GASTRONOMY IN FICTION AND DRAMA
"Let me not burst in ignorance."
"A chiel's amang ye, taking notes."
Thomas Carlyle--Thackeray--Harrison Ainsworth--Sir
Walter Scott--Miss Braddon--Marie Corelli--F. C.
Philips--Blackmore--Charles Dickens--_Pickwick_ reeking
with alcohol--Brandy and oysters--_Little Dorrit_--_Great
Expectations_--Micawber as a punch-maker--_David
Copperfield_--"Practicable" food on the stage--"Johnny" Toole's
story of Tiny Tim and the goose.
Considering the number of books which have been published during the
nineteenth century, it is astonishing how few of them deal with eating
and drinking. We read of a banquet or two, certainly, in the works of
the divine William, but no particulars as to the _cuisine_ are entered
into. "Cold Banquo" hardly sounds appetising. Thomas Carlyle was a
notorious dyspeptic, so it is no cause for wonderment that he did not
bequeath to posterity the recipes for a dainty dish or two, or a good
Derby Day "Cup." Thackeray understood but little about cookery, nor
was Whyte Melville much better versed in the mysteries of the kitchen.
Harrison Ainsworth touched lightly on gastronomy occasionally, whilst
Charles Lamb, Sydney Smith, and others (blessings light on the man who
invented the phrase "and others") delighted therein. Miss Braddon has
slurred it over hitherto, and Marie Corelli scorns all mention of any
refreshment but absinthe--a weird liquid which is altogether absent
from these pages. In the lighter novels of Mr. F. C. Philips, there
is but little mention of solid food except devilled caviare, which
sounds nasty; but most of Mr. Philips's men, and all his women, drink
to excess--principally champagne, brandy, and green chartreuse. And
one of his heroines is a firm believer in the merits of cognac as a
"settler" of champagne.
According to Mr. R. D. Blackmore, the natives of Exmoor did themselves
particularly well, in the seventeenth century. In that most delightful
romance _Lorna Doone_ is a description of a meal set before Tom
Faggus, the celebrated highwayman, by the Ridd family, at Plover's
Barrows:--
"A few oysters first, and then dried salmon, and then ham
and eggs, done in small curled rashers, and then a few collops
of venison toasted, and next a little cold roast pig, and a
woodcock on toast to finish with."
This meal was washed down with home-brewed ale, followed by Schiedam
and hot water.
One man, and one man alone, who has left his name printed deep on the
sands of time as a writer, thoroughly revelled in the mighty subjects
of eating and drinking. Need his name be mentioned? What is, after
all, the great secret of the popularity of
_Charles Dickens_
as a novelist? His broad, generous views on the subject of meals, as
expressed through the mouths of most of the characters in his works;
as also the homely nature of such meals, and the good and great deeds
to which they led. I once laid myself out to count the number of times
that alcoholic refreshment is mentioned in some of the principal
works of the great author; and the record, for _Pickwick_ alone, was
sufficient to sweep from the surface of the earth, with its fiery
breath, the entire Blue Ribbon Army. Mr. Pickwick was what would
be called nowadays a "moderate drinker." That is to say, he seldom
neglected an "excuse for a lotion," nor did he despise the "daylight
drink." But we only read of his being overcome by his potations on
two occasions; after the cricket dinner at Muggleton, and after the
shooting luncheon on Captain Boldwig's ground. And upon the latter
occasion I am convinced that the hot sun had far more to do with his
temporary obfuscation than the cold punch. Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen
were by no means exaggerated types of the medical students of the
time. The "deputy sawbones" of to-day writes pamphlets, drinks coffee,
and pays his landlady every Saturday. And it was a happy touch of
Dickens to make Sawyer and Allen eat oysters, and wash them down with
neat brandy, before breakfast. I have known medical students, aye!
and full-blown surgeons too, who would commit equally daring acts;
although I doubt much if they would have shone at the breakfast-table
afterwards, or on the ice later in the day. For the effect exercised
by brandy on oysters is pretty well known to science.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead as not to appreciate the
delights of Dingley Dell? Free trade and other horrors have combined
to crush the British yeoman of to-day; but we none the less delight
to read of him as he was, and I do not know a better cure for an
attack of "blue devils"--or should it be "black dog?"--than a good
dose of Dingley Dell. The wholesale manner in which Mr. Wardle
takes possession of the Pickwickians--only one of whom he knows
intimately--for purposes of entertainment, is especially delightful,
and worthy of imitation; and I can only regret the absence of a good,
cunningly-mixed "cup" at the picnic after the Chatham review. The wine
drunk at this picnic would seem to have been sherry; as there was not
such a glut of "the sparkling" in those good old times. And the prompt
way in which "Emma" is commanded to "bring out the cherry brandy,"
before his guests have been two minutes in the house, bespeaks the
character of dear old Wardle in once. "The Leathern Bottle," a
charming old-world hostelry in that picturesque country lying between
Rochester and Cobham, would hardly have been in existence now, let
alone doing a roaring trade, but for the publication of _Pickwick_;
and the notion of the obese Tupman solacing himself for blighted hopes
and taking his leave of the world on a diet of roast fowl bacon, ale,
etc., is unique. The bill-of-fare at the aforementioned shooting
luncheon might not, perhaps, satisfy the aspirations of Sir Mota Kerr,
or some other _nouveau riche_ of to-day, but there was plenty to eat
and drink. Here is the list, in Mr. Samuel Weller's own words:
"Weal pie, tongue: a wery good thing when it ain't a woman's: bread,
knuckle o' ham, reg'lar picter, cold beef in slices; wery good. What's
in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?"
"Beer in this one," replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple
of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap, "cold
punch in t'other."
"And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether," said
Mr. Weller.
Possibly; though cold beef in slices would be apt to get rather dryer
than was desirable on a warm day. And milk punch hardly seems the sort
of tipple to encourage accuracy of aim.
Mrs. Bardell's notion of a nice little supper we gather from the same
immortal work, was "a couple of sets of pettitoes and some toasted
cheese." The pettitoes were presumably simmered in milk, and the
cheese was, undoubtedly, "browning away most delightfully in a little
Dutch oven in front of the fire." Most of us will smack our lips after
this description; though details are lacking as to the contents of the
"black bottle" which was produced from "a small closet." But amongst
students of _Pickwick_, "Old Tom" is a hot favourite.
The Deputy Shepherd's particular "vanity" appears to have been
buttered toast and reeking hot pine-apple rum and water, which sounds
like swimming-in-the-head; and going straight through the book, we
next pause at the description of the supper given by the medical
students, at their lodgings in the Borough, to the Pickwickians.
"The man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent had not been
told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster
with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork; and very little was done in
this way. Very little of the beef was done either; and the ham (which
was from the German-sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar
predicament. However, there was plenty of porter in a tin can; and the
cheese went a great way, for it was very strong."
Probably the oysters had not been paid for in advance, and the man
imagined that they would be returned upon his hands none the worse.
For at that time--as has been remarked before, in this volume on
gastronomy--the knowledge that an oyster baked in his own shells, in
the middle of a clear fire, is an appetising dish, does not appear to
have been universal.
It is questionable if a supper consisting of a boiled leg of mutton
"with the usual trimmings" would have satisfied the taste of the
"gentleman's gentleman" of to-day, who is a hypercritic, if anything;
but let that supper be taken as read. Also let it be noted that the
appetite of the redoubtable Pickwick never seems to have failed him,
even in the sponging-house--five to one can be betted that those
chops were _fried_--or in the Fleet Prison itself. And mention of
this establishment recalls the extravagant folly of Job Trotter
(who of all men ought to have known better) in purchasing "a small
piece of raw loin of mutton" for the refection of himself and ruined
master; when for the same money he could surely have obtained a
sufficiency of bullock's cheek or liver, potatoes, and onions, to
provide dinner for three days. _Vide_ the "Kent Road Cookery," in one
of my earlier chapters. The description of the journeys from Bristol
to Birmingham, and back to London, absolutely reeks with food and
alcohol; and it has always smacked of the mysterious to myself how Sam
Weller, a pure Cockney, could have known so much of the capacities
of the various hostelries on the road. Evidently his knowledge of
other places besides London was "peculiar." Last scene of all in
_Pickwick_ requiring mention here, is the refection given to Mr.
Solomon Pell in honour of the proving of the late Dame Weller's last
will and testament. "Porter, cold beef, and oysters," were some of the
incidents of that meal, and we read that "the coachman with the hoarse
voice took an imperial pint of vinegar with his oysters, without
betraying the least emotion."
It is also set down that brandy and water, as usual in this history,
followed the oysters; but we are not told if any of those coachmen
ever handled the ribbons again, or if Mr. Solomon Pell spent his
declining days in the infirmary.
In fact, there are not many chapters in Charles Dickens' works in
which the knife and fork do not play prominent parts. The food is,
for the most part, simple and homely; the seed sown in England by
the fairy _Ala_ had hardly begun to germinate at the time the novels
were written. Still there is, naturally, a suspicion of _Ala_ at the
very commencement of _Little Dorrit_, the scene being laid in the
Marseilles prison, where Monsieur Rigaud feasts off Lyons sausage,
veal in savoury jelly, white bread, strachino cheese, and good claret,
the while his humble companion, Signor John Baptist, has to content
himself with stale bread, through reverses at gambling with his fellow
prisoner. After that, there is no mention of a "square meal" until we
get to Mr. Casby's, the "Patriarch." "Everything about the patriarchal
household," we are told, "promoted quiet digestion"; and the dinner
mentioned began with "some soup, some fried soles, a butter-boat of
shrimp sauce, and a dish of potatoes." Rare old Casby! "Mutton, a
steak, and an apple pie"--and presumably cheese--furnished the more
solid portion of the banquet, which appears to have been washed down
with porter and sherry wine, and enlivened by the inconsequent remarks
of "Mr. F.'s Aunt."
In _Great Expectations_ occurs the celebrated banquet at the Chateau
Gargery on Christmas Day, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and
greens, a pair of roast stuffed fowls, a handsome mince pie, and a
plum-pudding. The absence of the savoury pork-pie, and the presence
of tar-water in the brandy are incidents at that banquet familiar
enough to Sir Frank Lockwood, Q.C., M.P., and other close students
of Dickens, whose favourite dinner-dish would appear to have been a
fowl, stuffed or otherwise, roast or boiled.
In _Oliver Twist_ we get casual mention of oysters, sheep's heads, and
a rabbit pie, with plenty of alcohol; but the bill of fare, on the
whole, is not an appetising one. The meat and drink at the Maypole
Hotel, in _Barnaby Rudge_, would appear to have been deservedly
popular; and the description of Gabriel Varden's breakfast is
calculated to bring water to the most callous mouth:
"Over and above the ordinary tea equipage the board creaked beneath
the weight of a jolly round of beef, a ham of the first magnitude,
and sundry towers of buttered Yorkshire cake, piled slice upon slice
in most alluring order. There was also a goodly jug of well-browned
clay, fashioned into the form of an old gentleman not by any means
unlike the locksmith, atop of whose bald head was a fine white froth
answering to his wig, indicative, beyond dispute, of sparkling home
brewed ale. But better than fair home-brewed, or Yorkshire cake, or
ham, or beef, or anything to eat or drink that earth or air or water
can supply, there sat, presiding over all, the locksmith's rosy
daughter, before whose dark eyes even beef grew insignificant, and
malt became as nothing."
Ah-h-h!
There is not much eating in _A Tale of Two Cities_; but an intolerable
amount of assorted "sack." In _Sketches by Boz_ we learn that Dickens
had no great opinion of public dinners, and that oysters were, at that
period, occasionally opened by the fair sex. There is a nice flavour
of fowl and old Madeira about _Dombey and Son_, and the description of
the dinner at Doctor Blimber's establishment for young gentlemen is
worth requoting:
"There was some nice soup; also roast meat, boiled meat, vegetables,
pie, and cheese." [_Cheese_ at a small boys' school!] "Every young
gentleman had a massive silver fork and a napkin; and all the
arrangements were stately and handsome. In particular there was a
butler in a blue coat and bright buttons" [surely this was a footman?]
"who gave quite a winey flavour to the table beer, he poured it out so
superbly."
Dinner at Mrs. Jellyby's in _Bleak House_ is one of the funniest and
most delightful incidents in the book, especially the attendance. "The
young woman with the flannel bandage waited, and dropped everything
on the table wherever it happened to go, and never moved it again
until she put it on the stairs. The person I had seen in pattens (who
I suppose to have been the cook) frequently came and skirmished with
her at the door, and there appeared to be ill-will between them." The
dinner given by Mr. Guppy at the "Slap Bang" dining house is another
feature of this book--veal and ham, and French beans, summer cabbage,
pots of half-and-half, marrow puddings, "three Cheshires" and "three
small rums." Of the items in this list, the marrow pudding seems to be
as extinct--in London, at all events--as the dodo. It appears to be
a mixture of bread, pounded almonds, cream, eggs, lemon peel, sugar,
nutmeg, and marrow; and sounds nice.
David Copperfield's dinner in his Buckingham Street chambers was an
event with a disastrous termination. "It was a remarkable want of
forethought on the part of the ironmonger who had made Mrs. Crupp's
kitchen fireplace, that it was capable of cooking nothing but chops
and mashed potatoes. As to a fish-kettle, Mrs. Crupp said 'Well! would
I only come and look at the range? She couldn't say fairer than that.
Would I come and look at it?' As I should not have been much the
wiser if I _had_ looked at it I said never mind fish. But Mrs. Crupp
said, 'Don't say that; oysters was in, and why not them?' So _that_
was settled. Mrs. Crupp then said 'What she would recommend would
be this. A pair of hot roast fowls--from the pastry cook's; a dish
of stewed beef, with vegetables--from the pastry cook's; two little
corner things, as a raised pie and a dish of kidneys--from the pastry
cook's; a tart, and (if I liked) a shape of jelly--from the pastry
cook's. This,' Mrs. Crupp said, 'would leave her at full liberty to
concentrate her mind on the potatoes, and to serve up the cheese and
celery as she could wish to see it done.'"
Then blessings on thee, Micawber, most charming of characters in
fiction, mightiest of punch-brewers! The only fault I have to find
with the novel of _David Copperfield_ is that we don't get enough of
Micawber. The same fault, however, could hardly be said to lie in the
play; for if ever there was a "fat" part, it is Wilkins Micawber.
_Martin Chuzzlewit_ bubbles over with eating and drinking; and
"Todgers" has become as proverbial as Hamlet. In _Nicholas Nickleby_,
too, we find plenty of mention of solids and liquids; and as a
poor stroller myself at one time, it has always struck me that
"business" could not have been so very bad, after all, in the Crummles
Combination; for the manager, at all events, seems to have fared
particularly well. Last on the list comes _The Old Curiosity Shop_,
with the celebrated stew at the "Jolly Sandboys," the ingredients in
which have already been quoted by the present writer. With regard to
this stew all that I have to remark is that I should have substituted
an ox-kidney for the tripe, and left out the "sparrowgrass," the
flavour of which would be quite lost in the crowd of ingredients. But
there! who can cavil at such a feast? "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."
Codlin may not have been "the friend"; but he was certainly the judge
of the "Punch" party.
In this realistic age, meals on the stage have to be provided from
high-class hotels or restaurants; and this is, probably, the chief
reason why there is so little eating and drinking introduced into
the modern drama. Gone are the nights of the banquet of pasteboard
poultry, "property" pine-apples, and gilded flagons containing nothing
more sustaining than the atmosphere of coal-gas. Not much faith is
placed in the comic scenes of a pantomime nowadays; or it is probable
that the clown would purloin real York hams, and stuff Wall's sausages
into the pockets of his ample pants. Champagne is champagne under the
present regime of raised prices, raised salaries, raised everything;
and it is not so long since I overheard an actor-manager chide a
waiter from a fashionable restaurant, for forgetting the _Soubise_
sauce, when he brought the cutlets.
In my acting days we usually had canvas fowls, stuffed with sawdust,
when we revelled on the stage; or, if business had been particularly
good, the poultry was made from breakfast rolls, with pieces skewered
on, to represent the limbs. And the potables--Gadzooks! What horrible
concoctions have found their way down this unsuspecting throttle!
Sherry was invariably represented by cold tea, which is palatable
enough if home-made, under careful superintendence, but, drawn in
the property-master's den, usually tasted of glue. Ginger beer, at
three-farthings for two bottles, poured into tumblers containing
portions of a seidlitz-powder, always did duty for champagne; and
as for port or claret--well, I quite thought I had swallowed the
deadliest of poisons one night, until assured it was only the cold
leavings of the stage-door-keeper's coffee!
The story of Tiny Tim who ate the goose is a pretty familiar one in
stage circles. When playing Bob Cratchit, in _The Christmas Carol_ at
the Adelphi, under Mr. Benjamin Webster's management, Mr. J. L. Toole
had to carve a real goose and a "practicable" plum-pudding during the
run of that piece, forty nights. And the little girl who played Tiny
Tim used to finish her portions of goose and pudding with such amazing
celerity that Mr. Toole became quite alarmed on her account.
"'I don't like it,' I said," writes dear friend "Johnny," in his
_Reminiscences_; "'I can't conceive where a poor, delicate little
thing like that puts the food. Besides, although I like the children
to enjoy a treat'--and how they kept on enjoying it for forty nights
was a mystery, for I got into such a condition that if I dined at
a friend's house, and goose was on the table, I regarded it as a
personal affront--I said, referring to Tiny Tim, 'I don't like
greediness; and it is additionally repulsive in a refined-looking,
delicate little thing like this; besides, it destroys the sentiment
of the situation--and when I, as Bob, ought to feel most pathetic, I
am always wondering where the goose and the pudding are, or whether
anything serious in the way of a fit will happen to Tiny Tim before
the audience, in consequence of her unnatural gorging!' Mrs. Mellon
laughed at me at first, but eventually we decided to watch Tiny Tim
together.
"We watched as well as we could, and the moment Tiny Tim was seated,
and began to eat, we observed a curious shuffling movement at the
stage-fireplace, and everything that I had given her, goose and
potatoes, and apple-sauce disappeared behind the sham stove, the child
pretending to eat as heartily as ever from the empty plate. When
the performance was over, Mrs. Mellon and myself asked the little
girl what became of the food she did not eat, and, after a little
hesitation, she confessed that her little sister (I should mention
that they were the children of one of the scene-shifters) waited on
the other side of the fireplace for the supplies, and then the whole
family enjoyed a hearty supper every night.
"Dickens was very much interested in the incident. When I had
finished, he smiled a little sadly, I thought, and then, shaking me by
the hand, he said, 'Ah! you ought to have given her the whole goose.'"