinary literature at his flighty sweetheart:
“Flirtez toujours, ma belle, si tu oses,
Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère:
Je lui dirai d’quoi on compose
Vol-au-Vent à la Financière!”
The good things of this life are mostly plain and wholesome (with
a few delightful exceptions), and we can all qualify to live in
Bengodi, Boccaccio’s country of content, where they tie up the vines
with sausages, where you may buy a fat goose for a penny, and have the
giblets thrown in into the bargain. In this place there is a mountain
of Parmesan cheese, and the people’s employment is making cheese-cakes
and macaroons. There is also a river which runs Malmsey wine of the
very best quality.
There are no cheap excursions to Bengodi. We have to tramp there on
foot--and earn our bread on the road as we travel thither.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CHAPTER · VI·
VEGETABLES · AND · SALADS·]
“Will a man give a penny to fill his belly with hay? Or can you
persuade the turtle-dove to live upon carrion like the crow?”
JOHN BUNYAN (“Pilgrim’s Progress”).
The first vegetarian was probably Nebuchadnezzar, and he has many
followers. With the utmost love and respect for all vegetables, without
exception, I refuse to accept them as the staff of life, or indeed
as anything more than a delicious aid thereto. It is possible that
the internal economy of certain very worthy folk may be more easily
conducted on a vegetarian basis, and indeed every man is at liberty to
feed as suits him best; but as a matter of preference, predilection and
experience, I decline to follow his example. If they are content to
let me go my way unmolested, I have no desire to interfere with their
tastes. But no proselytising, please!
Here in England, although we shine in our roasts, our beef, our chops,
and maybe a few other trifles, we are woefully and culpably ignorant
of vegetable cookery. The average British cook has but one idea with
vegetables. She cooks them in water, with lumps of coarse soda, which
she thinks makes them soft and keeps their colour. As a matter of
fact, this process, especially the soda, practically destroys their
health-giving properties. Vegetables want the kindliest care, the
most delicate handling, the most knowledgeable treatment. Otherwise
they become mere parodies of their better selves. What could be more
terrible, more depressing, than the usual slab of wet cabbage doled
out at the average London restaurant? It is an insult to the cabbage,
to the guest, and to the Art of Cookery. And it is so easy to cook it
decently--even in a Chafing Dish.
Again, the average British household knows and uses only a very limited
range of vegetables, ignoring, wilfully or otherwise, scores of edible
delights, easily grown and easily cooked, but with the inbred laziness
of crass conservatism, totally overlooked, because, forsooth, “the
greengrocer does not keep it!” The greengrocer, on the other hand,
scorns the inquirer after such strange green meats, because “they are
never asked for”; and so, between the two, we are relegated to the same
dull round of vegetable monotony.
Household cookery knows nothing of the Aubergine, or Egg-plant, of
which there are fourteen edible varieties, most of which can easily
be grown in this country, although the rich purple kinds are best
suited to our climate. Then there is Salsify, which is amenable to
a dozen different treatments; as the vegetable oyster it is duly
honoured in America, but we know it not. The Good King Harry is only
known in Lincolnshire. The leaves served as cabbage are excellent, and
the tender young shoots are as delicate as asparagus. The Cardoon,
Scornzonera, Celeriac, Chicory, Buck’s Horn, Chervil, Jew’s Mallow,
Lovage, Purslane, Rampion, Scurvy-Grass and Valerian, are only a
selection from a list thrice as long.
It is useless, however, to lift up one thin quavering voice of protest
in a wilderness of deaf greengrocers. I must e’en deal with the
common vegetables of commerce, others being unprocurable, and their
cultivation a counsel of perfection.
One naturally begins with potatoes, though the reason of their position
in the hierarchy of the garden is occult. Sir Walter Raleigh, good man
and true, has much to answer for. Tobacco _and_ potatoes! I believe it
to be a fact that throughout the length and breadth of Ireland there
is no memorial to Raleigh. This seems a distinct omission. But then,
neither is there a statue to Lord Verulam!
Between the primitive tuber, baked in the ashes, and _Pommes à la
Réjane_, there lies the whole gamut of culinary ingenuity. They are the
extremes of sophistication and the opposite. But it must suffice here
to give a few only of the simplest recipes, well within Chaffinda’s
modest capability, and in their very ingenuousness fit alike for the
delectation of Prince or Pauper.
Mary’s Potatoes.
The first method is called Mary’s Potatoes for want of a better name.
Slice up half a dozen cold cooked potatoes. Put them in the Chafing
Dish with a walnut of butter and a cupful of milk; let them simmer for
five minutes, then add the juice of half a lemon, a teaspoon of chopped
parsley, pepper and salt. Simmer for five minutes more.
Potato Uglies.
Cut up half a dozen cold cooked potatoes into quarter-inch slices. Put
four slices of fat bacon into the Chafing Dish, and hot up until the
fat begins to smoke; then drop in the potatoes, add pepper and salt,
and cook for five minutes. Drain before serving.
Sala’s Potatoes.
Cut four potatoes in slices as large as a halfpenny, but twice as
thick. Put two tablespoonsful of butter in the Chafing Dish, and a
dozen delicate little onions cut into dice. Hot up the onions and
butter till the former turn a golden brown, then add the potatoes and a
teaspoon of chopped parsley, salt, pepper, and a squeeze of lemon. Keep
stirring, and when the onions are deep yellow, which should be in about
eight minutes, the dish is ready.
Fried Potatoes.
Boil half a dozen potatoes in their skins. Peel them when hot, cut them
in quarters, roll them in bread-crumbs, and then fry them for seven
minutes in two tablespoons of sizzling butter. Sprinkle chopped parsley
on them before serving.
The tomato or love-apple is a perennial joy to the eye, whether cooked
or uncooked, ripe or unripe. Its form and colour are alike exquisite,
and its flavour altogether a thing apart. Our grandfathers knew
little or nothing about it, apart from sauce, and it has been left
to our generation fully to appreciate its possibilities. It is the
more strange because it has been a staple article of food in mid and
southern Europe since time immemorial. It has even been suggested
that Eve’s apple, Paris’ apple, Nausicaa’s apple, and the apples of
Hesperides were all really tomatoes! As _pommes d’amour_, _pomi di
mori_, _Liebesäpfel_, _Paradiesäpfel_, or tomatoes, they are nowadays
honoured and appreciated by all right lovers of the good things of the
earth. They are both fruit and vegetable, and it is very difficult
to spoil them in cooking. They are best of all when grilled as an
accompaniment to chops (Mr. Pickwick, it will be remembered, enjoyed
them in the form of sauce), but the following is a very simple and
honest way of preparing them.
Fried Tomatoes.
Cut three tomatoes in halves. Pepper and salt them and coat the
cut surfaces with bread-crumbs. Put two tablespoons of butter in
the Chafing Dish, and when sizzling add the tomatoes and cook them
thoroughly for eight minutes.
The Jerusalem artichoke should not be devoted solely to soup. It is
an excellent adjunct to meats, and fully repays a little careful
attention.
Fried Artichoke Chips.
Wash and peel the outer skin of a pound of artichokes, then with a very
sharp knife peel them into ribbons (as one would peel an apple); then
put them lightly in a cloth to dry. Hot up two tablespoons of olive oil
in the Chafer to smoking-point. Put in the artichokes, letting them fry
until they rustle when stirred with a fork. Pour off the oil and strain
them. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.
Braised Artichokes.
Wash and peel a pound of artichokes and put them aside in a basin
of cold water. Melt a walnut of butter in the Chafing Dish; add the
artichokes after drying them well. Let them brown well in the butter;
add pepper and salt and stir them frequently, letting them simmer for
twelve minutes.
Spinach Purée.
Have your spinach thoroughly well washed in several waters till it is
perfectly clean. Boil a pint of water in the Chafing Dish, salt it
and put in the spinach. Boil it for ten minutes. Take out the spinach
and strain it. Pour cold water over it to take away the bitter taste;
strain again. Put a walnut of butter in the dish, add the spinach and
half a cupful of milk. Mix up well with a wooden spoon. Heat for five
minutes.
There are about twenty-five different kinds of edible mushrooms. The
popular test of peeling is unreliable, because some poisonous mushrooms
peel easily, and some harmless kinds do not. An authority on mushrooms
(Mr. E. Kay Robinson) says: “If a mushroom of any kind which has been
gathered from an open space is brittle and compact in texture, and not
brightly coloured, nor peculiar in taste or unpleasant in smell, and
neither exudes a milky juice when bruised, nor changes colour when
exposed to the air, you may eat it without fear.”
Consequently, when you go mushroom-gathering you must bear in mind
nearly as many things as when you address your ball on the tee. I
always buy my mushrooms, and go to a good shop; then, I think, you are
fairly safe.
The onion is a sure poison detector. Put an onion in a dish of
mushrooms. If it does not change colour the mushrooms are all right.
If it blushes black with shame at its contiguity, they are all wrong.
A silver spoon acts in the same way and gets black in contact with
toadstools or the like. Verily, evil communications corrupt good
manners--even in onions.
Stewed Mushrooms.
Flood the Chafing Dish with really good olive oil. Put in a teaspoonful
of Paprika and a pinch of salt. Drop in the mushrooms, after having
stalked and peeled them, black part uppermost. Cover up, and listen to
the appetising sizzling for seven minutes. They should then be done to
a turn.
Mushrooms used to be dried, powdered, and used as a flavouring in the
eighteenth century. Cook-books of that period speak of the condiment
as “Cook’s Snuff.” The great and justly esteemed Grimod de la Reynière
said that it ought always to be on the dining-table together with
pepper and salt. Here is a hint for the modern purveyors of table
delicacies.
In Sir Henry Layard’s Essay on “Renaissance Cookery,” he says:
“Amongst vegetables, the thistle (Cardo) was esteemed a delicacy, and
was generally served with fruit at the end of the dinner. The thorny
thistles with well-grown white stalks are the best.” The Cardo includes
the artichoke, but that the name was usually applied to the common
thistle is shown by the quaint remark of Romoli in his “Singolare
Dottrina,” that “it should not be eaten with milk, which it has the
property of curdling, and consequently the process would take place
in your stomach, but it should be eaten with pepper, which does not
generate wind, and clears the liver; and such is the reason why
donkeys, who eat largely of this, have better stomachs than men.”
Dr. Thudichum, an eminent authority on dietetics, does not agree with
these conclusions, which are nevertheless illuminating, and do not
detract from the merits of the nettle as a food-stuff.
Welsh Leeks.
Boil half a dozen leeks in a pint of water. Drain them well, and cut
each leek into two-inch lengths; squeeze a lemon over them, pepper and
salt them well. Set them aside. Make half a dozen croûtons of toast and
put the leeks on them. Replace them in the Chafing Dish, pouring over
each croûton a liberal dose of Sauce Robert. Heat up and serve on a
very hot plate. Sauce Robert (Escoffier brand) can be bought ready made
at the Stores.
French Beans.
Boil a pound of shredded beans till tender, and then drain them well.
Melt two tablespoons of butter in the Chafing Dish and stir into it a
small dessert-spoon of flour. Keep these simmering, and shake them
about till they are lightly browned; add salt and pepper and a cup of
milk. Just before serving, add the yolks of two eggs, slightly beaten,
and a squeeze of lemon. Stir all up thoroughly and beat up to just
below boiling-point.
Broad Beans.
Shell and wash in cold water one pint of broad beans. Put them in the
Chafing Dish and boil them with a sprinkling of salt; when nearly
soft strain them, and then replace them in the dish with a tumbler of
bouillon, a little chopped parsley, and a lump of sugar. Cook them
slowly until they are quite tender. Beat up the yolk of an egg and a
wine-glass of milk; add both to the beans with pepper and salt, and
beat up thoroughly to just below boiling-point.
Italian Broad Beans.
Shell a pint of fresh young broad beans and put them aside in a dish
of cold water. Fill the Chafing Dish with nearly two pints of water,
add a thick slice of cooked ham, a stick of celery, a bunch of parsley,
three cloves, twenty peppercorns, and a bay leaf. Boil all this for
seven minutes, then remove the ham, vegetables, and spices, and put
in the beans. When they are quite tender, take them out, strain them,
put them back in the dish; add a tablespoon of butter, and hot them up
again for three or four minutes before serving.
Brussels Sprouts.
Place a pint of small Brussels sprouts in the Chafing Dish with two
pints of boiling water, slightly salted. Boil for ten minutes; take out
the sprouts, drain them and put them aside to keep hot. Then make the
following sauce in the Chafing Dish. Two tablespoons of butter melted,
one tablespoon flour, pepper and salt, and sufficient bouillon to make
the mixture of the consistency of thick cream. Heat this to boiling,
stirring it well. Just before serving, add the juice of a whole lemon.
Pour the sauce over the hot sprouts, and serve very quickly.
Both this and the previous recipe are adapted from a most excellent
book on the cooking of vegetables: “Leaves from our Tuscan Garden,” by
Janet Ross.
Haricot Beans.
Put a pint of young green shelled haricot beans into the Chafing Dish
with two pints of boiling water. When half cooked add salt and pepper
and a tablespoon of butter. Take out the beans, drain them, and replace
them in the dish with another tablespoon of butter, a little chopped
parsley, more salt and pepper and a squeeze of lemon. Toss them about
well in the Chafing Dish and hot up for eight minutes.
Fried Parsley.
Indispensable for flavourings. Wash the parsley thoroughly, pick off
the stalks, leaving the large heads. Dry it very carefully as, if it
is left at all damp, it will never become crisp. Put the parsley in
the Chafing Dish with a tablespoon of olive oil or butter. As soon as
the oil or butter ceases bubbling, take out the parsley and let it dry
on a piece of paper. The parsley should remain quite green; if it is
brownish it is a sign that it has been fried too long.
Green Peas.
A pint of shelled peas, a tablespoon of butter, pepper and salt, and a
good squeeze of lemon; put all these in the Chafing Dish. Add a cupful
of milk and hot up for ten minutes, then strain and serve. Avoid mint,
green or otherwise.
Chestnuts.