COMMON-SENSE PAPERS
ON
COOKERY.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COMMON-SENSE PAPERS
ON
COOKERY.
BY
A. G. PAYNE.
CASSELL PETTER & GALPIN:
London, Paris & New York.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
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The present work has no pretensions to be a complete book on Cooking,
but is simply a series of papers (which originally appeared in CASSELL’S
MAGAZINE) in which the endeavour has been, to impart a certain amount of
useful knowledge of the Art of Cooking, by giving recipes at greater
length than would be possible in any ordinary Cookery Book.
Ordinary Cookery Books, though of the greatest utility, are, like
dictionaries, seldom if ever read through. In the present work, which
contains all the important elements and first principles of Cookery
necessary to be learnt, in order to render ordinary works on the subject
intelligible, the attempt has been made to so mingle recipes with
anecdote, that the perusal of the book may be a means of entertainment
as well as of useful information.
The work is intended more for the drawing-room than for the kitchen, for
the Author believes that, among the great mass of the middle classes in
this country—the class that is suffering most from the incapacity of
domestic servants—the remedy lies with themselves.
A helpless mistress too often makes helpless servants. It is in the hope
of curing some of this wide-spread helplessness amongst ladies that the
following papers have been written.
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CONTENTS.
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PAGE
I. —Uses and Abuses of a Frying-Pan 9
II. —Kitchen Economy 22
III. —Little Extravagancies of the Table 32
IV. —Cold Leg of Mutton 43
V. —How to make Dishes look nice 56
VI. —Breakfast Dishes 68
VII. —How to give a nice little Dinner 79
VIII. —How to give a nice little Supper 93
IX. —Spring Dishes 104
X. —Savoury Summer Dishes 114
XI. —Salads, and how to make them 127
XII. —Picnic Dainties 138
XIII. —Cooling Drinks 149
XIV. —Game and Gravy (including How to 160
Cook Hare)
XV. —Food for Cold Weather 182
XVI. —Christmas Dinners (including 191
Christmas Cheer)
XVII. —Turtle Soup 209
XVIII. —Fish Dinners 221
XIX. —Wedding Breakfasts 233
XX. —Food for Invalids 241
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COMMON-SENSE PAPERS ON COOKERY.
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I.—THE USES AND ABUSES OF A FRYING-PAN.
“We had such an awful time of it with Mary Ann!” Probably, never have
the domestic trials and difficulties of young housekeepers been summed
up in fewer or more expressive words. However, the more we look into the
world, the more we find it to be the case that we make our Mary Anns,
and not our Mary Anns us.
It is a good old saying that the master makes the man; equally true is
it that the mistress makes the maid. Let each of our readers pause for
an instant, and look round mentally among his relations and friends with
whom he is in the habit of dining. Each one, probably, has had many
changes of servants, yet there are some houses where the dinner is
invariably good, others where it is equally invariably bad. Who has not,
on entering a house where he expects to dine, been greeted at the door
with a whiff of the smell of the cooking, from which whiff he could
pretty well determine in his own mind the style of dinner he may expect?
No cooking is so good as the French, none so bad as a certain style of
English. Compare the smell of a good French restaurant, or outside the
kitchen of a first-class hotel, like the “Pavilion” at Folkestone, an
hour before the table d’hôte, with the smell of an ordinary cook-shop,
with its steam-pipes keeping warm large flabby joints and greasy
Yorkshire pudding, the whole being impregnated with that peculiar smell
of greens in which one can almost fancy he detects the flavour of
caterpillars.
I think it may be laid down as a rule that if, on entering a house, you
smell greens, you may make up your mind for a bad dinner. On the other
hand, a gamey smell, with perhaps just a dash of garlic in it, is
favourable, especially if mingled with the smell of rich pastry.
It would, however, require many volumes to enter into a minute
description of a good and a bad dinner. We would rather be practical,
and, if possible, useful.
The natural resource of young housekeepers is the cookery-book. After
the pathetic statement with which our article commences, David
Copperfield proceeds as follows:—
“In search of the principle on which joints ought to be roasted—to be
roasted enough and not too much—I myself referred to the cookery-book,
and found it there established as the allowance of a quarter of an hour
to every pound, and say a quarter over. But the principle always failed
us by some curious fatality, and we never could hit any medium between
redness and cinders.”
Here is the old story, and one that, probably, happens every day, and
will happen—viz., reference to a cookery-book; the directions followed;
the result—failure. Who is most to blame—the cook, or the book?
That the book is often in fault there can be no doubt. So long as we
meet with such absurdities as “and flavour to taste,” or “add
seasoning,” &c., we shall continue to maintain that recipes that contain
these directions might just as well have never been written.
But in the present article we wish to confine ourselves to the
“frying-pan,” one of the most useful, and, at the same time, abused
articles of kitchen use.
We will suppose that a certain dish consists of something fried. Perhaps
one or two are expected to dinner who are known or supposed to be rather
particular. The mistress has consulted the cookery-book, which gravely
recommends as follows:—“Fry of a nice golden-colour, and serve hot.” How
to do it, however, we are not informed. Suppose the dish to be a fried
sole or a sweetbread. We all know the real thing—a sweetbread at the
Café Bignon—soft and white inside, and a perfect golden-brown out,
without even a shade of colour varying in the whole dish. On the other
hand, a sweetbread _à la_ Mary Ann, covered with bread-crumbs, some a
whitey-brown, some brown, and some black, but still containing patches
with no bread-crumbs at all, looking like a cat’s back where the cook
had accidentally spilt some boiling water.
Or, perhaps, a still greater blunder has been made. On this particular
occasion Mary Ann, who means well, endeavours to do her utmost to make
things _look_ nice, and in trying to obtain this nice golden-colour,
fries the sole till it is so dried up that it becomes scarcely eatable.
Who has not occasionally in small families noticed the slight passing
shadow of annoyance on the face of the hostess, as she becomes aware of
some such little _contretemps_?—in which, perhaps, a very close observer
of human nature might detect the thought: “It will never warm up for
breakfast.”
Now, is it possible to write clear directions, so that any one with an
average amount of common sense can, by following them, fry fish,
sweetbreads, &c., which will combine colour with quality? We believe it
is possible; at any rate, it is worth the attempt.
All fish that has to be fried with egg and bread-crumbs must be treated
alike in this respect. The fish must first be thoroughly dried. Next, it
must be floured. This is done in order to ensure its being dry, just as
a baby’s neck is powdered for a similar purpose after being dried with a
towel. Next, the egg must be thoroughly beaten up before it is used;
otherwise, the white of the egg especially is apt to slip off, leaving
those bald patches we have mentioned. Again, the bread-crumbs must be
dry and fine. It is no use to attempt to use bread-crumbs made from new
bread, which will be necessarily coarse.
Now, we will suppose these conditions complied with—say a sole has been
carefully dried and floured, has been carefully egged over, and then
covered with some very fine bread-crumbs. Most cooks will say: “Well,
then fry it in plenty of hot fat, allow it to drain on a napkin, and
that’s all.”
Wait a minute. If you have a frying-pan two feet in diameter, filled
with boiling fat three inches deep, this would do very well. A few
minutes would suffice to cook the sole a nice colour, “all over alike.”
But have you this? Probably, to start with, the fish is a trifle longer
than the frying-pan. The fat is a quarter of an inch deep, and won’t
cover the fish. How, under these very common circumstances, will you get
your fish to look nice?
Go to the baker’s at once, and order in as follows (it does not cost
anything)—a bag of light-brown bread-raspings, of about the colour you
would use for a ham. Always have some by you—they keep almost for ever,
and, as I have said, the baker gives them away. Take some of these, and
make them fine—a rolling-pin and a little patience are sufficient for
the purpose. Take these fine raspings and sprinkle the sole—we left it
egged and bread-crumbed well on both sides—lo, and behold! the sole,
even before it is put in the frying-pan, is all that is desirable in the
way of colour. The weight is off your mind; all you now have to do is to
cook it so that it is done through without being dried up.
Now for this purpose you must have a certain depth of lard or dripping,
or it cannot be done. Properly speaking, there ought to be enough fat to
cover the fish. However, it is no use writing for things as they ought
to be; it is more practical to write for things as they are. You must
have enough fat at least to dip the sole in. Of course it is impossible
to draw any exact line between a single drop of fat and a gallon. What
we mean is, it is no use to try and fry fish in a frying-pan that has
had a little piece of butter put in it, just sufficient to prevent the
fish from sticking. A properly fried fish is one which has been boiled
in fat.
If, therefore, you have not sufficient to cover the sole, it will be
necessary to cook one side first, and then the other. With regard to the
time it takes, this of course, altogether depends on the thickness of
the fish. If you have enough fat to cover the fish, the very largest
sole would not take more than ten minutes. The mistake generally made in
frying fish is to over-cook it. A properly fried sole must appear moist
inside on lifting the meat from the bone. Still, the meat must not stick
to the bone, or look red. However, with regard to time, experience alone
will teach, but recollect an under-cooked fish can always be warmed up,
and an over-cooked one—never. Besides, a beginner can lift the fish off
the fire after a few minutes, take a knife, and look at the meat nearest
the bone in the thickest part. If it is white, and not transparent, it
is done enough, and a pinch of raspings hides the place. With a cook,
however, of almost any experience, this is unnecessary.
Another exceedingly important point is, the fat must be boiling. This
can generally be found out by dropping a single drop of cold water into
it, and if it makes a great hiss, the fat boils. On dipping the fish
into the fat, a noise ought to ensue somewhat similar to that made by
plunging a red-hot poker into a pail of water.
When the fish is done, lift it on to a hot cloth, in order to let the
fat drain off it, keeping it of course in front of the fire, and
afterwards lift the fish carefully, and without breaking it, on to a
clean napkin folded in a dish, or over a strainer made for the purpose.
Now some of these directions may seem unnecessary, on account of their
being so very obvious. But then it must be borne in mind that there are
Mary Anns whose stupidity is absolutely unfathomable. I recollect, many
years ago, being in lodgings at the sea-side—it was at Worthing—where I
met two specimens in the shape of mistress and servant that would, I
think, match any pair ever likely to come together again. The mistress,
who was also cook, seemed to require a considerable amount of stimulant,
and under its influence the following scraps of conversation could be
heard at intervals throughout the day:—
“Please, mum, where’s the rolling-pin?”
“I’ll rolling-pin yer!”
On asking whether there were any eggs, the unfortunate girl said—
“I think there’s some in the cupboard,” which called forth—
“Now, Mary Ann, what do you mean by thinking? never let me hear you
think again.”
The climax in the way of cooking was a fruit pie, as the handmaiden
informed us—
“Please, sir, missus is very sorry, but she forgot the butter.”
The pastry, as may be imagined, was not what may be called light;
however, the crust came off as a lid, and we amused ourselves by
spinning it like a teetotum. Of course such cases are exceptional, but I
have known a grouse stuffed with sage and onion. On another occasion a
couple were sent to a farmer’s wife to be got ready for lunch. This was
adjoining the moor where they were shot. The party to their astonishment
found them boiled.
While the fish is draining is a good opportunity to fry a little parsley
to put round it. All that is required is fresh, clean parsley—dry. A
minute is sufficient to leave it in the fat, if the fat boils. Take out
the parsley with a slice, and let it dry on the cloth by the side of the
fish. It will soon become crisp. A large wire slice will be found better
than an ordinary one.
If the fish has been large, and the frying-pan rather small, it is quite
possible that in turning the fish a little of the bread-crumbs may get
knocked off, though with care this ought not to be the case. When,
however, it is, you can always mend the patch with a pinch of raspings.
Now, the greatest difficulty in following these directions will probably
be found to be “the quantity of fat.” It is always a sore point with the
cooks. They look upon fat as one of their perquisites, and too often the
mistress will find that she has to be constantly ordering in a skin of
lard, or has to order dripping, in order to fry fish.
Recollect, however, that the same fat will do to fry fish over and over
again—though it should be kept entirely for fish—and that it will often
keep for months. Cooks are too fond, from interested motives, of making
it out bad. It will be found in small families an excellent rule to
forbid fat and grease being sold at all. Were ladies to insist on this,
which they could always do with young servants, much mischief would be
avoided. Selling dripping and candle-grease is often the thin end of the
wedge to downright theft. The class of people who buy are too often
little better than receivers of stolen property, and sometimes lead
young servants into small acts of dishonesty, in order to get them in
their power, the consequence of which is that small acts are followed by
great.
In frying sweetbreads it should be borne in mind that the sweetbreads
should be soaked some hours in water first, and then boiled for about
five or ten minutes, according to their size, and placed in cold water
to get cold. When cold they should be carefully dried, and egged and
bread-crumbed like the fish, and then covered over with the
bread-raspings, to ensure their being of a good and equal colour. Should
the fat not be sufficient to cover them, they must be turned
occasionally in the frying-pan. The fat, as before, must boil before
they are put in. Tomato or rich brown sauce can be poured round them, or
served separately, but should not be poured over them, as they should
possess a dry golden-brown colour.
We have now described some of the uses of the frying-pan, and have given
an instance of both a thick and thin substance for frying; but what are
its abuses? Cooks are very apt to use the frying-pan for what they ought
not. Too often they will use it instead of the gridiron to cook a chop
or a steak, and if there is one thing in the world utterly spoilt in the
cooking, it is a good rump steak cooked in a frying-pan. Yet it will
often be found, even in decent houses, that chops and steaks, especially
the former, are cooked in this manner. A dish of chops appears, perhaps
at lunch, the dish swimming in gravy, in which can clearly be tasted the
ketchup that has been added. After a few minutes the gravy will be seen
to be studded with blotches of grease about the size of wafers. The
chops taste greasy and sodden, and the roof of the mouth becomes soon
coated with hard mutton-fat.
How different to a chop properly cooked on a gridiron! Black outside,
red in, and brought up on a hot plate, on to which about a tea-spoonful
of clear red gravy may have run. The first mouthful you take ought to
burn your mouth. Such is a mutton chop as it ought to be; and there are
often times when an invalid or a person of delicate appetite feels as if
there is nothing else he can eat. It, however, requires a tolerably
thick gridiron, a clear fire, and common sense.
A singular instance of audacity in the way of cooking a steak occurred
at a country inn where we were once unfortunate enough to try and dine.
The waiter was a model of a dirty man in the right place. Everything was
in unison—table-cloth, forks, wine-glasses, and thumb-nails to match. He
might have been the original for that admirable little sketch in
_Punch_, where the elderly gentleman exclaims, “Why, confound you! you
are wiping my plate with your pocket-handkerchief!”—the reply being,
“Oh, it’s of no consequence, sir; it’s only a dirty one!”
We had a steak, the cooking of which completely baffled us. What
possible method was adopted to make it what it was, we could not
conceive. We made friends with the dirty man, and in time extracted the
information that the cook always boiled the chops and steaks for a few
minutes, previous to browning them in a frying-pan. This, the waiter
informed me, was a capital thing for the soup.
We have endeavoured to explain the art of frying at greater length than
it would be possible to do in any work on cooking, and on some future
occasion may again call attention to some of the points where ordinary
books on the subject seem to us to fail to meet the requirements of
small households. Unfortunately, many of the best works on cooking are
only adapted for very large establishments, or hotels, where probably a
book would not be required.
For instance, a recipe for Yorkshire pie, as given in one of the best
works on cooking yet published, commences as follows:—“First bone a
turkey, a goose, a brace of pheasants, four partridges, a dozen snipes,
four grouse, and four widgeons; then boil and trim a small York ham and
two tongues,” &c. The recipe, we have no doubt, is excellent, but with
all due submission to so great an authority, it appears scarcely adapted
for small families of limited income.
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II.—KITCHEN ECONOMY.
There is perhaps no word so little understood, or rather so
misunderstood, as the word “economy.” Just as there is a vulgar and
popular impression that political economists are a hard-hearted, selfish
class, so domestic economy is too often regarded as a synonymous term
for meanness and want of hospitality. Conversely, too many are apt to
confound extravagance with liberality. Economy in regard to money has
been defined as “the judicious use of money.” So in cooking economy
simply means the judicious use of materials. In fact, economy is closely
allied to common-sense, whereas extravagance is the twin sister of
ignorance. Good cooks are never wasteful. The difference between a good
dish and a bad one often consists simply in the fact that in the one all
the flavour has been extracted from the materials used; in the other,
part—often the best part—has been lost and thrown away. Nowhere is waste
and extravagance so wanton and reckless as among the extreme poor, and
the more ignorant the worse they are. The savage method of cooking roast
pork illustrates our point. As savages are more ignorant even than the
lowest of our own lower orders, we ought to expect to find them more
extravagant and reckless. Such is the case. On one occasion an Indian
wigwam or hut, containing a live pig, caught fire. After the fire had
subsided, and the embers were raked away, the remains of the unfortunate
animal were found inside, which on being tasted proved to be far
superior to the raw flesh to which the Indians were accustomed.
Consequently, on great occasions, when a dish of roast pork is required,
it has been the custom ever since to drive a pig into some small hut or
house, and then set the house on fire. Now, this method has all the
charm of simplicity, but still it is not altogether an economical
method; though there are some dens and hovels even in this country where
no one could regret the experiment.
But to take a simple case to illustrate our point, we will describe that
very common sauce, lobster sauce, and contrast it as it is with what it
ought to be, trusting that our description of the latter will be
attended with the practical result of enabling those who read it to make
it for themselves, should they so desire, besides something in addition.
First, we all know the lobster sauce which too often is handed round as
an accompaniment to some boiled fish, such as turbot or brill. It
consists simply of melted butter, with small pieces of lobster—some
white, some pink—cut up in it; but as to the liquid sauce itself, it
does not contain even the slightest flavour of lobster whatever. On the
other hand, good lobster sauce is of a bright red colour, and tasting so
strongly of lobster that it is too often apt to entirely overpower the
flavour of the fish. Yet this latter has probably been made out of
exactly the same materials as the former. What, then, is the difference?
Simply this:—In the one case all the flavour of the lobster has been
extracted, and in the other it has not. Cutting up the meat of a lobster
and putting the pieces into melted butter is no more making lobster
sauce than cutting up a calf’s head and throwing the pieces into boiling
water would be making mock-turtle soup.
We will suppose, now, the very ordinary case of some lobster sauce being
required for a small party, say eight persons; the ordinary method being
for a lobster to be ordered, the white part of the meat cut up and put
into some melted butter, while the pickings, so called, generally make a
tit-bit at the kitchen supper, with the usual accompaniment of at least
a pint of vinegar. Now, what is the difficulty? First, even a small
lobster is amply sufficient to supply sauce for double the number. Every
one who has eyes, and knows how to use them, must have observed how
invariably it is the case that in small households fish sauce of any
description is always made in gigantic proportions. We have seen melted
butter of the consistency of a pudding brought up for four persons, in
quantity sufficient for the table d’hôte at the Grand Hotel in Paris.
Make up your mind, therefore, as follows:—Order a moderate-sized
lobster, and have a dish of lobster cutlets as an entrée in addition to
the sauce for the fish.
Now, there are few prettier dishes than lobster cutlets, and few easier
to make, yet how rarely is it met with in small households!
First, get a lobster containing some spawn and coral. Cut open the
lobster and remove the whole of the meat, including that in the claws,
and cut it up into small pieces, and put it on a plate and place it in a
cool place, to be used as we shall explain by-and-by. Next take the
spawn and coral and place it in a mortar with about twice the quantity
of butter, and pound it well together, adding a good pinch of cayenne
pepper. You will by this means obtain what is called lobster butter, and
without it it is impossible to make either good lobster sauce, or
patties, or cutlets, or bisque—the latter being, in other words, lobster
soup.
This lobster butter has a strong lobster flavour, and is of an
exceedingly brilliant colour. It will keep a long time, and good cooks
should always try and have some by them, as ofttimes lobsters contain
neither spawn or coral. Scrape all the lobster butter out of the mortar,
and place it in some small jar for use. Next (we are supposing that
eight persons are the number at dinner), take about a dessert-spoonful
of the cut-up meat and put it by for the sauce—this quantity will be
amply sufficient—and take all the rest of the meat and place it in a
mortar, and pound it up with the following materials, previously chopped
_very_ fine: a piece of onion as big as the top of the thumb down to the
bottom of the nail, a small tea-spoonful of chopped parsley, and a piece
of lemon-peel the size and thickness of the thumb-nail. But while these
are being pounded, let us return to and finish making the lobster sauce.
First, make a little rather thin melted butter, using milk instead of
water; add sufficient lobster butter to make it a bright red colour,
this lobster butter containing as a rule sufficient cayenne pepper for
the whole sauce. Add the dessert-spoonful of lobster meat, about half a
salt-spoonful of anchovy sauce, and the same quantity of lemon-juice,
and the sauce is complete. The quantity of melted butter made should be
regulated by the size of the ladle in the sauce-tureen. There are over
twelve ordinary ladlefuls in half a pint; as a rule each person takes
one ladleful, therefore half a pint of lobster sauce is more than
sufficient for eight persons. If you don’t want waste, tell your cook to
pour a tumblerful of water into a sauce-tureen, and see how much it
looks, and never to make more melted butter for eight or even ten
persons. The melted butter should not be made, however, until it is
nearly dinner-time, as _properly_-made melted butter is apt to decompose
or run oily if exposed to heat too long.
And now, let us return to the rest of the lobster, which we left being
pounded in the mortar, and to which have been added the chopped onion,
parsley, and lemon-peel in the proportions we have mentioned. Mix in
sufficient lobster butter to make the whole mass appear of a bright-red
colour—about a brimming tea-spoonful is generally sufficient to a
medium-sized lobster. After this add some ordinary butter—about two
ounces—but, of course, the quantity must vary with the size and
meatiness of the lobster, but sufficient must be added to make the whole
quantity into a sort of thick pudding, which when struck with a
table-spoon makes a noise like—slosh.
Next mould the mass into a quantity of small pieces, the size and shape
of an oval picnic biscuit. This moulding is best done with the hands, by
throwing the piece from one palm into the other. Dip each piece in a
well-beaten-up egg—of course, one egg is sufficient for the whole
quantity—and then into some fine dry bread-crumbs. Fry in some _boiling_
fat or lard for about two minutes, and put each piece on a cloth to
drain for a few minutes in front of the fire. Stick a small piece of the
end of the small claws of the lobster—say about three-quarters of an
inch long—into each, to represent the bone of the cutlet, and the dish
is complete, though it had better be put into the oven for four or five
minutes just before serving.
When lobsters are cheap, the cost of these pretty little red cutlets
varies from one penny to three-half-pence each. I once made twenty from
a lobster that cost one shilling and sixpence. There are many ignorant
people, who on seeing such a dish would imagine that it must be a very
extravagant one; and yet these same persons would think nothing of
having a dish of six or eight ordinary mutton cutlets handed round as an
entrée, costing at least sixpence each. Besides, there is no comparison
in the appearance of the two dishes. There are, perhaps, few entrées
more invariably passed by at dinner-parties than mutton cutlets, unless
dressed ones, which, especially when truffles are used, are very
expensive. A dish of bright-red lobster cutlets, neatly arranged in a
silver dish, with a pile of crisp fried parsley in the centre, always
looks nice; and if economy is very much thought of, a few bread-crumbs
added to the mass before moulding will increase the dish, but we don’t
recommend the method: we wish to be practical: and the probable result
of the suggestion to the cook is that the cutlets will be spoilt, and
the cook will have the best claw for her supper, served _au
naturel_—_i.e._, with the vinegar aforesaid.
It seems very dreadful, when one comes to think about it, but how
horribly dependent we all are upon our servants! and, as a rule, how far
less regard have they to economy than we have ourselves! This is
probably owing to early education—for instance, the girl who in
childhood has been accustomed to see her mother buy coals by the
apronful. Yes, gentle reader, such is the fact, which you may see for
yourself any day in some of the poorer neighbourhoods in London. I
recollect a case once in which the apron-strings gave way, thereby
causing the coal-cellar to make a sudden and unexpected appearance on
the pavement, and calling forth the exclamation of—
“Drat the thing!”
Yet this very girl, who, as we said, has been used to see her mother lay
in coals in this fashion, when she goes out to service is so overcome by
the inexhaustible supply, as it seems to her, in a cellar containing
several tons, that from sheer thoughtlessness she is extravagant to a
degree. In most houses the ashes are thrown up far more often in the
dining-room than in the kitchen.
Another and ofttimes a more terrible difficulty that young housekeepers
have to contend with, is the impenetrable stupidity of the women in her
employ. I recollect a most amusing case that occurred many years ago in
a house at Woolwich. An elderly lady—one of the good old sort, not above
occasional interference in domestic matters—had personally superintended
the preparation of that somewhat nasty creature in the raw state, a hare
for jugging. The richest of gravy had been prepared, the joints of the
hare had been neatly browned in a frying-pan without being cooked.
Cloves, port wine, &c.—nothing had been forgotten, and the whole had
been placed in a large jug, and only required being put to simmer gently
in some boiling water. Now, the elderly lady wisely thought that the
copper would be as safe a place as any wherein to stand the jug, the
water reaching about half-way up, this method having the additional
advantage of leaving more room on the kitchen fire, besides obviating
the risk of its being upset by the saucepan—if the jug were placed in
one—being hastily moved. Directions were given accordingly.
Imagine the elderly lady’s face on discovering, about a quarter of an
hour before dinner, that Mary Ann had put the jug in the copper by
simply emptying it in!
But I fear I have rather got away from my subject, which is that of
economy. Now, economy is the very soul of cookery, and can be alike
practised in the palace and the cottage, and, unfortunately, is less
regarded in the latter than in the former. It is wonderful how many
really nice dishes may be made out of odds and ends. In a well-managed
house there ought not to be enough left to keep even a dog; whereas, if
the truth were known, the contents of the dust-bins alone in England
contain sufficient food to almost banish poverty from the land. This may
seem a strong statement, but it is no more strong than true. Recollect
waste is a crime; and were it in our power—which it is not—to be able to
multiply food even to a miraculous extent, it would not the less be our
duty to “gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.”
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III.—LITTLE EXTRAVAGANCIES OF THE TABLE.
The importance of such a subject as the one I have now taken in hand is
apt to be much underrated. Many a starving family could be fed from the
wasted superabundance which falls, in too many cases, not only from the
rich man’s, but the comparatively poor man’s table.
There is no extravagance so disastrous as the extravagance of ignorance.
It is perhaps as difficult to define precisely where hospitality and
comfort end, and extravagance begins, as it is to define where economy
ends and meanness begins. Strange to say, however, we not unfrequently
find extravagance and meanness go hand in hand. How often do we find
households conducted upon inconsistent principles! For instance, a fine
large house, dogs, horses, and carriages, and yet one cannot get a good
glass of sherry at dinner, or any wine at all after. Rows of fine
greenhouses as well as hot-houses, full of rare plants, and no fire in
the bedroom. I sometimes think that quite the poor are a great deal
better off than the rich for real luxuries.
I know I have stopped at some houses, and thought with a sigh of the
poor man’s, with the feather bed, especially when the blankets are out
of pawn. After all, happiness is much more equally distributed in the
world than some people think for, and living in one room has its
advantages as well as its drawbacks. The pennyworth of fried fish warmed
up in the oven, with appetite sauce, will hold its own with the best of
_vols-au-vent_ without. But all this has very little to do with the
subject, which is not household management in general, but table
extravagance in particular.
Perhaps the most common form of extravagance is profusion, which is very
marked in certain dishes; and we before called attention to melted
butter, which is invariably made in quantity sufficient for quite ten
times the number at dinner. Fish is commonly supplied in quantity enough
for double the number; for instance, three or four persons do not want a
pair of large soles; one would be ample, and the other would do for
breakfast cooked fresh; instead, it is either warmed up and spoilt, or
eaten cold at the servants’ supper with a knife and vinegar. Another
form of extravagance is cooking too many potatoes every day regularly. I
know one or two houses where more than half the dish of potatoes has
been left every day for the last twenty years, and I feel confident will
continue to be left for twenty years to come. Again, some servants
invariably cut up a great deal more bread for dinner than is necessary,
the stale pieces left too often finding their way into the pig-tub.
Speaking of pig-tubs reminds me of a little incident that came to my
knowledge only last Christmas. A gentleman living in a country village
kept one pig, and had been in the habit of paying 1s. a week for grains
from the brewery. His gardener, who lived in a little cottage a mile
off, and kept pigs of his own, informed him that he was in the habit of
buying pigwash from the cooks in the neighbourhood, to whom he paid 1s.
a month, and suggested that he should receive the 1s. a week, and in
return find the wash, guaranteeing the pig would thrive far better. The
first pail of wash the man brought to the house ought indeed to be a
caution to housekeepers, containing as it did large lumps of bread,
whole cooked potatoes, and chicken-bones half-picked.
The gentleman, who is my own brother, declared to me that he had seen
pails of pig-wash containing broken victuals sufficient to keep a poor
family for a week, and jokingly remarked that should he ever be really
hard up, he should dine at his pig’s. These facts, however, are no joke.
I believe the extravagance of ignorant servants, in large households
where the mistress does not enter into domestic affairs, is beyond all
conception. As Sam Weller observes, if some servants got their deserts
it would be very little cold swarry they would ever eat again. I have
known cases where a jug of beer left from a late dinner has been poured
down the sink, and some fresh beer drawn for the kitchen supper, on the
ground that the beer left would taste flat.
Some joints are undoubtedly more extravagant than others. I wonder what
a French cook thinks of the English roast loin of mutton. The bones are
always left half-picked on the plate, and too often the end left
altogether, besides which the roast loin of mutton seems to possess the
unamiable property of getting cold sooner than any other joint I know
of.
Now, bone the joint, and stuff it with veal stuffing; the raw bones will
of course make soup, and nothing is wasted.
It is always extravagant to use up any joint or poultry, when it can be
helped, when bones are left on the plates. I succeeded some little time
ago in persuading a shockingly bad housekeeper not to bring up the
remains of a large turkey cold. It was treated instead as follows:—With
the assistance of a small tin of mushrooms, part of it made some Russian
Kromeskies; another part made a dish of mince; some nice slices cut off
the remains of the breast were converted into a capital Mayonnaise;
while the two legs—for it was a fine bird, weighing twenty-one
pounds—were devilled, and sent up with some devil sauce, which I may
briefly describe as follows:—Cut up some young onions very fine, and
moisten them with a very little French vinegar, and boil for about five
or six minutes; add some cayenne pepper, some good strong gravy, wine,
and anchovy butter, which latter consists of filleted anchovies pounded
very thoroughly in a mortar with some butter and cayenne.
Any grilled meat, such as a chop, or drumsticks of fowls, is very much
improved by a sauce of this kind. Of course, the cayenne must be suited
in quantity to the tastes of the eaters. But to return to the turkey: by
treating it in the manner I have described, there was no waste, all the
bones being saved, and the result was that they made more than half a
gallon of stock, which when cold was a hard jelly.
Another common form of waste is home-made pastry. I recollect some
oyster patties as they were called, but oyster pies as they really were,
being very nearly as big as cheese-plates, in which the pastry was so
out of proportion to the oyster that the dish was almost ludicrous, the
impossibility of eating even a quarter of the pastry being self-evident
the moment the pie was cut. I have seen lobster patties made on a
similar principle, in which, when the top was taken off, the lobster
part appeared beneath, something not merely in colour, but in size
resembling a red wafer. Now these dishes are really very extravagant,
for the reason that they cost both money and trouble, and in the end no
one eats them.
A somewhat eccentric form of the “extravagance of ignorance” to which I
have alluded, is that of warming up joints that have been not only
cooked before, but cut. In the first place, if the joint is cooked
properly the first day, every one possessing even the vestige of a
palate would surely prefer it cold to being warmed up and spoilt. The
probable reason of warming up a joint a second day is that the cook
knows of no other way of extricating herself from the difficulty of
sending up cold meat. Such extreme ignorance is, however, I am pleased
to say, rare. I once knew a case of a loin of mutton which went through
the following awful processes:—First it was roasted, fortunately being a
trifle blue; the second day it was roasted again, the flavour being of
course quite gone. The awful part remains behind—the rest was cut into
chops, egged and bread-crumbed, and sent up as cutlets; and I, alas! ate
one.
Another instance of waste and extravagance is a ham which is allowed to
get musty. It will be found that a ham when it first comes up is very
popular, but wait till the middle bone is distinctly visible, and the
fat has a yellow tinge and doubtful smell—no one will touch it. But why
let it go so far? Why not pot it? Potted ham is easily made, will keep a
long time, and is always useful. Now, to pot ham, take a pound of the
lean to half a pound of the fat, or less—in fact, a pound of lean to a
quarter of fat does even better for potting—mince it very fine, or,
better still, run it through a sausage-machine, and add to, say the
pound and a half, a small tea-spoonful of pounded mace, about a quarter
of a good-sized nutmeg, grated, of course, and about a salt-spoonful of
cayenne pepper. Less mace may be used, or a little pounded allspice
added instead; one dried bay-leaf powdered may be added also.
Mix all this up thoroughly, and press it down in the dish or pot in
which it will be served. Bake it in the oven for about twenty-five
minutes, taking care the top does not brown, and then press it down very
hard—a weight is a good thing to use for the purpose—and cover the top
with some fresh lard, which must be first melted, and then poured on the
top. Ham potted this way will keep good for months. Fresh clarified
butter may be used, but lard is best, especially in summer.
One very common form of extravagance, which is essentially the
extravagance of ignorance, is giving the cook orders for certain dishes
without ascertaining whether the materials are in season or not. I
recollect hearing, some time ago, of a married couple living in London,
who, liking a little fish every day for dinner, made a contract with the
fishmonger to send each day, about six o’clock, what fish suited him
best; I believe they paid regularly 6d. a day. It is on such principles
that tables-d’hôte can be given so cheaply at hotels. The manager of the
hotel goes to market and buys—especially in fish—what happens to be
plentiful. Good wholesome fish may be bought in Billingsgate Market
sometimes at a penny a pound.
Let me now endeavour to tell you how to make mock-turtle soup out of
pig’s head, instead of calf’s head. Now, calves’ heads vary immensely in
price; when half a head can be got for 2s. 6d. or 3s., it is a fairly
economical dish; but when calves’ heads, as happens sometimes about
Christmas, owing to the extraordinary demand for them, run up to a
guinea each, of course the dish would be extravagant to a degree. I
don’t know what the price of pigs’ heads is in the country, but in
London they can generally be bought for 6d. a pound. To make mock-turtle
soup from, say half a head, first scald it thoroughly, then put it on to
boil gently in some stock made from bones. The drawback to the soup is
that it has a tendency to taste greasy, consequently the point to be
always borne in mind is to thoroughly get rid of the fat. After the
pig’s head has boiled for about an hour and a half, take it out, let it
get partially cold, then cut the meat off the head exactly in the same
shape as the pieces of calf’s head in good mock-turtle soup; let each
piece be about an inch and a half or two inches square. These should be
allowed to get cold between two large dishes, the bottom one being
placed upside-down, as in cooling they have a tendency to curl, and they
look far better flat. Put all the bones of the head back into the stock,
and let them boil as long as you like. I would mention, in passing, that
a couple of bay-leaves in the stock are a great improvement. Next
thicken the stock with brown thickening, which is, as I have before
described, simply flour fried brown in butter. Let the whole boil very
gently, and keep skimming it carefully. It is surprising what a lot of
fat there will be on it. This soup should always be made the day before
it is wanted, in order to let it get cold; the fat can then be taken
off, but I would warn cooks against supposing that because soup has got
cold all the fat will necessarily float to the top, as this is not the
case. A great deal of fat is what may be termed held in solution in the
soup, and is only thrown up by boiling. When therefore all the fat has
been got rid of, the pieces of meat can be replaced in the soup, and
some sherry added—golden sherry, or, still better, madeira—and recollect
that this latter wine is fairly cheap again now; as, therefore, you have
saved money over the pig’s head instead of the calf’s head, you can
afford to be a little more generous with the wine. It is wonderful what
a difference this latter makes in the flavour; only just taste it for
yourself before and after. Soup like this will bear a large claret-glass
of sherry, or even more; only pray put in the wine yourself, for if your
cook happens to “have a weakness that way,” it may never be mingled with
the soup at all.
I believe it to be real extravagance to buy things that are out of
season, in addition to it being foolish. It will generally be found that
things are nicest when cheapest; for instance, strawberries are never so
good as when they can be bought for 6d. a basket. Who the people are
that buy the peaches at 5s. each, pines at a guinea, and green peas at
10s. a pint, I cannot say, but that such people exist is evident from a
walk through Covent Garden Market. Such sort of extravagance seems to me
to be hardly consistent with good moral character. There is a story told
of a lady who was particularly fond of the “Pope’s eye” in a leg of
mutton, and would often have a dozen legs ordered, simply for the sake
of cutting out the “Pope’s eyes,” the rest of the meat being given to
hounds. The story, however, sounds too wicked to be true.
I heard a delightful story, a short time ago, of an extravagant husband
who was blessed, or cursed, as the case may be, with a wife who may be
described as “a little near.” In expectation of a dinner-party, which to
him was a business dinner, expecting as he did some friends from the
City, he ordered a salmon from his fishmonger, the price being £1.
Fearing, however, that his better half would find fault with the price,
and being anxious to prove himself good at a bargain, he paid down 10s,
and sent home the fish as if the remaining 10s was the whole charge. On
his return, his wife, with great glee, told him how she had disposed of
the fish to her friend Mrs. ——, who had called, seen the fish, and,
thinking it remarkably cheap, had offered 15s. for it, which offer had
been gladly accepted. The wretched man’s feelings can be better imagined
than described; but the moral of the story, which is really true, seems
to be—Don’t deceive your wife!
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IV.—COLD LEG OF MUTTON.
A few years ago the leading comic journal of the day had the following
graphic little sketch:—A middle-aged gentleman, leaving his house-door
in the morning, inquires—
“What is there for dinner to-day, Mary?”
“Cold mutton, sir.”
“Then you can tell your mistress that she need not wait dinner for me.”
Now, although this sounds exceedingly selfish, yet perhaps the blame is
not entirely due to one side only.
There can be no doubt that, just as among the lower orders there are
hundreds of wives who, from ignorance and stupidity, drive their
husbands to the public-house, so among the middle classes there are as
many who from the same causes too often drive them to the “Club.”
Now, the increase in the number of these luxurious establishments in the
present day is something wonderful. It has already had a marked effect
upon the restaurants in the metropolis, some of which now do not dine
half what they did formerly; but it remains to be seen how far the clubs
will in time affect the Registrar-General’s marriage-returns. As this
latter point is of the greatest importance to that large and charming
portion of the population, the young unmarried ladies, we trust we may
be pardoned if for one moment we pause to ask them a few questions.
Did you ever consider how your future husband is accustomed to dine
every day, and contrast it with the way in which he will dine when you
will have the management of the household? We will suppose him to be
accustomed to the ordinary club dinner, or say the regimental mess. Do
you not feel how entirely dependent you will be on your cook? Should she
be clever and honest, you may do very well. Should she, however, be idle
and dishonest, what will you do?
Now do not, pray, think that to get a good common-sense cook is by any
means an easy affair. If you only inquire of your friends and relations,
you will soon find out the difficulty.
You have all probably read that exquisite little sketch in “David
Copperfield,” who mildly addresses his “child-wife” as follows:—“You
must remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out yesterday when
dinner was half-over, and that the day before I was made quite unwell by
being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry; to-day I don’t dine at
all; and I am afraid to say how long we waited for breakfast, and then
the water didn’t boil. I don’t mean to reproach you, my dear, but this
is not comfortable.”