VEGETABLES (_continued_)
"Earth's simple fruits; we all enjoy them.
Then why with sauces rich alloy them?"
The brief lives of the best--A vegetable with a
pedigree--Argenteuil--The Elysian Fields--The tomato the
emblem of love--"Neeps"--Spinach--"Stomach-brush"--The
savoury tear-provoker--Invaluable for wasp-stings--Celery
merely cultivated "smallage"--The "_Apium_"--The parsnip--O
Jerusalem!--The golden sunflower--How to get pheasants--A
vegetarian banquet--"Swelling wisibly."
It is one of the most exasperating laws and ordinations of Nature
that the nicest things shall last the shortest time. "Whom the gods
love die young," is an ancient proverb; and the produce of the garden
which is most agreeable to man invariably gives out too soon. Look at
peas. Every gardener of worth puts in the seed so that you may get the
different rows of marrow-fats and telephones and _ne plus ultras_ in
"succession"; and up they all come, at one and the same time, whilst,
if you fail to pick them all at once, the combined efforts of mildew
and the sun will soon save you the labour of picking them at all.
Look at strawberries; and why can't they stay in our midst all the
year round, like the various members of the cabbage family?
Then look at ASPARAGUS. The gardener who could persuade the heads of
this department to pop up in succession, from January to December
would earn more money than the Prime Minister. The favourite vegetable
of the ancient Romans was introduced by them, with their accustomed
unselfishness, into Britain, where it has since flourished--more
particularly in the alluvial soil of the Thames valley in the
neighbourhood of Mortlake and Richmond, ground which is also
especially favourable to the growth of celery. In an ancient work
called _De Re Rustica_, Cato the Elder, who was born 234 B.C., has
much to say--far more, indeed, than I can translate without the aid of
a dictionary or "crib"--about the virtues and proper cultivation of
asparagus; and Pliny, another noble Roman, devotes several chapters of
his _Natural History_ (published at the commencement of the Christian
era) to the same subject. "Of all the productions of your garden" says
this Mr. Pliny, "your chief care will be your asparagus." And the
cheerful and sanguine householder of to-day who sows his asparagus,
and expects to get it "while he waits" has ample consolation for
disappointment in the reflection that his labours will benefit
posterity, if not the next tenant.
The foreigners can beat us for size, in the matter of asparagus; but
ours is a long way in front for flavour. In France the vegetable is
very largely grown at Argenteuil on the Seine, a district which has
also produced, and still produces, a wine which is almost as dangerous
to man as hydrocyanic acid, and which was invariably served in the
restaurants, after the sitting had been a lengthy one, no matter what
special brand might have been ordered. English hosts play the same
game with their "military" ports and inferior sherries. The Argenteuil
asparagus is now grown between the vines--at least 1000 acres are in
cultivation--hence the peculiar flavour which, however grateful it
may be to Frenchmen, is somewhat sickly and not to be compared with
that of the "little gentleman in Green," nearly the whole of whom we
English can consume with safety to digestion.
According to Greek mythology, asparagus grew in the Elysian fields;
but whether the blessed took oil and vinegar with it, or the
"bill-sticker's paste," so favoured in middle-class kitchens of
to-day, there is no record. It goes best, however, with a plain salad
dressing--a "spot" of mustard worked into a tablespoonful of oil, and
a dessert-spoonful of tarragon vinegar, with pepper and salt _ad lib_.
Asparagus is no longer known in the British pharmacopoeia, but the
French make large medicinal use of its root, which is supposed
to still the action of the heart, like foxglove, and to act as a
preventive of calculi. In cooking the vegetable, tie in small bundles,
which should be stood on end in the saucepan, so that the delicate
heads should be _steamed_, and not touched by the boiling water. Many
cooks will contest this point; which, however, does not admit of
argument.
There was once a discussion in a well-known hostelry, as to whether the
_Tomato_
was a fruit or a vegetable. Eventually the head-waiter was invited to
solve the great question. He did so on the spot.
"Tumarter, sir? Tumarter's a hextra."
And as a "hextra" it has never since that period ceased to be
regarded. A native of South America, the plant was introduced into
Europe by the Spaniards, late in the sixteenth century, and the
English got it in 1596. Still until a quarter of a century ago the
tomato has not been largely cultivated, save by the market gardener;
in fact in private gardens it was conspicuous by its absence. Those
who eat it do _not_ invariably succumb to cancer; and the dyspeptic
should always keep it on the premises. As the tomato is also known as
the "love-apple," a great point was missed by our old friend Sergeant
Buzfuz, in the celebrated Bardell v. Pickwick trial, when referring to
the postscript, "chops, and tomato sauce." Possibly Charles Dickens
was not an authority on veget---- I beg pardon, "hextras."
Here is a French recipe for
_Tomate au Gratin_:
Cut open the tops and scoop out the pulp. Pass it through
a sieve, to clear away the pips, and mix with it either a
modicum of butter, or oil, some chopped shalot and garlic, with
pepper and salt. Simmer the mixture for a quarter of an hour,
then stir in some bread-crumbs, previously soaked in broth, and
some yolks of egg. When cold, fill the tomato skins with the
mixture, shake some fine bread raspings over each, and bake in
quick oven for ten or twelve minutes.
The
_Turnip_
is not, as might be sometimes imagined, entirely composed of
compressed deal splinters, but is a vegetable which was cultivated in
India long before the Britons got it. The Scotch call turnips "neeps";
but the Scotch will do anything. Probably no member of the vegetable
family is so great a favourite with the insect pests sent on earth by
an all-wise Providence to prevent mankind having too much to eat. But
see that you get a few turnips to cook when there is roast duck for
dinner.
_Spinach_
was introduced into Spain by the Arabs, and as neither nation
possessed at that time, at all events, the attribute of
extra-cleanliness, they must have eaten a great deal of "matter in
the wrong place," otherwise known as dirt. For if ever there was a
vegetable the preparation of which for table would justify any cook in
giving notice to leave, it is spinach.
The Germans have nick-named it "stomach-brush," and there is no plant
growing which conduces more to the health of man. But there has been
more trouble over the proper way to serve it at table than over
Armenia. The French chop up their _épinards_ and mix butter, or gravy,
with the mess. Many English, on the other hand, prefer the leaves
cooked whole. It is all a matter of taste.
But I seem to scent a soft, sweet fragrance in the air, a homely and
health-giving reek, which warns me that I have too long neglected to
touch upon the many virtues of the
_Onion_.
Indigenous to India in the form of
_Garlic_
(or _gar-leek_, the original onion), the Egyptians got hold of the
tear-provoker and cultivated it 2000 years before the Christian era.
So that few of the mortals of whom we have ever read can have been
ignorant of the uses of the onion, or _gar-leek_. But knowledge and
practice have enabled modern gardeners to produce larger bulbs than
even the most imaginative of the ancients can have dreamt of. To
mention all the uses to which the onion is put in the kitchen would be
to write a book too weighty for any known motive power to convey to
the British Museum; but it may be briefly observed of the juice of the
_Cepa_ that it is invaluable for almost any purpose, from flavouring a
dish fit to set before a king, to the alleviation of the inflammation
caused by the poison-bearing needle which the restless wasp keeps for
use within his, or her, tail. In fact, the inhabited portion of the
globe had better be without noses than without onions.
Like the tomato, CELERY is a "hextra"--and a very important one.
If you buy the heads at half-a-crown per hundred and sell them at
threepence a portion, it will not exercise your calculating powers to
discover the profits which can be made out of this simple root. Celery
is simply cultivated "smallage"; a weed which has existed in Britain
since the age of ice. It was the Italians who made the discovery that
educated smallage would become celery; and it is worthy of note that
their forefathers, the conquerors of the world, with the Greeks, seem
to have known "no touch of it"--as a relish, at all events; though
some writers will have it that the "Apium," with which the victors at
the Isthmian and other games were crowned was not parsley but the leaf
of the celery plant. But what does it matter? Celery is invaluable as
a flavourer, and when properly cultivated, and not stringy, a most
delightful and satisfactory substance to bite. In fact a pretty woman
never shows to more advantage than when nibbling a crisp, "short" head
of celery--provided she possess pretty teeth.
With boiled turkey, or ditto pheasant, celery sauce is _de rigueur_;
and it should be flavoured slightly with slices of onion, an ounce of
butter being allowed to every head of celery. The French are fond of
it stewed; and as long as the flavour of the gravy, or _jus_, does not
disguise the flavour of the celery, it is excellent when thus treated.
Its merits in a salad will be touched upon in another chapter.
The PARSNIP is a native of England, where it is chiefly used to make
an inferior kind of spirit, or a dreadful brand of wine. Otherwise few
people would trouble to cultivate the parsnip; for we can't be having
boiled pork or salt fish for dinner every day. The VEGETABLE MARROW
is a member of the pumpkin family and is a comparatively tasteless
occupant of the garden, its appearance in which heralds the departure
of summer. In the suburbs, if you want to annoy the people next door,
you cannot do better than put in a marrow plant or two. If they come
to anything, and get plenty of water, they will crawl all over your
neighbour's premises; and unless he is fond of the breed, and cuts
and cooks them, they make him mad. The frugal housewife, blessed
with a large family, makes jam of the surplus marrows; but I prefer
a conserve of apricot, gooseberry, or greengage. Another purpose to
which to put this vegetable is--
Scoop out the seeds, after cutting it in half, lengthways.
Fill the space with minced veal (cooked), small cubes of
bacon, and plenty of seasoning--some people add the yoke of an
egg--put on the other half marrow, and bake for half-an-hour.
This BAKED MARROW is a cheap and homely dish which, like many another
savoury dish, seldom finds its way to the rich man's dining-room.
The ARTICHOKE is a species of thistle; and the man who pays the usual
high-toned restaurant prices for the pleasure of eating such insipid
food, is an--never mind what. Boil the thing in salt and water, and
dip the ends of the leaves in oil and vinegar, or Holland sauce,
before eating. Then you will enjoy the really fine flavour of the--oil
and vinegar, or Holland sauce.
The so-called JERUSALEM ARTICHOKE is really a species of sunflower.
Its tuber is not a universal favourite, though it possesses far from a
coarse flavour. The plant has nothing whatever to do with Jerusalem,
and never had. Put a tuber or two into your garden, and you will
have Jerusalem artichokes as long as you live on those premises.
For the vegetable will stay with you as long as the gout, or the
rate-gatherer. Pheasants are particularly partial to this sort of crop.
By far the best vegetable production of the gorgeous East is the
_Brinjal_
'Tis oval in shape, and about the size of a hen's egg, the surface
being purple in colour. It is usually cut in twain and done "on the
grating"; I have met something very like the _brinjal_ in Covent
Garden; but can find no record of the vegetable's pedigree in any book.
Although there are still many vegetarian restaurants in our large
towns, the prejudice against animal food is, happily, dying out; and
if ridicule could kill, we should not hear much more of the "cranks"
who with delightful inconsistency, would spurn a collop of beef, and
gorge themselves on milk, in every shape and form. If milk, butter,
and cheese be not animal food I should like to know what is? And
it is as reasonable to ask a man to sustain life on dried peas and
mushrooms as to feed a tiger on cabbages.
Once, and only once, has the writer attempted a
_Vegetarian Banquet_.
It was savoury enough; and possessed the additional merit of being
cheap. Decidedly "filling at the price" was that meal. We--I had a
messmate--commenced with (alleged) Scotch broth--which consisted
principally of dried peas, pearl barley, and oatmeal--and a large
slice of really excellent brown bread was served, to each, with this
broth. Thereupon followed a savoury stew of onions and tomatoes,
relieved by a "savoury pie," apparently made from potatoes, leeks,
bread crumbs, butter, and "postponed" mushrooms. We had "gone
straight" up to now, but both shied a bit at the maccaroni and grated
cheese. We had two bottles of ginger beer apiece, with this dinner,
which cost less than three shillings for the two, after the dapper
little waitress had been feed. On leaving, we both agreed to visit
that cleanly and well-ordered little house again, if only from motives
of economy; but within half an hour that programme was changed.
Like the old lady at the tea-drinking, I commenced to "swell wisibly";
and so did my companion.
"Mon alive!" he gasped. "I feel just for all the wor-rld like a
captive balloon, or a puffy-dunter--that's a puffing whale, ye ken.
I'll veesit yon onion-hoose nae mair i' ma life!"
And I think it cost us something like half a sovereign in old brandy
to neutralise the effects of that vegetarian banquet.