LUNCHEON (_continued_)
"He couldn't hit a haystack!"
Shooting luncheons--Cold tea and a crust--Clear
turtle--Such larks!--Jugged duck and oysters--Woodcock
pie--Hunting luncheons--Pie crusts--The true Yorkshire
pie--Race-course luncheons--Suggestions to caterers--The
"Jolly Sand boys" stew--Various recipes--A race-course
sandwich--Angels' pie--"Suffolk pride"--Devilled larks--A light
lunch in the Himalayas.
There is no meal which has become more "expanded" than a shooting
luncheon. A crust of bread with cheese, or a few biscuits, and a flask
of sherry sufficed for our forebears, who, despite inferior weapons
and ammunition, managed to "bring 'em down" quite as effectually as do
the shootists of this period. Most certainly and decidedly, a heavy
luncheon is a mistake if you want to "shoot clean" afterwards. And
bear this in mind, all ye "Johnnies" who rail at your host's champagne
and turtle, after luncheon, in a comfortable pavilion in the midst of
a pheasant _battue_, and whose very beaters would turn up their noses
at a pork pie and a glass of old ale, that there is nothing so good to
shoot upon as cold tea, unless it be cold coffee. I have tried both,
and for a shooting luncheon _par excellence_ commend me to a crust
and a pint of cold tea, eaten whilst sitting beneath the shelter of
an unpleached hedge, against the formal spread which commences with
a _consommé_, and finishes with guinea peaches, and liqueurs of rare
curaçoa. Of course, it is assumed that the shooter wishes to make a
bag.
But as, fortunately for trade, everybody does not share my views, it
will be as well to append a few dishes suitable to a scratch meal of
this sort.
First of all let it be said that a
_Roast Loin of Pork_,
washed down with sweet champagne, is not altogether to be commended.
I have nothing to urge against roast pork, on ordinary occasions, or
champagne either; but a woodcock takes a lot of hitting.
Such a pudding as was sketched in the preceding chapter is allowable,
as is also the Lancashire Hot-Pot.
_Shepherd's Pie_,
_i.e._ minced meat beneath a mattress of mashed potatoes, with lots of
gravy in the dish, baked, is an economical dish, but a tasty one; and
I have never known much left for the beaters. RABBIT PIE, or Pudding,
will stop a gap most effectually, and
_Plover Pudding_
--the very name brings water to the lips--is entitled to the highest
commendation.
This is the favourite dish at the shooting luncheons of a well-known
Royal Duke, and when upon one occasion the discovery was made that
through some misunderstanding said pudding had been devoured to the
very bones, by _the loaders_, the--well, "the band played," as they
say out West. And a stirring tune did that band play too.
_Such Larks!_
Stuff a dozen larks with a force-meat made from their own
livers chopped, a little shallot, parsley, yolk of egg, salt,
bread crumbs, and one green chili chopped and divided amongst
the twelve. Brown in a stewpan, and then stew gently in a good
gravy to which has been added a glass of burgundy.
This is a _plât_ fit for an emperor, and there will be no subsequent
danger of his hitting a beater or a dog. Another dainty of home
invention is
_Jugged Duck with Oysters_.
Cut the fleshy parts of your waddler into neat joints,
and having browned them place in a jar with nine oysters and
some good gravy partly made from the giblets. Close the mouth
of the jar, and stand it in boiling water for rather more than
an hour. Add the strained liquor of the oysters and a little
more gravy, and turn the concoction into a deep silver dish
with a spirit lamp beneath. Wild duck can be jugged in the same
way, but _without_ the addition of the bivalves; and a mixture
of port wine and Worcester sauce should be poured in, with a
squeeze of lemon juice and cayenne, just before serving.
Another dish which will be found "grateful and comforting" is an _old_
grouse--the older the tastier. Stuff him with a Spanish onion, add a
little gravy and seasoning, and stew him till the flesh leaves the
bones. All these stews, or "jugs" should be served on dishes kept hot
by lighted spirit beneath them. This is most important.
_A Woodcock Pie_
will be found extremely palatable at any shooting luncheon, although
more frequently to be met with on the sideboards of the great and
wealthy. In fact, at Christmas time, 'tis a pie which is specially
concocted in the royal kitchen at Windsor Castle, to adorn Her Most
Gracious Majesty's board at Osborne, together with the time-honoured
baron of specially fed beef. This last named joint hardly meets my
views as part of a breakfast _menu_; but here is the recipe for the
woodcock pie.
Bone four woodcocks--I _don't_ mean take them off the
hooks when the gentleman is not in his shop, but tell your
cook to take the bones out of one you've shot yourself--put
bones and trimmings into a saucepan with one shallot, one small
onion, and a sprig of thyme, cover them with some good stock,
and let this gravy simmer awhile. Take the gizzards away from
the heart and liver, pound, and mix these with some good veal
force-meat. Place the woodcocks, skin downwards, on a board;
spread over each two layers of force-meat, with a layer of
sliced truffles in between the two. Make your crust, either in
a mould, or with the hands, put a layer of force-meat at the
bottom, then two woodcocks, then a layer of truffles, then the
other two woodcocks, another layer of truffles, and a top layer
of force-meat, and some thin slices of fat bacon. Cover the
pie, leaving a hole for the gravy, and bake in a moderate oven.
After taking out pour in the gravy, then close the orifice and
let the pie get cold before serving.
_N.B._--It will stimulate the _digging_ industry if one or
two _whole_ truffles have been hidden away in the recesses of
the pie.
Another good pie I have met with--in the north country--was lined with
portions of grouse and black game (no bones), with here and there half
a hard-boiled egg. Nothing else except the necessary seasoning.
With regard to
_Hunting Luncheons_
it cannot be said that your Nimrod is nearly as well catered for as is
the "Gun." For, as a rule, the first-named, if he be really keen on
the sport of kings has to content himself, during the interval of a
"check," with the contents of a sandwich-case, and a flask, which may
contain either brown sherry or brandy and water--or possibly something
still more seductive. I have heard of flasks which held milk punch,
but the experience is by no means a familiar one. If your Nimrod be
given to "macadamising," instead of riding the line, or if he sicken
of the business altogether before hounds throw off, he can usually
"cadge" a lunch at some house in the neighbourhood, even though it may
only "run to" bread and cheese--or, possibly, a wedge of a home-made
pork-pie--with a glass, or mug, of nut brown ale. Not that all ale
is "nut brown," but 'tis an epithet which likes me well. Would it
were possible to give practical hints here as to the true way to
manufacture a pork-pie! To make the attempt would, I fear, only serve
to invite disaster; for the art of pork-pie making, like that of the
poet, or the play-actor, should be born within us. In large households
in the midland counties (wherein doth flourish the pig tart) there
is, as a rule, but one qualified pie-maker--who is incapable of any
other culinary feat whatever. I have even been told that it requires
"special hands" to make the crust of the proper consistency; and
having tasted crusts _and_ crusts, I can implicitly believe this
statement. Here is a recipe for a veritable savoury
_Yorkshire Pie_.
Bone a goose and a large fowl. Fill the latter with the
following stuffing:--minced ham, veal, suet, onion, sweet
herbs, lemon peel, mixed spices, goose-liver, cayenne, and
salt, worked into a paste with the yolks of two eggs. Sew up
the fowl, truss it, and stew it with the goose for twenty
minutes in some good beef and giblet stock, with a small
glass of sherry, in a close stewpan. Then put the fowl inside
the goose, and place the goose within a pie-mould which has
been lined with good hot-water paste. Let the goose rest on a
cushion of stuffing, and in the middle of the liquor in which
he has been stewed. Surround him in the pie with slices of
parboiled tongue and chunks of semi-cooked pheasant, partridge,
and hare, filling in the vacancies with more stuffing, put a
layer of butter atop, roof in the pie with paste, bake for
three hours, and eat either hot or cold--the latter for choice.
For a skating luncheon
_Irish Stew_
is the recognised _entrée_, served in soup-plates, and washed down
with hot spiced ale.
In the way of
_Race-course Luncheons_
our caterers have made giant strides in the last dozen years. A member
of a large firm once told me that it was "out of the question" to
supply joints, chops, and steaks in the dining-rooms of a grand stand,
distant far from his base of operations, London. "Impossible, my dear
sir! we couldn't do it without incurring a ruinous loss." But the
whirligig of time has proved this feat to be not only possible, but
one which has led to the best results for all concerned. In the matter
of chops and steaks I hope to see further reforms introduced. These
succulent dainties, it cannot be too widely known, are not at their
best unless _cut fresh_ from loin or rump, just before being placed
on the gridiron. The longer a cut chop (raw) is kept the more of its
virtue is lost. It might, possibly, cause a little extra delay, and a
little extra expense, to send off loins and rumps from the butcher's
shop, instead of ready-cut portions, but the experiment would answer,
in the long run. The same rule, of course, should apply to restaurants
and grill-rooms all over the world.
During the autumn and winter months, race-course caterers seem to
have but one idea of warm comforting food for their customers, and
the name of that idea is Irish stew. This is no doubt an appetising
dish, but might be varied occasionally for the benefit of the habitual
follower of the sport of kings. Why not pea-soup, jugged hare (hares
are cheap enough), hot-pot, Scotch broth, mullagatawny, hotch-potch,
stewed or curried rabbit, with rice, shepherd's pie, haricot ox-tails,
sheep's head broth (Scotch fashion), and hare soup! What is the matter
with the world-renowned stew of which we read in _The Old Curiosity
Shop_--the supper provided by the landlord of the "Jolly Sandboys" for
the itinerant showmen? Here it is again:
"'It's a stew of tripe,' said the landlord, smacking his
lips, 'and cowheel,' smacking them again, 'and bacon,' smacking
them once more, 'and steak,' smacking them for the fourth time,
'and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes, and sparrowgrass, all
working up together in one delicious gravy.' Having come to
the climax, he smacked his lips a great many times, and taking
a long hearty sniff of the fragrance that was hovering about,
put on the cover again with the air of one whose toils on earth
were over.
"'At what time will it be ready?' asked Mr. Codlin
faintly. 'It'll be done to a turn,' said the landlord, looking
up at the clock, 'at twenty-two minutes before eleven.'
"'Then,' said Mr. Codlin, 'fetch me a pint of warm ale,
and don't let nobody bring into the room even so much as a
biscuit till the time arrives.'"
And I do vow and protest that the above passage has caused much more
smacking of lips than the most expensive, savoury _menu_ ever thought
out. True, sparrowgrass and new potatoes, and any peas but dried or
tinned ones are not as a rule at their best in the same season as
tripe; but why not dried peas, and old potatoes, and rice, and curry
powder, and onions--Charles Dickens forgot the onions--with, maybe,
a modicum of old ale added, for "body"--in this stew, on a cold
day at Sandown or Kempton? _Toujours_ Irish stew, like _toujours_
mother-in-law, is apt to pall upon the palate; especially if not fresh
made. And frost occasionally interferes with the best-laid plans of a
race-course caterer.
"I don't mind a postponed meeting," once observed one of the
"readiest" of bookmakers; "but what I cannot stand is postponed Irish
stew."
Than a good bowl of
_Scotch Broth_,
what could be more grateful, or less expensive?
Shin of beef, pearl barley, cabbages, leeks, turnips,
carrots, dried peas (of course soaked overnight), and
water--"all working up together in one delicious gravy."
Also
_Hotch Potch_.
With the addition of cutlets from the best end of a neck of mutton,
the same recipe as the above will serve for this dish, which it must
be remembered should be more of a "stodge" than a broth.
There are more ways than one of making a "hot-pot." The recipe given
above would hardly suit the views of any caterer who wishes to make
a living for himself; but it can be done on the cheap. The old lady
whose dying husband was ordered by the doctor oysters and champagne,
procured whelks and ginger beer for the patient, instead, on the score
of economy. Then why not make your hot-pot with mussels instead of
oysters? Or why add any sort of mollusc? In the certain knowledge that
these be invaluable hints to race-course caterers, I offer them with
all consideration and respect.
The writer well remembers the time when the refreshments on Newmarket
Heath at race-time were dispensed from a booth, which stood almost
adjoining the "Birdcage." Said refreshments were rough, but
satisfying, and consisted of thick sandwiches, cheese, and bread,
with "thumb-pieces" (or "thumbers") of beef, mutton, and pork, which
the luncher was privileged to cut with his own clasp-knife. Said
"thumbers" seem to have gone out of favour with the aristocracy of the
Turf; but the true racing or coursing sandwich still forms part of the
_impedimenta_ of many a cash-bookmaker, of his clerk, and of many a
"little" backer. 'Tis a solid, satisfying sandwich, and is just the
sort of nourishment for a hard worker on a bitter November day. Let
your steak be grilling, whilst you are enjoying your breakfast--some
prefer the ox-portion fried, for these simple speculators have strange
tastes--then take the steak off the fire and place it, all hot,
between two _thick_ slices of bread. The sandwich will require several
paper wrappings, if you value the purity of your pocket-linings.
And when eaten cold, the juices of the meat will be found to have
irrigated the bread, with more or less "delicious gravy." And, as Sam
Weller ought to have said, "it's the gravy as does it."
"But what about the swells?" I fancy I hear somebody asking, "Is my
Lord Tomnoddy, or the Duke of Earlswood to be compelled to satisfy his
hunger, on a race-course, with tripe and fat bacon? Are you really
advising those dapper-looking, tailor-made ladies on yonder drag to
insert their delicate teeth in a sandwich which would have puzzled
Gargantua to masticate?" Not at all, my good sir, or madam. The
well-appointed coach should be well-appointed within and without. Of
course the luncheon it contains will differ materially according to
the season of the year. This is the sort of meal I will provide, an
you will deign to visit the Arabian tent behind my coach, at Ascot:
Lobster mayonnaise, salmon cutlets with Tartar sauce (_iced_), curried
prawns (_iced_), lobster cutlets, _chaud-froid_ of quails, _foie
gras_ in aspic, prawns in ditto, plovers' eggs in ditto, galantine of
chicken, York ham, sweets various, including iced gooseberry fool;
and, as the _pièce de résistance_, an
_Angel's Pie_.
Many people would call this a pigeon pie, for in good sooth there be
pigeons in it; but 'tis a pie worthy of a brighter sphere than this.
Six plump young pigeons, trimmed of all superfluous
matter, including pinions and below the thighs. Season with
pepper and salt, and stuff these pigeons with _foie gras_, and
quartered truffles, and fill up the pie with plovers' eggs and
some good force-meat. Make a good gravy from the superfluous
parts of the birds, and some calf's head stock to which has
been added about half a wine-glassful of old Madeira, with
some lemon-juice and cayenne. See that your paste be light and
flaky, and bake in a moderate oven for three hours. Pour in
more gravy just before taking out, and let the pie get cold.
This is a concoction which will make you back all the winners; whilst
no heiress who nibbles at it would refuse you her hand and heart
afterwards.
This is another sort of
_Pigeon Pie_
which is best served hot, and is more suited to the dining-room than
the race-course.
Line a pie dish with veal force-meat, very highly
seasoned, about an inch thick. Place on it some thin slices of
fat bacon, three Bordeaux pigeons (trimmed) in halves, a veal
sweetbread in slices, an ox palate, boiled and cut up into
dice, a dozen asparagus tops, a few button mushrooms (the large
ones would give the interior of the pie a bad colour) and the
yolks of four eggs. Cover with force-meat, and bake for three
hours. Some good veal gravy should be served with this, which I
have named
_Suffolk Pride_.
It is a remarkable fact in natural history that English pigeons are at
their best just at the time when the young rooks leave the shelter of
their nests. Therefore have I written, in the above recipe, "Bordeaux"
pigeons.
Here is a quaint old eighteenth-century recipe, which comes from
Northumberland, and is given _verbatim_, for a
_Goose Pie_.
Bone a goose, a turkey, a hare, and a brace of grouse;
skin it, and cut off all the outside pieces--I mean of the
_tongue_, after boiling it--lay the goose, for the outside a
few pieces of hare; then lay in the turkey, the grouse, and
the remainder of the tongue and hare. Season highly between
each layer with pepper and salt, mace and cayenne, and put it
together, and draw it close with a needle and thread. Take 20
lbs. of flour, put 5 lbs. of butter into a pan with some water,
let it boil, pour it among the flour, stir it with a knife,
then work it with your hands till quite stiff. Let it stand
before the fire for half an hour, then raise your pie and set
it to cool; then finish it, put in the meat, close the pie,
and set it in a cold place. Ornament according to your taste,
bandage it with calico dipped in fat. Let it stand all night
before baking. It will take a long time to bake. The oven must
be pretty hot for the first four hours, and then allowed to
slacken. To know when it is enough, raise one of the ornaments,
and with a fork try if the meat is tender. If it is hard the
pie must be put in again for two hours more. After it comes out
of the oven fill up with strong stock, well seasoned, or with
clarified butter. All standing pies made in this way.
Verily, in the eighteenth century they must have had considerably
more surplus cash and time, and rather more angelic cooks than their
descendants!
During cold weather the interior of the coach should be well filled
with earthenware vessels containing such provender as hot-pot, hare
soup, mullagatawny, lobster _à l'Américaine_, curried rabbit, devilled
larks--with the _matériel_ for heating these. Such cold viands as game
pie, pressed beef, boar's head, _foie gras_ (truffled), plain truffles
(to be steamed and served with buttered toast) anchovies, etc. The
larks should be smothered with a paste made from a mixture of mustard,
Chili vinegar, and a little anchovy paste, and kept closely covered
up. After heating, add cayenne to taste.
Gourmets interested in _menus_ may like to know what were the first
_déjeuners_ partaken of by the Tsar on his arrival in Paris in October
1869.
On the first day he had huîtres, consommé, oeufs à la Parisienne,
filet de boeuf, pommes de terre, Nesselrode sauce, chocolat.
Next day he ate huîtres, consommé, oeufs Dauphine, rougets, noisettes
d'agneau maréchal, pommes de terre, cailles à la Bohémienne, poires
Bar-le-Duc.
The writer can recall some colossal luncheons partaken of at dear,
naughty Simla, in the long ago, when a hill station in India was, if
anything, livelier than at the present day, and furnished plenty of
food for both mind and body. Our host was the genial proprietor of a
weekly journal, to which most of his guests contributed, after their
lights; "sport and the drama" falling to the present writer's share.
Most of the food at those luncheons had been specially imported from
Europe; and although the whitebait tasted more of the hermetical
sealing than of the Thames mud, most of the other items were succulent
enough. There were turtle soup, and turtle fins; highly seasoned
_pâtés_ of sorts; and the native _khansamah_ had added several dishes
of his own providing and invention. A young florican (bustard) is by
no means a bad bird, well roasted and basted; and though the eternal
_vilolif_ (veal olives) were usually sent away untasted, his snipe
puddings were excellent. What was called _picheese_ (twenty-five years
old) brandy, from the _atelier_ of Messrs. Justerini and Brooks, was
served after the coffee; and those luncheon parties seldom broke up
until it was time to dress for dinner. In fact, our memories were
not often keen as to anything which occurred after the coffee, and
many "strange things happened" in consequence; although as they have
no particular connection with high-class cookery, they need not be
alluded to in this chapter.
But, as observed before, I am of opinion that luncheon, except under
certain circumstances, is a mistake.