BREAKFAST (_continued_)
"Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table."
Country-house life--An Englishwoman at her best--Guests'
comforts--What to eat at the first meal--A few choice
recipes--A noble grill-sauce--The poor outcast--Appetising
dishes--Hotel "worries"--The old regime and the new--"No
cheques"; no soles, and "whitings is hoff"--A halibut
steak--Skilly and oakum--Breakfast out of the rates.
By far the pleasantest meal of the day at a large country-house is
breakfast. You will be staying there, most likely, an you be a man,
for hunting or shooting--it being one of the eccentric dispensations
of the great goddess Fashion that country-houses should be guestless,
and often ownerless, during that season of the year when nature looks
at her loveliest. An you be a woman, you will be staying there for
the especial benefit of your daughter; for flirting--or for the more
serious purpose of riveting the fetters of the fervid youth who may
have been taken captive during the London season--for romping, and
probably shooting and hunting, too; for lovely woman up-to-date
takes but little account of such frivolities as Berlin wool-work,
piano-practice, or drives, well wrapped-up, in a close carriage, to
pay calls with her hostess. As for going out with the "guns," or
meeting the sterner sex at luncheon in the keeper's cottage, or the
specially-erected pavilion, the darlings are not content, nowadays,
unless they can use dapper little breech-loaders, specially made for
them, and some of them are far from bad shots.
Yes, 'tis a pleasant function, breakfast at the Castle, the Park,
or the Grange. But, as observed in the last chapter, there must be
no undue punctuality, no black looks at late arrivals, no sarcastic
allusions to late hours, nor inane chaff from the other guests about
the wine cup or the whisky cup, which may have been drained in the
smoking-room, during the small hours.
Her ladyship looks divine, or at all events regal, as she presides
at what our American cousins would call the "business end" of the
long table, whilst our host, a healthy, jolly-looking, "hard-bitten"
man of fifty, faces her. His bright keen eye denotes the sportsman,
and he can shoot as straight as ever, whilst no fence is too high,
too wide, nor too deep for him. Sprinkled about, at either side of
the table, amongst the red and black coats, or shooting jackets of
varied hues--with a vacancy here and there, for "Algie" and "Bill,"
and the "Angel," who have not yet put in appearance--are smart,
fresh-looking women, young, and "well-preserved," and matronly, some
in tailor-made frocks, and some in the silks and velvets suited for
those of riper age, and some in exquisitely-fitting habits. It is
at the breakfast-table that the Englishwoman can defy all foreign
competition; and you are inclined to frown, or even say things under
your breath, when that mincing, wicked-looking little _Marquise_, all
frills, and ribbons, and lace, and smiles, and Ess Bouquet, in the
latest creation of the first man-milliner of Paris, trips into the
room in slippers two sizes too small for her, and salutes the company
at large in broken English. For the contrast is somewhat trying, and
you wonder why on earth some women _will_ smother themselves with
scents and _cosmetiques_, and raddle their cheeks and wear diamonds
so early in the morning; and you lose all sense of the undoubted
fascination of the Marquise in speculating as to what manner of
"strong woman" her _femme de chambre_ must be who can compress a
22-inch waist into an 18-inch corset.
There should, of course, be separate tea and coffee equipments for
most of the guests--at all events for the sluggards. The massive
silver urn certainly lends a tone to the breakfast-table, and looks
"comfortable-like." But it would be criminally cruel to satisfy the
thirst of the multitude out of the same tea-pot or coffee-pot; and
the sluggard will not love his hostess if she pours forth "husband's
tea," merely because he _is_ a sluggard. And remember that the hand
which has held two by honours, or a "straight flush" the night before,
is occasionally too shaky to pass tea-cups. No. Do not spare your
servants, my lord, or my lady. Your guests must be "well done," or
they will miss your "rocketing" pheasants, or fail to go fast enough
at that brook with the rotten banks.
"The English," said an eminent alien, "have only one sauce." This is
a scandalous libel; but as it was said a long time ago it doesn't
matter. It would be much truer to say that the English have only one
breakfast-dish, and its name is
_Eggs and Bacon_.
Pardon, I should have written two; and the second is ham and eggs. A
new-laid egg--poached, _not_ fried, an ye love me, O Betsy, best of
cooks--and a rasher of home-cured hog are both excellent things in
their way; but, like a partridge, a mother-in-law, and a baby, it is
quite possible to have too much of them. The English hostess--I do not
refer to the typical "her ladyship," of whom I have written above,
but to the average hostess--certainly launches out occasionally in
the direction of assorted fish, kidneys, sausages, and chops, but the
staple food upon which we are asked to break our fast is, undoubtedly,
eggs and bacon.
The great question of what to eat at the first meal depends greatly
upon whether you sit down to it directly you emerge from your
bedroom, or whether you have indulged in any sort of exercise in the
interim. After two or three hours "amateur touting" on such a place
as Newmarket Heath, the sportsman is ready for any sort of food, from
a dish of liver and bacon to a good, thick fat chop, or an underdone
steak. I have even attacked cold stewed eels (!) upon an occasion
when the pangs of hunger would have justified my eating the tom-cat,
and the landlady as well. But chops and steaks are not to be commended
to furnish forth the ordinary breakfast-table. I am coming to the
hotel breakfast presently, so will say nothing about fried fish just
yet. But here follows a list of a few of what may be called
_Allowable Breakfast Dishes_
Mushrooms (done plainly in front of the fire), sausages (toasted),
scrambled eggs on toast, curried eggs, fish balls, kidneys, savoury
omelette. Porridge may be useful for growing boys and briefless
barristers, but this chapter is not written solely in their interests.
Above all, do not, oh! do not, forget the grill, or broil. This should
be the feature of the breakfast. Such simple recipes as those for the
manufacture of fish balls or omelettes or curried eggs--though I shall
have plenty to say about curries later on--need not be given here; but
the following, for a grill-sauce, will be found invaluable, especially
for the "sluggard."
_Gubbins Sauce_
The legs and wings of fowl, turkey, pheasant, partridge,
or moor-hen should only be used. Have these scored across with
a sharp knife, and divided at the joints. And when your grill
is taken, "hot as hot," but _not burnt_, from the fire, have
poured over it the following sauce. Be very particular that
your cook pours it over the grill just before it is served up.
And it is of the most vital importance that the sauce should
be made, and well mixed, on a plate _over hot water_--for
instance, a slop-basin should be filled with boiling water and
a plate placed atop.
Melt on the plate a lump of butter the size of a large
walnut. Stir into it, when melted, two teaspoonfuls of made
mustard, then a dessert-spoonful of vinegar, half that quantity
of tarragon vinegar, and a tablespoonful of cream--Devonshire
or English. Season with salt, black pepper, and cayenne,
according to the (presumed) tastes and requirements of the
breakfasters.
Let your sideboard--it is assumed that you have a sideboard--sigh and
lament its hard lot, under its load of cold joints, game, and pies,--I
am still harping on the country-house; and if you have a York ham in
cut, it should be flanked by a Westphalian ditto. For the blend is
a good one. And remember that no York ham under 20 lb. in weight is
worth cutting. You need not put it all on the board at once. A capital
adjunct to the breakfast-table, too, is a reindeer's tongue, which,
as you see it hung up in the shops, looks more like a policeman's
truncheon in active employment than anything else; but when well
soaked and then properly treated in the boiling, is very tasty, and
will melt like marrow in the mouth.
A simple, excellent August breakfast can be made from a dish of
freshly-caught trout, the legs and back of a cold grouse, which has
been roasted, _not_ baked, and
_A Large Peach_.
But what of the wretched bachelor, as he enters his one sitting-room,
in his humble lodging? He may have heard the chimes at midnight, in
some gay and festive quarter, or, like some other wretched bachelors,
he may have been engaged in the composition of romances for some
exacting editor, until the smallish hours. Poor outcast! what sort
of appetite will he have for the rusty rasher, or the shop egg, the
smoked haddock, or the "Billingsgate pheasant," which his landlady
will presently send up, together with her little account, for his
refection? Well, here is a much more tasty dish than any of the above;
and if he be "square" with Mrs. Bangham, that lady will possibly not
object to her "gal" cooking the different ingredients before she
starts at the wash-tub. But let not the wretched bachelor suffer the
"gal" to mix them.
I first met this dish in Calcutta during the two months of (alleged)
cold weather which prevail during the year.
_Calcutta Jumble._
A few fried fillets of white fish (sole, or plaice--sole
for choice), placed on the top of some boiled rice, in a soup
plate. Pour over them the yolks of two _boiled_ eggs, and mix
in one green chili, chopped fine. Salt to taste.
"Another way:"
Mix with the rice the following ingredients:--
The yolks of two _raw_ eggs, one tablespoonful anchovy
sauce, one _small_ teaspoonful curry powder (raw), a sprinkling
of cayenne, a little salt, and one green chili chopped fine.
Each ingredient to be added separately, and the eggs and curry
powder to be stirred into the rice with a fork. Fillets of sole
to be served atop.
How many cooks in this England of ours can cook rice properly? Without
pausing for a reply, I append the recipe, which should be pasted on
the wall of every kitchen. The many cookery books which I have read
give elaborate directions for the performance, of what is a very
simple duty. Here it is, in a few lines--
_To cook Rice for Curry, etc._
Soak a sufficiency of rice in cold water for two hours.
Strain through a sieve, and pop the rice into _boiling_ water.
Let it boil--"gallop" is, I believe, the word used in most
kitchens--for not quite ten minutes (or until the rice is
tender), then strain off the water through a sieve, and dash a
little _cold_ water over the rice, to separate the grains.
Here is another most appetising breakfast dish for the springtime--
_Asparagus with Eggs_.
Cut up two dozen (or so) heads of cooked asparagus into
small pieces, and mix in a stewpan with the well-beaten yolks
of two raw eggs. Flavour with pepper and salt, and stir freely.
Add a piece of butter the size of a walnut (one of these should
be kept in every kitchen as a pattern), and keep on stirring
for a couple of minutes or so. Serve on delicately-toasted
bread.
_An Hotel Breakfast._
What memories do these words conjure up of a snug coffee-room, hung
with hunting prints, and portraits of Derby winners, and churches,
and well-hung game; with its oak panellings, easy arm-chairs,
blazing fire, snowy naperies, and bright silver. The cheery host,
with well-lined paunch, and fat, wheezy voice, which wishes you
good-morning, and hopes you have passed a comfortable night between
the lavender-scented sheets. The fatherly interest which "William,"
the grey-headed waiter, takes in you--stranger or _habitué_--and
the more than fatherly interest which you take in the good cheer,
from home-made "sassingers" to new-laid eggs, and heather honey, not
forgetting a slice out of the mammoth York ham, beneath whose weight
the old sideboard absolutely grunts.
Heigho! we, or they, have changed all that. The poet who found his
"warmest welcome in an inn" was, naturally enough, writing of his own
time. I don't like fault-finding, but must needs declare that the
"warmest" part of an inn welcome to be found nowadays is the bill.
As long as you pay it (or have plenty of luggage to leave behind
in default), and make yourself agreeable to the fair and haughty
bookkeeper (if it's a "she") who allots you your bedroom, and bullies
the page-boy, nobody in the modern inn cares particularly what becomes
of you. You lose your individuality, and become "Number 325." Instead
of welcome, distrust lurks, large, on the very threshold.
"_No Cheques Accepted_"
is frequently the first announcement to catch the eye of the incoming
guest; and although you cannot help admiring the marble pillars, the
oak carving, the gilding, the mirrors, and the electric light, an
uncomfortable feeling comes over you at meal times, to the effect that
the cost of the decorations, or much of it, is taken out of the food.
"Waiter," you ask, as soon as your eyes and ears get accustomed to the
incessant bustle of the coffee-room, and your nostrils to the savour
of last night's soup, "what can I have for breakfast?"
"What would you like, sir?"
"I should like a grilled sole, to begin with."
"Very sorry, sir, soles is hoff--get you a nice chop or steak."
"Can't manage either so early in the day. Got any whitings?"
"Afraid we're out of whitings, sir, but I'll see."
Eventually, after suggesting sundry delicacies, all of which are
either "hoff," or unknown to the waiter, you settle down to the
consumption of two fried and shrivelled shop eggs, on an island of
Chicago ham, floating in an Ægean Sea of grease and hot water; whilst
a half quartern loaf, a cruet-stand the size of a cathedral, a rackful
of toast of the "Zebra" brand, and about two gallons of (alleged)
coffee, are dumped down in succession in front of you.
There are, of course, some hostelries where they "do" you better
than this, but my experience of hotel breakfasts at this end of the
nineteenth century has not been encouraging, either to appetite or
temper; and I do vow and protest that the above picture is not too
highly coloured.
The toothsome, necessary bloater is not often to be met with on the
hotel's bill-of-fare; but, if soft roed--use no other--it will repay
perusal. Toast it in a Dutch oven in front of a clear fire, and just
before done split it up the back, and put a piece of butter on it.
The roe should be well plumped, and of the consistency of Devonshire
cream. A grilled sole for breakfast is preferable to a fried one,
principally because it is by no means impossible that the fried
sole be second-hand, or as the French call it _réchauffé_. And why,
unless directions to the contrary be given, is the modest whiting
invariably placed, tail in mouth, on the frying pan? A grilled
whiting--assassinate your cook if she (or he) scorches it--is one of
the noblest works of the kitchen, and its exterior should be of a
golden brown colour.
Do not forget to order sausages for breakfast if you are staying at
Newmarket; there is less bread in them than in the Metropolitan brand.
And when in Lincoln attempt a
_Halibut Steak_,
of which you may not have previously heard. The halibut should,
previous to grilling or frying _in salad oil_, be placed on a shallow
dish and sprinkled with salt. Then the dish should be half filled with
water, which must not cover the salt. Leave the fish to soak for an
hour, then cut into slices, nearly an inch thick, without removing the
skin. Sprinkle some lemon juice and cayenne over the steaks before
serving.
If you wish to preserve an even mind, and be at peace with the world,
a visit to
_The Hotel Parish_
is not to be recommended. The Irish stew at dinner is not bad in
its way, though coarse, and too liberally endowed with fat. But the
breakfasts! Boiled oatmeal and water, with salt in the mess, and a
chunk of stale brown bread to eat therewith, do not constitute an
altogether satisfactory meal, the first thing in the morning; and it
is hardly calculated to inspire him with much pride in his work, when
the guest is placed subsequently before his "task" of unbroken flints
or tarred rope.