SALADS
"O green and glorious, O herbaceous meat!
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat.
Back to the world he'd turn his weary soul,
And dip his fingers in the salad bowl!"
Nebuchadnezzar _v._ Sydney Smith--Salt?--No
salad-bowl--French origin--Apocryphal story of
Francatelli--Salads _and_ salads--Water-cress and dirty
water--Salad-maker born not made--Lobster salad--Lettuce,
Wipe or wash?--Mayonnaise--Potato salad--Tomato ditto--Celery
ditto--A memorable ditto.
If Sydney Smith had only possessed the experience of old King
Nebuchadnezzar, after he had been "turned out to grass," the witty
prebend might not have waxed quite so enthusiastic on the subject of
"herbaceous meat." Still the subject is a vast and important one, in
its connection with gastronomy, and lends itself to poetry far easier
than doth the little sucking pig, upon whom Charles Lamb expended so
great and unnecessary a wealth of language.
But look at the terse, perfunctory, and far from satisfactory manner
in which the _Encyclopædia_ attacks the subject. "Salad," we read,
"is the term given to a preparation of raw herbs for food. It derives
its name from the fact that salt is one of the chief ingredients
used in dressing a salad." This statement is not only misleading but
startling; for in the "dressing" of a salad it would be the act of a
lunatic to make salt the "chief ingredient."
Long before they had learnt the art of dressing the herbs, our
ancestors partook of cresses (assorted), celery, and lettuces, after
being soaked in water for a considerable period; and they dipped the
raw herbs into salt before consuming them. In fact, in many a cheap
eating-house of to-day, the term "salad" means plain lettuce, or
cress, or possibly both, absolutely undressed--in a state of nature,
_plus_ plenty of dirty water. Even the English cook of the end of the
nineteenth century cannot rid himself, or herself, of the idea that
lettuce, like water-cress, knows the running brook, or the peaceful
pond, as its natural element. And thirty years before the end of that
century, a salad bowl was absolutely unknown in nine-tenths of the
eating-houses of Great Britain.
There is no use in blinking the fact that it is to our lively
neighbours that we owe the introduction of the salad proper. Often
as the writer has been compelled, in these pages, to inveigh against
the torturing of good fish and flesh by the alien cook, and the
high prices charged for its endowment with an alien flavour, let
that writer (figuratively) place a crown of endive, tipped with
baby onions, upon the brows of the philanthropist who dressed the
first salad, and gave the recipe to the world. That recipe has, of
course, been improved upon; and although the _savant_ who writes in
the _Encyclopædia_ proclaims that "salad has always been a favourite
food with civilised nations, and has varied very little in its
composition," the accuracy of both statements is open to question.
"Every art," observes another writer, "has its monstrosities;
gastronomy has not been behind-hand; and though he must be a bold man
who will venture to blaspheme the elegancies of French cookery, there
comes a time to every Englishman who may have wandered into a mistaken
admiration of sophisticated messes, when he longs for the simple diet
of his native land, and vows that the best cookery in the world, and
that which satisfies the most refined epicureanism, sets up for its
ideal--plainness of good food, and the cultivation of natural tastes."
And yet the French have taught us, or tried to teach us, how to
prepare a dish of raw herbs, in the simplest way in the world!
"Now a salad," says the same writer, "is simplicity itself, and here
is a marvel--it is the crowning grace of a French dinner, while, on
the other hand, it is little understood and villainously treated
at English tables." Ahem! I would qualify that last statement. At
_some_ English tables I have tasted salads compared with which the
happiest effort of the _chef_ deserves not to be mentioned in the same
garlic-laden breath. And "garlic-laden breath" naturally reminds me
of the story of Francatelli--of which anecdote I do not believe one
word, by the way. It was said of Franc., whilst _chef_ at the Reform
Club, that his salads were such masterpieces, such things of beauty,
that one of the members questioned him on the subject.
"How do you manage to introduce such a delicious flavour into your
salads?"
"Ah! that should be my secret," was the reply. "But I will tell him
to you. After I have made all my preparations, and the green food is
mixed with the dressing, I chew a little clove of garlic between my
teeth--so--and then breathe gently over the whole."
But, as observed before, I do not believe that garlic story.
O salad, what monstrosities are perpetrated in thy name! Let the
genteel boarding-house cook-maid, the young lady who has studied
harmony and the higher mathematics at the Board School, spread herself
over the subject; and then invite the angels to inspect the matter,
and weep! For this is the sort of "harmony" which the "paying guest,"
who can appreciate the advantages of young and musical society, an
airy front bed-chamber, and a bicycle room, is expected to enthuse
over at the _table d'hôte_: a _mélange_ of herbs and roots, including
water-cress and giant radishes, swimming in equal parts of vinegar and
oil, and a large proportion of the water in which the ingredients have
been soaking for hours--said ingredients being minced small, like veal
collops, with a steel knife. And the same salad, the very identical
horror, obtrudes itself on the table at other genteel establishments
than boarding-houses. For they be "mostly fools" who people the
civilised world.
Let it be laid down as a golden rule, that the concoction of a salad
should never, or hardly ever, be entrusted to the tender mercies of
the British serving-maid. For the salad-maker, like the poet, is
born, not made; and the divine _afflatus_--I don't mean garlic--is as
essential in the one as in the other. We will take the simple mixture,
what is commonly known as the
_French Salad_,
first. This is either composed, in the matter of herbs, of lettuce,
chopped taragon, chervil, and chives; or of endive, with, "lurking in
the bowl," a _chapon_, or crust of bread on which a clove of garlic
has been rubbed. But the waiter, an he be discreet, will ask the
customer beforehand if he prefer that the _chapon_ be omitted. The
dressing is simplicity itself:
Within the bowl of a table-spoon are placed, in
succession, a spot of made mustard, and a sprinkling of black
pepper and salt. The bowl is filled up with vinegar, and with
a fork in the other hand the waiter stirs quickly the mustard,
etc., afterwards emptying the contents of the spoon over the
green-stuff. Then the spoon is refilled--either twice or
thrice, _ad lib._--with Lucca oil, which is also poured over
the salad. Then the final mixing takes place, in the salad bowl.
But there be many and elaborate ways of salad-making. Here is the
writer's idea of a
_Lobster Salad_
for half-a-dozen guests:
In a soup plate, mix the yolks of two hard-boiled
eggs--boiled for thirty minutes, and afterwards thrown into
cold water--into a smooth paste with a teaspoonful of made
mustard, and a tablespoonful of plain vinegar, added drop by
drop. Keep on stirring, and add a dessert-spoonful of tarragon
vinegar, a few drops of essence of anchovies, a teaspoonful
(_not heaped_) of salt, about the same quantity of sifted
sugar, and a good pinch of cayenne. [The tendency of black
pepper is to make a salad gritty, which is an abomination.]
Lastly, add, drop by drop, three tablespoonfuls of oil. Pour
this dressing (which should be in a continual state of stir)
into your salad bowl. Add the pickings of a hen lobster cut
into dice, and atop of the lobster, lettuces which have been
shred with clean fingers, or with ivory forks; a little endive
may be added, with a slice or two of beetroot; but no onion (or
very little) in a lobster salad. A few shreds of anchovy may
be placed atop; with beetroot cut into shapes, the whites of
the eggs, and the coral of the lobster, for the sake of effect;
but seek not, O student, to achieve prettiness of effect to
the detriment of practical utility. I need hardly add that the
sooner after its manufacture a salad is eaten, the better will
be its flavour. And the solid ingredients should only be mixed
with the dressing at the very last moment; otherwise a sodden,
flabby effect will be produced, which is neither pleasing to
the eye, nor calculated to promote good digestion.
I am perfectly aware that the above is not a strict _Mayonnaise_
dressing, in which the egg yolks should be raw, instead of cooked.
But, like the Scotsman, I have "tried baith," and prefer my own way,
which more resembles the _sauce Tartare_, than the _Mayonnaise_
of our lively neighbours, who, by the way, merely wipe, instead
of wash, their lettuces and endive, to preserve, as they say, the
flavour. Of course this is a matter of taste, but the writer must
own to a preference for the baptised article, which must, however,
on no account be left to soak, but be simply freed from dirt, grit,
and--other things.
What is the origin of the word "MAYONNAISE"? No two Frenchmen will
give you the same answer. "Of or belonging to Mayonne" would seem
to be the meaning of the word; but then there is no such place as
Mayonne in the whole of France. Grimod de la Reyniere maintained
that the proper word was "BAYONNAISE," meaning a native of Bayonne,
on the Spanish frontier. Afterwards Grimod, who was a resourceful
man, got hold of another idea, and said that the word was probably
"MAHONNAISE," and so named in honour of Marshal Richelieu's capture
of the stronghold of Mahon, in the island of Minorca. But what had
this victory got to do with a salad dressing? What was the connection
of raw eggs and tarragon vinegar with Marshal Richelieu? Then up
came another cook, in the person of Carême, who established it as
an absolute certainty that the genuine word was "MAGNONNAISE," from
the word "_manier_," to manipulate. But as nobody would stand this
definition for long, a fresh search had to be made; and this time
an old Provençal verb was dug up--_mahonner_, or more correctly
_maghonner_, to worry or fatigue. And this is now said by purists to
be the source of _Mayonnaise_--"something worried," or fatigued. And
the reason for the gender of the noun is said to be that in ancient
times lovely woman was accustomed to manipulate the salad with her own
fair fingers. In the time of Rousseau, the phrase _retourner la salade
avec les doigts_ was used to describe a woman as being still young and
beautiful; just as in Yorkshire at the present time, "she canna mak'
a bit o' bread" is used to describe a woman who is of no possible use
in the house. So a _Mayonnaise_ or a _Mahonnaise_--I care not which
be the correct spelling--was a young lady who "fatigued" the salad.
More shame to the gallants of the day, who allowed "fatigue" to be
associated with youth and beauty!
But can it possibly matter what the word means, when the mixture
is smooth and savoury; and so deftly blended that no one flavour
predominates? And herein lies the secret of every mixture used for
the refreshment of the inner man and woman; whether it be a soup, a
curry, a trifle, a punch, or a cup--no one ingredient should be of
more weight or importance than another. And that was the secret of
the "delicious gravy" furnished by the celebrated stew at the "Jolly
Farmers," in _The Old Curiosity Shop_ of Charles Dickens.
MAYONNAISE (we will drop for the nonce, the other spelling) is made
thus:
In the proportions of two egg yolks to half a pint of
Lucca oil, and a small wine-glassful of tarragon vinegar.
Work the yolks smooth in a basin, with a seasoning of pepper
(cayenne for choice), salt, and--according to the writer's
views--sifted sugar. Then a few drops of oil, and fewer of
vinegar; stirring the mixture all the time, from right to
left, with a wooden, or ivory, spoon. In good truth 'tis a
"fatiguing" task; and as in very hot weather the sauce is
liable to decompose, or "curdle," before the finishing touches
are put to it, it may be made over ice.
"Stir, sisters, stir,
Stir with care!"
is the motto for the _Mayonnaise_-mixer. And in many cases her only
reward consists in the knowledge that through her art and patience she
has helped to make the sojourn of others in this vale of tears less
tearful and monotonous.
"Onion atoms" should "lurk within the bowl," on nearly every occasion,
and as for a potato salad--don't be afraid, I'm not going to quote any
more Sydney Smith, so don't get loading your guns--well, here is the
proper way to make it.
_Potato Salad._
Cut nine or ten average-sized kidney potatoes (cooked)
into slices, half an inch thick, put them in a salad bowl, and
pour over them, after mixing, two tablespoonfuls of vinegar,
one tablespoonful of tarragon vinegar, six tablespoonfuls
of oil, one of minced parsley, a dessert-spoonful of onions
chopped very fine, with cayenne and salt to taste. Shredded
anchovies may be added, although it is preferable without;
and this salad should be made a couple of hours or so before
partaken of.
The German recipe for a potato salad is too nasty to quote; and their
HERRING SALAD, although said to be a valuable restorative of nerve
power, by no means presents an attractive appearance, when served at
table. Far more to the mind and palate of the average epicure is a
_Tomato Salad_.
This is the author's recipe:
Four large tomatoes and one Spanish onion, cut into thin
slices. Mix a spot of mustard, a little white pepper and
salt, with vinegar, in a table-spoon, pour it over the love
apples, etc., and then add two tablespoonfuls of oil. Mix well,
and then sprinkle over the mixture a few drops of Lea and
Perrins's Worcester Sauce. For the fair sex, the last part of
the programme may be omitted, but on no account leave out the
breath of sunny Spain. And mark this well. The man, or woman,
who mixes tomatoes with lettuces, or endives, in the bowl, is
hereby sentenced to translate the whole of this book into Court
English.
_Celery Salad._
An excellent winter salad is made with beetroot and
celery, cut in thin slices, and served--with or without
onions--either with a mayonnaise sauce, or with a plain cream
sauce: to every tablespoonful of cream add a teaspoonful of
tarragon vinegar, a little sugar, and a suspicion of cayenne.
This salad looks best served in alternate slices of beet and
celery, on a flat silver dish, around the sauce.
_A Gentleman Salad Maker._
Although in the metropolis it is still customary, in middle-class
households, to hire "outside help" on the occasion of a dinner-party,
we have not heard for some time of a salad-dresser who makes
house-to-house visitations in the exercise of his profession. But,
at the end of the 18th century, the Chevalier d'Allignac, who had
escaped from Paris to London in the evil days of the Revolution, made
a fortune in this way. He was paid at the rate of £5 a salad, and
naturally, soon started his own carriage, "in order that he might
pass quickly from house to house, during the dining hours of the
aristocracy." High as the fee may appear to be, it is impossible to
measure the width of the gulf which lies between the salad as made by
a lover of the art, and the kitchen-wench; and a perfect salad is,
like a perfect curry, "far above rubies."
_A Memorable Salad_
was once served in my own mansion. The _chef_, who understood these
matters well, when her hair was free from vine leaves, had been
celebrating her birthday or some other festival; and had mixed the
dressing with Colza oil. Her funeral was largely attended.