In spite of all that we have heard for some years past about the
enlightenment of the age, there are still certain vulgar errors, and
errors on very vital subjects, to which the English adhere with all the
constancy of martyrs.
Perhaps these errors are more abundant in relation to the preparation of
food than to almost any other matter. At present, in the middle of the
nineteenth century, the generality of people in England have only roast
and boil, after a fashion; and there the culinary acquirements of the
multitude find their extreme limits. Others, there are, indeed, who take
a higher flight; they affect soups and gravies, and even aspire to put
vegetables on their tables; but in all these cases nothing can be more
inartificial than the system pursued. Hot water is the chief ingredient,
and pepper the condiment. Thus, for soup;--fry two or three slices of
coarse beef in plenty of fat, boil it in water, and saturate it with
pepper and salt, and your tureen is provided for. Of mutton broth we are
not so sure of the process; but the decoction has all the appearance of
being composed of the eternal hot water, stirred with a tallow candle,
to give the necessary number of globules of grease on the surface, and
ornamented at the top with a few floating particles of parsley. A gravy
in more frequent use is exceedingly simple. When a leg of mutton is
roasted, the person miscalled a cook pours a teacupful of water over the
joint, and the gravy is complete. Vegetables are only required to retain
as much as possible of the fetid water in which they are boiled, and to
be sunk as deep in melted butter as a river bound collier is in the sea,
and they are considered “a dainty dish to set before a king.”
Such are a few everyday examples of the English practice of
cookery--principles it evidently has none. In France they order these
things differently. During a succession of revolutions, extending over a
space of nearly sixty years, constitutions have been abandoned as soon
as adopted; kings and nobles have been murdered; but _La Cuisine_ has
ever been held inviolate, and chefs deserving of the name have not
ceased to be venerated. And what is the result?--that in France, where
the raw material is, with the single exception of veal, perhaps,
inferior to ours, a dinner can be produced worthy of Lucullus; in
England, save under the superintendence of French artists, such a feat
is plainly impossible. Surely, then, it behoves us to do what we may for
availing ourselves, in their fullest extent, of the advantages we have
received from nature, not perhaps by going the somewhat extreme length
that we have heard suggested, of establishing professorships of
gastronomy in our universities, on the broad ground that domestic is as
well worthy of being encouraged as political economy, but by profiting,
to the best of our abilities, under the instructions of those who really
understand the art in which we are so lamentably deficient. So desirable
an object has hitherto been baffled by the popular prejudice that good
cookery is necessarily unwholesome. It is no such thing. An accomplished
cook is an accomplished chemist; he knows the several affinities of
substances for each other, and not only balances these with the utmost
exactitude, but even prescribes, with the same view, the particular
description of wine proper to each stage of his banquet. We all remember
the celebrated answer of Carême to George IV, whose cuisine he
superintended while that sovereign was regent. “Carême,” said the
prince, “your cookery will be the death of me; see how I am suffering
from indigestion.” “Sire,” replied the professor, “I am innocent of the
charge; it is my duty to provide you with a dinner, the discretion to
use it properly must originate with your royal highness.” So true is it
that the evil lies in the abuse and not in the use of good things.
Another objection to elaborate cookery is the expense it is supposed to
involve. Both the points have been satisfactorily met in the work before
us. The many receipts furnished by M. Soyer, and they amount to nearly
two thousand, afford evidence at once of careful study and of extreme
delicacy. Everything gross is excluded, and the more nutritious portions
of food are alone preserved, in such forms as to please the eye and the
palate, without embarrassment to the digestive process. Neither of these
objects is attained under the ordinary English system. Huge joints
offend the sight, and half-raw meat tasks the organs of digestion beyond
their power, by presenting to them masses of unbroken fibres. To save
trouble to the stomach the fibre must be destroyed by the action of
heat, and this can never be effected by exposing food to the fire during
only half the time that is necessary.
Then, as to the expense of superior cookery, M. Soyer has taken the best
means of refuting the error by showing that much improvement may be made
without addition to the cost. In one portion of his book he provides
materials for the dinner of an emperor; in the other, entitled, “My
Kitchen at Home,” he enables the smallest private family, or even the
solitary bachelor, to live well on small means.
It would be incompatible with our limits to discuss fully the two
systems of the author, and to abstain from any illustration of them
would be unjust to him and unsatisfactory to the reader. We will
therefore give one example of each--the magnificent and the simple; and
the first shall be a banquet served at the Reform Club, on the 9th of
May last to a private party of ten persons (see page 609), and for a
dinner party for eight persons, at home (see page 636).
Of the simple arrangement for a bachelor or a married couple, combining,
as they do, elegance with economy, we cannot give a selection; because
we would not offer a brick as a specimen of the house; but we strongly
recommend them to all who are tired of conventional dinners composed of
everlasting chops and steaks.
In short the work of M. Soyer is one that cannot fail of being
extensively read. If it be worth while to spend as much time as
everybody does in eating, it is surely advisable to see that our time is
not thrown away--that we live like civilized beings rather than New
Zealand savages. In this important point the system of M. Soyer is
worthy of praise, and we feel that we only anticipate our readers in
thanking him for the labour he has bestowed in elucidating a pursuit
that, in despite of twaddle, is at least one of the minor amenities of
life.