DINNER (_continued_)
"The strong table groans
Beneath the smoking sirloin stretched immense."
A merry Christmas--Bin F--A _Noel_
banquet--Water-cress--How Royalty fares--The
Tsar--_Bouillabaisse_--_Tournedos_--_Bisque_--_Vol-au-vent_--_Prè
salé_--Chinese banquets--A fixed bayonet--_Bernardin
salmi_--The duck-squeezer--American cookery--"Borston"
beans--He couldn't eat beef.
A Christmas dinner in the early Victorian era! _Quelle fête
magnifique!_ The man who did not keep Christmas in a fitting manner
in those days was not thought much of. "Dines by himself at the club
on Christmas day!" was the way the late Mr. George Payne of sporting
memory, summed up a certain middle-aged recluse, with heaps of money,
who, although he had two estates in the country, preferred to live in
two small rooms in St. James's Place, S.W., and to take his meals at
"Arthur's."
And how we boys (not to mention the little lasses in white frocks and
black mittens) used to overeat ourselves, on such occasions, with no
fear of pill, draught, or "staying in," before our eyes!
The writer has in his mind's eye a good specimen of such an
old-fashioned dinner, as served in the fifties. It was pretty much
the same feast every Christmas. We commenced with some sort of clear
soup, with meat in it. Then came a codfish, crimped--the head of that
household would have as soon thought of eating a _sôle au vin blanc_
as of putting before his family an uncrimped cod--with plenty of
liver, oyster sauce, and pickled walnuts; and at the other end of the
table was a dish of fried smelts. _Entrées?_ Had any of the diners
asked for an _entrée_, his or her _exit_ from the room would have been
a somewhat rapid one. A noble sirloin of Scotch beef faced a boiled
turkey anointed with celery sauce; and then appeared the blazing
pudding, and the mince-pies. For the next course, a dish of toasted
(or rather stewed) cheese, home-made and full of richness, was handed
round, with dry toast, the bearer of which was closely pursued by a
varlet carrying a huge double-handed vessel of hot spiced-ale, bobbing
or floating about in the which were roasted crab-apples and sippets of
toast; and it was _de rigueur_ for each of those who sat at meat to
extract a sippet, to eat with the cheese.
How the old retainer, grey and plethoric with service, loved us boys,
and how he would manoeuvre to obtain for us the tit-bits! A favoured
servitor was "Joseph"; and though my revered progenitor was ostensibly
the head of the house, he would, on occasion, "run a bad second"
to "Joseph." Memory is still keen of a certain chilly evening in
September, when the ladies had retired to the drawing-room, and the
male guests were invited to be seated at the small table which had
been wheeled close to the replenished fire.
"Joseph," said the dear old man, "bring us a bottle or two of the
yellow seal--_you_ know--Bin F."
The servitor drew near to his master, and in a stage whisper exclaimed:
"You can't afford it, sir!"
"What's that?" roared the indignant old man.
"You can't afford it, sir--Hawthornden's won th' Leger!"
"Good Gad!" A pause--and then, "Well, never mind, Joseph, we'll have
up the yellow seal, all the same."
One of the writer's last Christmas dinners was partaken of in a sweet
little house in Mayfair; and affords somewhat of a contrast with the
meal quoted above. We took our appetites away with a salad composed
of anchovies, capers, truffles, and other things, a Russian sardine
or two, and rolls and butter. Thence, we drifted into _Bouillabaisse_
(a tasty but bile-provoking broth), toyed with some _filets de sôle
à la Parisienne_ (good but greasy), and disposed of a _tournedos_,
with a nice fat oyster atop, apiece (_et parlez-moi d'ça!_). Then came
some dickey-birds _sur canapé_--alleged to be snipe, but destitute
of flavour, save that of the tin they had been spoiled in, and of
the "canopy." An alien cook can _not_ cook game, whatever choice
confections he may turn out--at least that is the experience of the
writer. We had _cressons_, of course, with the birds; though how
water-cress can possibly assimilate with the flesh of a snipe is
questionable. "Water-creases" are all very well at tea in the arbour,
but don't go smoothly with any sort of fowl; and to put such rank
stuff into a salad--as my hostess's cook did--is absolutely criminal.
To continue the Mayfair banquet, the salad was followed by a _soufflée
à la Noel_ (which reminded some of the more imaginative of our party
of the festive season), some cheese straws, and the customary ices,
coffee, and liqueurs. On the whole, not a bad meal; but what would old
Father Christmas have said thereto? What would my revered progenitor
have remarked, had he been allowed to revisit the glimpses of the
moon? He did not love our lively neighbours; and, upon the only
occasion on which he was inveigled across the Channel, took especial
care to recross it the very next day, lest, through circumstances
not under his own control, he might come to be "buried amongst these
d----d French!"
The following _menu_ may give some idea as to how
_Royalty_
entertains its guests. Said _menu_, as will be seen, is comparatively
simple, and many of the dishes are French only in name:--
Huîtres
----
Consommé aux oeufs pochés
Bisque d'écrevisses
----
Turbot, sauce d'homard
Fillets de saumon à l'Indienne
----
Vol-au-vent Financière
Mauviettes sur le Nid
----
Selle de mouton de Galles rotie
Poulardes à l'Estragon
----
Faisans
Bécassines sur croûte
----
Chouxfleur au gratin
----
Plum Pudding
Bavarois aux abricots
----
Glace à la Mocha
Truly a pattern dinner, this; and 'twould be sheer impertinence to
comment thereon, beyond remarking that English dishes should, in
common fairness, be called by English names.
Her Imperial Majesty the Tsaritza, on the night of her arrival at
Darmstadt, in October 1896, sat down, together with her august
husband, to the following simple meal:--
Consommé de Volaille Cronstades d'écrevisses
----
Filet de Turbot à la Joinville
----
Cimier de Chevreuil
[A haunch of Roebuck is far to be desired above
the same quarter of the red deer].
----
Terrine de Perdreaux
----
Ponche Royale
----
Poularde de Metz
----
Choux de Bruxelles
----
Bavarois aux Abricots
----
Glaces Panachées
The partiality of crowned heads towards "Bavarois aux
Abricots"--"Bavarois" is simply Bavarian cheese, a superior sort of
_blanc mange_--is proverbial. And the above repast was served on
priceless Meissen china and silver. The only remarks I will make upon
the above _menu_ are that it is quite possible that the capon may have
come from Metz, though not very probable. French cooks name their
meat and poultry in the most reckless fashion. For instance, owing to
this reckless nomenclature the belief has grown that the best ducks
come from Rouen. Nothing of the sort. There are just as good ducks
raised at West Hartlepool as at Rouen. "Rouen" in the bill-of-fare is
simply a corruption of "roan"; and a "roan duck" is a quacker who
has assumed (through crossing) the reddish plumage of the wild bird.
As for (alleged) Surrey fowls, most of them come from Heathfield in
Sussex, whence £142,000 worth were sent in 1896.
Let us enquire into the composition of some of the high-sounding
_plats_, served up by the average _chef_.
_Bouillabaisse._--Of it Thackeray sang--
"This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is--
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotch-potch of all sorts of fishes
That Greenwich never could outdo:
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terré's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse."
Avoid eels and herrings in this concoction as too oily. Soles,
mullet, John Dory, whiting, flounders, perch, roach, and mussels
will blend well, and allow half a pound of fish for each person. For
every pound of fish put in the stewpan a pint of water, a quarter of
a pint of white wine, and a tablespoonful of salad oil. If there be
four partakers, add two sliced onions, two cloves, two bay-leaves,
two leeks (the white part only, chopped), four cloves of garlic, a
tablespoonful chopped parsley, a good squeeze of lemon juice, half
an ounce of chopped capsicums, a teaspoonful (or more _ad lib._) of
saffron, with pepper and salt. Mix the chopped fish in all this, and
boil for half an hour. Let the mixture "gallop" and strain into a
tureen with sippets, and the fish served separately.
_Tournedos._--No relation to tornado, and you won't find the word in
any Gallic dictionary. A _tournedos_ is a thin collop of beef, steeped
in a _marinade_ for twenty-four hours (personally I prefer it without
the aid of the marine) and fried lightly. Turn it but _once_. The
oyster atop is simply scalded. _Try this dish._
_Bisque._--In the seventeenth century this was made from pigeons by
the poor barbarians who knew not the gentle lobster, nor the confiding
crayfish. Heat up to boiling-point a Mirepoix of white wine. You don't
know what a
_Mirepoix_
is? Simply a faggot of vegetables, named after a notorious cuckold
of noble birth in the time of Louis XV. Two carrots, two onions, two
shalots, two bay-leaves, a sprig of thyme and a clove of garlic.
Mince very small, with half a pound of fat bacon, half a pound of raw
ham, pepper and salt, and a little butter. Add a sufficiency of white
wine. In this mixture cook two dozen crayfish for twenty minutes,
continually tossing them about till red, when take them out to cool.
Shell them, all but the claws, which should be pounded in a mortar and
mixed with butter. The flesh of the tails is reserved to be put in the
soup at the last minute; the body-flesh goes back into the _mirepoix_,
to which two quarts of broth are now added. Add the pounded shells to
the soup, simmer for an hour and a half, strain, heat up, add a piece
of butter, the tails, a seasoning of cayenne, and a few _quenelles_
of whiting.
_Vol-au-vent Financière._--This always reminds me of the fearful
threat hurled by the waiter in the "Bab Ballads" 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!"
Make your crust--light as air, and flaky as snow, an you
value your situation--and fill with button mushrooms, truffles,
cock's-combs, _quenelles_ of chicken, and sweetbread, all
chopped, seasoned, and moistened with a butter sauce. Brown
gravy is objectionable. Garnish the _Vol_ with fried parsley,
which goes well with most luxuries of this sort.
There are some words which occur frequently in French cookery which,
to the ordinary perfidious Briton, are cruelly misleading. For years
I was under the impression that _Brillat Savarin_ was a species of
filleted fish (brill) in a rich gravy, instead of a French magistrate,
who treated gastronomy poetically, and always ate his food too fast.
And only within the last decade have I discovered what a
_Pré Salé_
really means. Literally, it is "salt meadow, or marsh." It is said
that sheep fed on a salt marsh make excellent mutton; but is it not
about time for Britannia, the alleged pride of the ocean, and ruler of
its billows, to put her foot down and protest against a leg of "prime
Down"--but recently landed from the Antipodes--being described on the
card as a _Gigot de pré salé_?
The meals, like the ways, of the "Heathen Chinee" are peculiar. Some
of his food, to quote poor Corney Grain, is "absolutely beastly."
_Li Hung Chang_
was welcomed to Carlton House Terrace, London, with a dinner, in
twelve courses, the following being the principal items:--Roast duck,
roast pork and raspberry jam, followed by dressed cucumber. Shrimps
were devoured, armour and all, with leeks, gherkins, and mushrooms.
A couple of young chickens preserved in wine and vinegar, with green
peas, a _purée_ of pigeon's legs followed by an assortment of sour
jellies. The banquet concluded with sponge cakes and tea.
In his own land the
_Chinaman's Evening Repast_
is much more variegated than the above. It is almost as long as a
Chinese drama, and includes melon seeds, bitter almonds, bamboo
sprouts, jelly-fish, cucumber, roast duck, chicken stewed in spirit
dregs,[4] peas, prawns, sausages, scallions, fish-brawn, pork
chops, plum blossoms, oranges, bird's-nest soup, pigeons' eggs
in bean curd--the eggs being "postponed" ones--fungus, shrimps,
macerated fish-fins, ham in flour, ham in honey, turnip cakes, roast
sucking-pig, fish maws, roast mutton, wild ducks' feet, water
chestnuts, egg rolls, lily seeds, stewed mushrooms, dressed crab with
jam, chrysanthemum pasties, _bêche-de-mer_, and pigs' feet in honey.
Can it be wondered at that this nation should have been brought to its
knees by gallant little Japan?
_The Englishman in China_
has not a particularly good time of it, in the gastronomic way,
and H.M. forces in Hong Kong are largely dependent on Shanghai for
supplies. There is "plenty pig" all over the land; but the dairy-fed
pork of old England is preferable. And the way "this little pig goes
to market" savours so strongly of the most refined cruelty that a
branch of the R.S.P.C.A. would have the busiest of times of it over
yonder.
Reverting to French cookery, here is an appetising dish, called a
_Bernardin Salmi_.
It should be prepared in the dining-room, before the eyes of the
guests; and Grimod de la Reyniere (to whom the recipe was given by
the prior of an abbey of Bernardin monks) recommends that the _salmi_
should be conveyed to the mouth with a fork, for fear of devouring
one's fingers, should they touch the sauce.
Take three woodcocks, underdone, and cut them into neat
portions. On a silver dish bruise the livers and trails,
squeeze over them the juice of four (?) lemons, and grate over
them a little of the thin rind. Add the portions of woodcock,
seasoned with salt, and--according to the prior--mixed spices
and two teaspoonfuls of French mustard; but the writer would
substitute cayenne _seul_; over all half a wine-glass of
sherry; and then put the dish over a spirit lamp. When the
mixture is _nearly_ boiling, add a tablespoonful of salad oil,
blow out the light, and stir well. _Four_ lemons are mentioned
in this recipe, as at the time it was written lemons were very
small when "cocks" were "in." _Two_ imported lemons (or limes)
will amply suffice nowadays.
_A Salmi of Wild Duck_
can be made almost in the same way, but here the aid of that modern
instrument the _Duck-Squeezer_ is necessary.
Cut the best of the meat in slices, off a lightly-roasted
wild-duck, after brought to table; break up the carcase and
place in a species of mill (silver) called a "duck-squeezer,"
which possesses a spout through which the richness of the
animal escapes, after being squeezed. Make a gravy of this
liquor, in a silver dish (with a spirit lamp beneath), added to
a small pat of butter, the juice of a lemon, a tablespoonful
of Worcester sauce, with cayenne and salt to taste, and half
a wine-glassful of port wine. Warm the meat through in this
gravy, which must not boil.
Of course these two last-named dishes are only intended for
bachelor-parties. Lovely woman must not be kept waiting for
"duck-squeezers" or anything else.
_The Jesuits_
introduced the turkey into Europe, of which feat the Jesuits need
not boast too much; for to some minds there be many better edible
birds; and the "gobbler" requires, when roasted or boiled, plenty of
seasoning to make him palatable. The French stuff him in his roasted
state, with truffles, fat force-meat, or chestnuts, and invariably
"bard" the bird--"bard" is old English as well as old French--with
fat bacon. The French turkey is also frequently brazed, with an
abundant _mirepoix_ made with what their cooks call "Madére," but
which is really Marsala. It is only we English who boil the "gobbler,"
and stuff him (or her, for it is the hen who usually goes into the
pot) with oysters, or force-meat, with celery sauce. Probably the
best parts of the turkey are his legs, when grilled for breakfast,
and smothered with the sauce mentioned in one of the chapters on
"Breakfast"; and
_Pulled Turkey_
makes an agreeable luncheon-dish, or _entrée_ at dinner, the
breast-meat being pulled off the bone with a fork, and fricasseed,
surrounded in the dish by the grilled thighs and pinions.
Who introduced the turkey into America deponent sayeth not. Probably,
like Topsy, it "growed" there. Anyhow the bird is so familiar a
table-companion in the States, that Americans, when on tour in Europe,
fight very shy of him. "Tukkey, sah, cranberry sarce," used to be the
stereotyped reply of the black waiter when interrogated on the subject
of the bill of fare.
_Coloured Help_
is, however, gradually being ousted (together with sulphur matches)
from the big hotels in New York, where white waiting and white food
are coming into, or have come into, regular use. In fact, with
the occasional addition of one or other of such special dishes as
terrapin, soft-shell crab, clam chowder, and the everlasting pork and
beans, a dinner in New York differs very little at the time of writing
(1897) from one in London. The taste for
_Clam Chowder_
is an acquired one, nor will stewed tortoise ever rank with thick
turtle in British estimation, although 'tis not the same tortoise
which is used in London households to break the coals with. A
_Canvass-back Duck_,
if eaten in the land of his birth, is decidedly the most
delicately-flavoured of all the "Quack" family. His favourite food is
said to be wild celery, and his favoured haunts the neighbourhood of
Chesapeake Bay, from whose waters comes the much prized "diamond-back"
terrapin, which is sold at the rate of 50$ or 60$ the dozen. The
canvass-back duck, however, suffers in transportation; in fact, the
tendency of the ice-house aboard ship is to rob all food of its
flavour.
But however good be the living in
_New York City_
--where the hotels are the best in the world, and whose _Mr.
Delmonico_ can give points to all sorts and conditions of food
caterers--it is "a bit rough" in the provinces. There is a story told
of a young actor, on tour, who "struck" a small town out West, and put
up at a small inn. In the course of time dinner was served, and the
landlord waited at table. The principal cover was removed, disclosing
a fine joint of coarsish, indifferently-cooked beef. Our young actor
was strangely moved at the sight.
"What?" he cried. "Beef again? This is horrible! I've seen no other
food for months, and I'm sick and tired of it. I can't eat beef."
Whereupon his host whipped out a huge "six-shooter" revolver, and
covering the recalcitrant beef-eater, coolly remarked:
"Guess you kin!"
But I don't believe that story, any more than I believe the anecdote
of the cowboys and the daylight let through the visitor who couldn't
eat beans.