BREAKFAST (_continued_)
"There's nought in the Highlands but syboes and leeks,
And lang-leggit callants gaun wanting the breeks."
Bonnie Scotland--Parritch an' cream--Fin'an haddies--A
knife on the ocean wave--_À la Français_--In the gorgeous
East--_Chota hazri_--English as she is spoke--Dâk bungalow
fare--Some quaint dishes--Breakfast with "my tutor"--A Don's
absence of mind.
For a "warm welcome" commend me to Bonnie Scotland. Though hard of
head and "sae fu' o' learning" that they are "owre deeficult to
conveence, ye ken," these rugged Caledonians be tender of heart, and
philanthropic to a degree. Hech, sirs! but 'tis the braw time ye'll
hae, gin ye trapese the Highlands, an' the Lowlands as well for the
matter o' that--in search o' guid refreshment for body an' soul.
Even that surly lexicographer, Doctor Samuel Johnson (who, by the
way, claimed the same city for his birthplace as does the writer),
who could not be induced to recognise the merits of Scotch scenery,
and preferred Fleet Street to the Trossachs, extolled the luxury of
a Scotch breakfast above that of all other countries. And Sir Walter
Scott, who never enthused much about meat and drink, is responsible in
_Waverley_ for a passage calculated to make the mouths of most people
water:
"He found Miss Bradwardine presiding over the tea and coffee, the
table loaded with warm bread, both of flour, oatmeal, and barley meal,
in the shape of loaves, cakes, biscuits, and other varieties, together
with eggs, reindeer ham, mutton and beef ditto, smoked salmon, and
many other delicacies. A mess of oatmeal porridge, flanked by a silver
jug which held an equal mixture of cream and buttermilk, was placed
for the Baron's share of the repast."
"And," as Mr. Samuel Weller would have observed, "a wery good idea of
a breakfast, too."
A beef-ham sounds like a "large order" for breakfast, even when we
come to consider that the Scotch "beastie," in Sir Walter Scott's
time, was wanting in "beam" and stature. I have seen and partaken of a
ham cut from a Yorkshire pig, and weighing 52 lbs.; but even a Scotch
beef-ham must have topped that weight considerably. Fortunately the
sideboards of those times were substantial of build.
Missing from the above bill-of-fare is the haddock,
_The Fin'an Haddie_,
a bird which at that period had probably not been invented. But the
modern Scottish breakfast-table is not properly furnished without it.
The genuine "Fin'an" is known by its appetising savour and by its
colour--a creamy yellow, which is totally distinct from the Vandyke
browny hue of the haddock which is creosoted in the neighbourhood of
the Blackfriars Road, London, S.E. "Strip off the skin," says the
recipe in one cookery book, "and broil before the fire or over a
quick clear one." Another way--_my_ way--is _not_ to strip off the
skin and to _steam_ your haddies. Place them in a dish which has been
previously heated. Throw boiling water on them, and cover closely
with a plate; place on a hot stove, and in from 10 to 15 minutes the
Fin'ans will be accomplished. Drain, and serve hot as hot, buttered,
with a sprinkling of cayenne, and, maybe, a dash of Worcester sauce.
Salmon is naturally a welcome guest at the table of the land of his
birth, served fresh when in season, and smoked or kippered at all
times.
_A Salmon Steak_
with the "curd" between the flakes, placed within a coat of
virgin-white paper (oiled) and grilled for 15 minutes or so, is an
excellent breakfast dish. A fry of small troutlets, a ditto of the
deer's interior economy--_Mem._ When up at the death of a hunted stag,
always beg or annex a portion of his liver--are also common dishes at
the first meal served by the "gudewife"; and I once met a cold haggis
at 9.30 A.M. But this, I rather fancy, was "a wee bit joke" at my
expense. Anyhow I shall have plenty to say about the "great chieftain
o' the puddin' race" in a later chapter.
_Off to Gold-land!_
Those that go down to the sea in ships, and can summon up sufficient
presence of mind to go down to the saloon at meal times, have far from
a bad time of it. Living was certainly better on the ocean wave in the
days when livestock was kept on board, and slaughtered as required;
for the effect of keeping beef, pork, and mutton in a refrigerating
chamber for any length of time is to destroy the flavour, and to
render beef indistinguishable from the flesh of the hog, and mutton
as tasteless as infantine pap. But the ship's galley does its little
utmost; and the saloon passenger, on his way to the other side of the
equator, may regale himself with such a breakfast as the following,
which is taken from the steward's book of a vessel belonging to the
Union Line:--
Porridge, fillets of haddock with fine herbs, mutton chops
and chip potatoes, savoury omelet, bacon on toast, minced
collops, curry and rice, fruit, rolls, toast, etc., tea and
coffee.
Cannot my readers imagine a steward entering the state-room of the
voyager who has succumbed to the wiles and eccentricities of the Bay
of Biscay, with the observation: "Won't you get up to breakfast,
sir?--I've reserved a _beautiful_ fat chop, with chips, o' purpose for
you, sir."
And the lot of the third-class passenger who is conveyed from his
native land to the Cape of Good Hope, for what Mr. Montague Tigg would
have called "the ridiculous sum of" £16: 16s., is no such hard one,
seeing that he is allotted a "bunk" in a compact, though comfortable
cabin, and may break his fast on the following substantial meal:--
Porridge, Yarmouth bloaters, potatoes, American hash,
grilled mutton, bread and butter, tea or coffee.
An American breakfast is as variegated (and I fear I must add, as
indigestible) as a Scotch one; and included in the bill of fare are as
many, or more, varieties of bread and cake as are to be found in the
land o' shortbread. The writer has, in New York, started the morning
meal with oysters, run the gamut of fish, flesh, and fowl, and wound
up with buckwheat cakes, which are brought on in relays, buttered
and smoking hot, and can be eaten with or without golden syrup.
But, as business begins early in New York and other large cities,
scant attention is paid to the first meal by the merchant and the
speculator, who are wont to "gallop" through breakfast and luncheon,
and to put in their "best work" at dinner.
_A Mediterranean Breakfast_
is not lacking in poetry; and the jaded denizen of Malta can enjoy
red mullet (the "woodcock of the sea") freshly taken from the
tideless ocean, and strawberries in perfection, at his first meal,
whilst seated, maybe, next to some dreamy-eyed _houri_, who coos soft
nothings into his ear, at intervals. The wines of Italy go best with
this sort of repast, which is generally eaten with "spoons."
In fair France, breakfast, or the _déjeûner à la fourchette_, is not
served until noon, or thereabouts. Coffee or chocolate, with fancy
bread and butter, is on hand as soon as you wake; and I have heard
that for the roisterer and the _p'tit crevé_ there be such liquors
as _cognac_, _curaçoa_, and _chartreuse verte_ provided at the first
meal, so that nerves can be strung together and headaches alleviated
before the "associated" breakfast at midday. In the country, at the
_château_ of _Monsieur et Madame_, the groom-of-the-chambers, or
_maître d'hôtel_, as he is designated, knocks at your bedroom door at
about 8.30.
"Who's there?"
"Good-morning, _M'sieu_. Will _M'sieu_ partake of the _chocolat_, or
of the _café-au-lait_, or of the tea?"
Upon ordinary occasions, _M'sieu_ will partake of the _chocolat_--if
he be of French extraction; whilst the English visitor will partake of
the _café-au-lait_--tea-making in France being still in its infancy.
And if _M'sieu_ has gazed too long on the wine of the country,
overnight, he will occasionally--reprobate that he is--partake instead
of the _vieux cognac_, diluted from the syphon. And _M'sieu_ never
sees his host or hostess till the "assembly" sounds for the midday
meal.
I have alluded, just above, to French tea-making. There was a time
when tea, with our lively neighbours, was as scarce a commodity as
snakes in Iceland or rum punch in Holloway Castle. Then the thin end
of the wedge was introduced, and the English visitor was invited to
partake of a cup of what was called (by courtesy) _thé_, which had
been concocted expressly for her or him. And tea _à la Française_
used to be made somewhat after this fashion. The cup was half-filled
with milk, sugar _à discrétion_ being added. A little silver sieve
was next placed over the cup, and from a jug sufficient hot water, in
which had been previously left to soak some half-dozen leaf-fragments
of green tea, to fill the cup, was poured forth. In fact the visitor
was invited to drink a very nasty compound indeed, something like
the "wish" tea with which the school-mistress used to regale her
victims--milk and water, and "wish-you-may-get" tea! But they have
changed all that across the Channel, and five o'clock tea is one of
the most fashionable functions of the day, with the _beau monde_; a
favourite invitation of the society _belle_ of the _fin de siècle_
being: "_Voulex-vous fivoclocquer avec moi?_"
The _déjeûner_ usually begins with a _consommé_, a thin, clear,
soup, not quite adapted to stave off the pangs of hunger by itself,
but grateful enough by way of a commencement. Then follows an array
of dishes containing fish and fowl of sorts, with the inevitable
_côtelettes à la_ somebody-or-other, not forgetting an _omelette_--a
mess which the French cook alone knows how to concoct to perfection.
The meal is usually washed down with some sort of claret; and a
subsequent _café_, with the accustomed _chasse_; whilst the welcome
_cigarette_ is not "defended," even in the mansions of the great.
There is more than one way of making coffee, that of the lodging-house
"general," and of the street-stall dispenser, during the small hours,
being amongst the least commendable. Without posing as an infallible
manufacturer of the refreshing (though indigestible, to many people)
beverage, I would urge that it be made from freshly-roasted seed,
ground just before wanted. Then heat the ground coffee in the oven,
and place upon the perforated bottom of the upper compartment of
a _cafetière_, put the strainer on it, and pour in boiling water,
gradually. "The Duke" in _Geneviève de Brabant_ used to warble as part
of a song in praise of tea--
And 'tis also most important
That you should not spare the tea.
So is it of equal importance that you should not spare the coffee.
There are more elaborate ways of making coffee; but none that the
writer has tried are in front of the old _cafetière_, if the simple
directions given above be carried out in their entirety.
As in France, sojourners (for their sins) in the burning plains of Ind
have their first breakfast, or _chota hazri_, at an early hour, whilst
the breakfast proper--usually described in Lower Bengal, Madras, and
Bombay as "tiffin"--comes later on. For
_Chota Hazri_
(literally "little breakfast")--which is served either at the
Mess-house, the public Bath, or in one's own bungalow, beneath the
verandah--poached eggs on toast are _de rigueur_, whilst I have met
such additions as _unda ishcamble_ (scrambled eggs), potato cake, and
(naughty, naughty!) anchovy toast. Tea or coffee are always drunk
with this meal. "Always," have I written? Alas! In my mind's eye I can
see the poor Indian vainly trying to stop the too-free flow of the
_Belati pani_ (literally "Europe water") by thrusting a dusky thumb
into the neck of the just-opened bottle, and in my mind's ear can I
catch the blasphemous observation of the subaltern as he remarks to
his slave that he does not require, in his morning's "livener," the
additional flavour of Mahommedan flesh, and the "hubble-bubble" pipe,
the tobacco in which may have been stirred by the same thumb that
morning.
"Coffee shop" is a favourite function, during the march of a regiment
in India, at least it used to be in the olden time, before troops were
conveyed by railway. _Dhoolies_ (roughly made palanquins) laden with
meat and drink were sent on half way, overnight; and grateful indeed
was the cup of tea, or coffee, or the "peg" which was poured forth for
the weary warrior who had been "tramping it" or in the saddle since 2
A.M. or some such unearthly hour, in order that the column might reach
the new camping-ground before the sun was high in the heavens. It was
at "coffee-shop" that "chaff" reigned supreme, and speculations as to
what the shooting would be like at the next place were indulged in.
And when that shooting was likely to take the form of long men, armed
with long guns, and long knives, the viands, which consisted for the
most part of toast, biscuits, poached eggs, and _unda bakum_ (eggs and
bacon), were devoured with appetites all the keener for the prospect
in view. It is in troublous times, be it further observed, that the
Hindustan _khit_ is seen at his best. On the field of battle itself I
have known coffee and boiled eggs--or even a grilled fowl--produced by
the fearless and devoted _nokhur_, from, apparently, nowhere at all.
At the Indian breakfast proper, all sorts of viands are consumed;
from the curried prawns and Europe provisions (which arrive in an
hermetically sealed condition per s.s. _Nomattawot_), to the rooster
who heralds your arrival at the _dak_ bungalow, with much crowing, and
who within half an hour of your advent has been successively chased
into a corner, beheaded, plucked, and served up for your refection in
a scorched state. I have breakfasted off such assorted food as curried
locusts, boiled leg of mutton, fried snipe, Europe sausages, _Iron
ishtoo_ (Irish stew), _vilolif_ (veal olives, and more correctly a
dinner dish), kidney toast--chopped sheep's kidneys, highly seasoned
with pepper, lime-juice, and Worcester sauce, very appetising--parrot
pie, eggs and bacon, omelette (which might also have been used to
patch ammunition boots with), sardines, fried fish (mind the bones
of the Asiatic fish), _bifishtake_ (beef steak), goat chops, curries
of all sorts, hashed venison, and roast peafowl, ditto quail, ditto
pretty nearly everything that flies, cold buffalo hump, grilled
sheep's tail (a bit bilious), hermetically-sealed herring, turtle
fins, Guava jelly, preserved mango, home-made cake, and many other
things which have escaped memory. I am coming to the "curry" part of
the entertainment later on in the volume, but may remark that it is
preferable when eaten in the middle of the day. My own experience
was that few people touched curry when served in its normal place at
dinner--as a course of itself--just before the sweets.
"Breakfast with my tutor!" What happy memories of boyhood do not the
words conjure up, of the usually stern, unbending preceptor pouring
out the coffee, and helping the sausages and mashed potatoes--we
always had what is now known as "saus and mash" at my tutor's--and the
fatherly air with which he would remind the juvenile glutton, who had
seated himself just opposite the apricot jam, and was improving the
occasion, that eleven o'clock school would be in full swing in half an
hour, and that the brain (and, by process of reasoning, the stomach)
could not be in too good working-order for the fervid young student
of Herodotus. The ordinary breakfast of the "lower boy" at Eton used
to be of a very uncertain pattern. Indeed, what with "fagging," the
preparation of his lord-and-master's breakfast, the preparation of
"pupil-room" work, and agile and acute scouts ever on the alert to
pilfer his roll and pat of butter, that boy was lucky if he got
any breakfast at all. If he possessed capital, or credit, he might
certainly stave off starvation at "Brown's," with buttered buns and
pickled salmon; or at "Webber's," or "the Wall," with three-cornered
jam tarts, or a "strawberry mess"; but Smith _minor_, and Jones
_minimus_ as often as not, went breakfastless to second school.
At the University, breakfast with "the Head" or any other "Don" was a
rather solemn function. The table well and plentifully laid, and the
host hospitality itself, but occasionally, nay, frequently, occupied
with other thoughts. A departed friend used to tell a story of a
breakfast of this description. He was shaken warmly by the hand by his
host, who afterwards lapsed into silence. My friend, to "force the
running," ventured on the observation--
"It's a remarkably fine morning, sir, is it not?"
No reply came. In fact, the great man's thoughts were so preoccupied
with Greek roots, and other defunct horrors, that he spoke not a word
during breakfast. But when, an hour or so afterwards, the time came
for his guest to take leave, the "Head" shook him by the hand warmly
once more, and remarked abstractedly--
"D'you know, Mr. Johnson, I don't think that was a particularly
original remark of yours?"