day in many houses throughout the country. What housekeepers should
strive at is to get a nice little savoury dinner, and yet at the same
time to be economical. We will now take a simple case to illustrate our
point, and suppose that the larder contains the remains of a cold leg of
mutton, which leg has been decently cooked, and did not the previous day
appear as a ghastly sight after a few cuts, like one of those horrible
pictures in the penny journal that disgraces some of our shop-windows.
We will suppose the time of year to be early summer. A good many young
wives under these circumstances would simply order a cucumber—possibly a
shilling each—and think that everything had been done that was
necessary; or some, still worse, would order the cook to hash the
remains of the mutton—and a nice hash they make of it, in another sense
of the word; for who has not at times seen that dreadful dish of immense
size, covered with often hard slices of mutton, the whole swimming in a
quantity of thin broth—we cannot call it gravy—in which slices of onion
vie with sodden sippets as to which shall look the least inviting? Now,
when such a dish appears, probably the husband, accustomed formerly to
his club or college dinner, or the mess, says nothing; but he feels—“I
don’t mean to reproach you, my dear, but this is not comfortable.”
Now, as the cookery-books say, suppose we give “another method.” The
cook in the morning early has cut off all the meat from the
leg-of-mutton bone, and put it by in the larder. She has then chopped up
the bone into small pieces, and put it on the fire to make stock, with
the usual et cetera—viz., some onion, carrot, turnip, celery, and
parsley. We will also suppose the house to contain some frying-fat,
bacon or ham, and eggs.
The first dish we would recommend would be some rissoles. Take three or
four small slices of the mutton, picking out those containing most fat,
and one slice of bacon containing twice the quantity of fat to lean;
chop up finely a small piece of onion rather larger than the top of the
thumb down to the first joint, sufficient parsley when chopped fine to
fill a tea-spoon, about enough thyme to cover a sixpence, or rather less
if the thyme be strong; add a little cayenne pepper and salt. Chop the
whole ingredients _very_ fine, or, still better, send them through a
sausage-machine. When thoroughly chopped, the whole mass ought to be
sufficiently moist to be capable of being rolled up into balls. If this
is not the case, it only shows that there has not been sufficient fat
put with it. These balls should be about the size of a large walnut. Dip
each ball into some well beaten-up egg, and afterwards into some fine
bread-crumbs. Fry them in some boiling fat for two or three minutes,
which will generally be found sufficient to make them of a nice
golden-colour. Next, for the gravy, which ought to surround them, take
about half a cup of stock, add to it a little brown thickening—_i.e._,
some flour fried a light golden-colour in an equal quantity of
butter—some of which thickening ought always to be kept in the house, as
it will keep good for many months. Enough of this brown thickening
should be boiled in the half tea-cup of stock to make it a good colour,
and a little thick. Add a tea-spoonful of sherry to give it a nice
flavour, and, if liked, a tea-spoonful of mushroom ketchup. Pour the
gravy round the rissoles, which will be found none the worse for being
warmed up in the oven. A little piece of fresh green parsley may be
placed on each rissole, by way of garnish.
And now for the next dish, which will consist of mince with poached
eggs. We would, however, remind the reader that the previous dish
required bread-crumbs and boiling fat. In order to make the
bread-crumbs, cut a large slice of bread of equal thickness, and having
removed the crust, with a tin cutter or a small knife cut four pieces of
bread the shape of a heart, about the size of a queen’s-cake, and about
an inch thick. Put these four pieces by carefully, so as not to break
them, and make the bread-crumbs out of the remainder of the pieces,
bearing in mind that the crusts will make an excellent bread pudding
some other time. Then, when the fat is boiling for the rissoles, throw
these pieces of heart-shaped bread into it. In a very short time they
will become a bright golden-colour, when they should be taken out and
placed on a cloth in front of the fire. Should there be any black specks
on them, they will easily scrape off. These fried pieces of bread look
like rusks in appearance, and their shape renders them infinitely
superior to sippets as a garnish. Next take sufficient mutton for the
mince, and chop it up, warming it in a small stew-pan with just
sufficient stock to moisten it, taking great care it does not boil, as
in that case the mince would be tough. With regard to giving a little
extra flavour to the mince, besides, of course, a little pepper and
salt, that is a matter of taste. Rubbing the bottom of the stew-pan with
a bead of garlic is an excellent method, though of course it must not be
adopted where the flavour of garlic is not liked. A small quantity of
Worcester sauce may be added; but the general mistake is to put too much
rather than too little. Next poach some eggs, allowing one egg to each
person; pile up the mince neatly in a dish, and put the eggs on the top,
cutting them neatly round, so that the yolk is surrounded with a rim of
the white. Garnish the dish with the four fried hearts of bread, with a
very small piece of parsley stuck in each, and have a little
finely-chopped parsley—enough to cover a threepenny-piece would be
ample—to sprinkle bit by bit on the eggs, which renders the dish
prettier. A very little pinch of pepper may be placed in the centre of
each egg. Care must be taken that the cover, as well as the dish, is
made thoroughly hot, and of course the eggs must not be poached until a
minute or so before they are wanted.
Two dishes such as we have described, served nice and hot, in rather
small dishes than otherwise—how different are they to the large cold
joint, or the immense dish of hash too often seen! Young housekeepers
should always bear in mind that very much more depends on appearances
than they think for. When alone—_i.e._, tête-à-tête with their
husbands—let the dining-table be made as small as possible, let the
cloth and dinner-napkins be white as snow, and the latter exactly folded
into some pretty shape. If possible, let there be a few flowers in the
centre of the table. See that the wine-glasses are without a blemish. A
smeary glass always betrays a slovenly servant, and the latter equally
betrays a slovenly mistress. There is also no objection to having a
green glass put to each person, even if no hock or similar wine be
drunk; it brightens up the table, and looks—well, more club-like. If
these little things—small in themselves, but they all tell—be attended
to, a bright face and a bright pair of eyes will more than compensate
for all the rest.
There are many good housekeepers who may read this who will say, “Why,
all this is exceedingly simple, and only what everybody knew before!”
Such, however, is not the case. The amount of absolute ignorance of the
very first principles of cooking is far more common than many persons
imagine. Again, too, with regard to the ornamental part of
cooking—_i.e._, the art of making dishes look nice and tempting—there
are hundreds of fairly good plain cooks, as they are called, who seem
quite incapable of grasping the simplest idea of the subject.
It is in this matter of taste, often, that the mistress will find her
influence most beneficial, as her superior education will, as a rule,
enable her to grasp ideas far more quickly than the uncultivated mind of
the domestic. For instance, we most of us know the difference between a
cold roast pheasant, perfectly plain, placed on a dish, and the same
bird glazed and decorated with bright green parsley and cut lemon, and
some of its feathers stuck in it in an artistic manner; yet there are,
especially among ignorant countrywomen, many who would fail to see much
difference. It is in this respect that the French are so far superior as
a nation to the English, though probably the _highest_ class English
cooks are better than the best French. Compare, for instance, a French
pastrycook’s window in Paris, and one of a similar class in London.
In the above directions, recollect that there was some stock made. Now
this stock, if it was required, would make a little soup in a few
minutes; the addition of a little extract of meat, and a good pinch of
vermicelli, being all that would be required. Suppose therefore your
husband had committed that dreadfully thoughtless act, bringing home a
friend unexpectedly to dinner—you would really have nothing to be
ashamed of. The dinner would consist of some vermicelli soup, a dish of
rissoles, a dish of mince and poached eggs, ornamented as we have
described, and by simply ordering a savoury omelette to follow—very few
men care about sweets—you would probably be rewarded after the guest’s
departure with an inquiry as to where you got all those things for
dinner from.
On the other hand, think of the cold leg of mutton—such an inartistic
thing when it has been cut into—or the dreadful dish of hash, which,
somehow or other, has got as bad a name as a cold shoulder, although
_properly_-made hash is a very nice dish.
How much better all this is than the ordinary course of
proceedings—viz., the arrival of a telegram in the afternoon as
follows:—
“Mr. A. B. to Mrs. A. B.—I shall bring home a friend to dinner—make
dinner 6.30.”
Mrs. A. B. instantly issues forth—the extravagance of the shilling
telegram has its unconscious effect. She probably orders a pheasant, or
any bird in season; some gravy-beef to make gravy; perhaps, in addition,
a mould of jelly from the pastrycook’s, which is not cut after dinner at
all.
Ah! Mrs. A. B., a little more pains taken to make things look nice as
well as taste nice when alone, and a little less ostentation and
extravagance when you receive visitors, would make your home more happy.
Your husband should never feel that he is the only one in the world for
whom anything is good enough.
But if young ladies are ignorant of the first principles of cooking,
what shall we say about some of the men?
I recollect at Cambridge, once, efforts made by two novices to make a
sweet omelette. They thought that by breaking eggs into a saucepan, and
adding sugar and jam, the result would be an omelette. With the slight
_contretemps_ of one or two of the eggs falling outside the saucepan,
instead of in, and landing all shaking—perhaps with laughing—among the
ashes of the grate, they got the ingredients in at last, and stirred
them over the fire. After repeated failures—as, of course, without any
butter it burnt almost immediately—they gave up their attempts, after
exhausting their supply of eggs—sixteen in number—and wasting a whole
pot of jam. One of these novices is a great friend of mine, and on one
occasion when in Scotland he was one of a party who, during the season
when all the hotels and lodgings were full, were obliged to take refuge
in a furnished house, where, however, there were no servants at all. The
party, all of whom were young, were quite delighted at the idea of
managing for themselves for a few days. Everybody did something, and
though it was some years ago, I fortunately had sufficient knowledge of
the culinary art to keep us from raw meat or starvation.
A small cod-fish captured by one of us was brought home for dinner. The
ignoramus in question was caught endeavouring to clean the fish, which
he had got tightly grasped by the throat with his left hand, by pushing
his thumb and finger down its mouth, and pulling out whatever he could
from inside. And yet this man was an M.A. Cantab. It has, of course,
been a standing joke ever since.
Now, when we come to consider how ignorant even educated people are with
regard to cooking, what are we to expect when we turn to the poor? Too
often persons will be found to exclaim against the waste, the ignorance,
the extravagance, &c., of the lower orders, who forget that the fault to
a great extent lies with the upper. In how many national schools in
England are the rudiments of cooking taught, or even hinted at? The girl
who in after-life will have to scrub floors, wash her husband’s clothes,
and cook his dinner, is taught history, geography, &c.; but surely it is
equally important to her to know how to make an Irish stew, as to be
able to name the principal Irish rivers. It is more useful to know how
_not_ to spoil shirts in the Wash, than to know King John lost his
baggage there.
I do not for one moment mean to say that poor children should not be
taught history, geography, and drawing, but that the first principles of
cooking form a more important branch of education for them.
It is a common thing to find in the country that the only method of
cooking a piece of meat is to stick a fork in it and toast it before the
fire, letting all the fat and gravy drop into the ashes and waste. Of
course, the difficulty to be contended with in any encounter with
invincible ignorance is very great.
A clergyman once told me that years ago he had the elder girls among the
most ignorant of the poor instructed by his cook, in his own kitchen,
how to make Irish stews and other economical dishes. They one and all
succeeded in learning; all said that it was much nicer than what they
got at home. Upon making inquiries, however, a few weeks after, among
his parishioners, he found that in no single instance was the attempt
made to introduce the new style into their own homes. Meat, when they
had it, was toasted and wasted as before.
Were, however, every child in England to be daily taught at school the
importance of economy in the preparation of food, the seeds of knowledge
thus sown might sink into the mind, lie dormant for a time, but take
root, and eventually bring forth a crop, the result of which would be to
increase the wealth of the country, to how great an extent no one can
say. The enormous resources of France are principally owing to the
thrifty habits of the population. One of the largest employers of
labourers in the North told me a short time back that a French workman
could do double with his wages what an Englishman could. Perhaps the
London School Board may some day consider the subject.
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V.—HOW TO MAKE DISHES LOOK NICE.
I fear that as a nation taste is not our _forte_. I wonder, too, if
there is any French expression that would fully convey the idea,
“Wanted, a good plain cook.” Wanted, a woman who can convert joints of
raw meat into some state sufficiently intermediate between blueness and
cinders as to render them eatable, and who also can make certain plain
puddings, more or less heavy, as the case may be, but who has no more
conception of artistic taste than a cabbage, and would be as incapable
of making a dish look elegant as of singing the shadow dance from
“Dinorah.” And yet many of these persons are good honest souls, who mean
well and do their best, but somehow or other it is not in them, and what
is more, it never will be.
They have been born in an uncongenial clime. For instance, contrast the
dress of an English workman’s wife whose husband earns, say, £2 a week,
with that of a Frenchwoman in a similar station of life, and yet
probably the latter spends less in dress than the former.
We have already compared a French pastrycook’s window with an English
one, but if there is ever a time in which we feel that Waterloo is
indeed avenged, it is when we contrast a French salade with the ordinary
English specimen.
It is somewhat strange, too, that the generality of cookery-books
intended for household use signally fail to explain how to make dishes
look nice. For instance, “garnish with beetroot and hard-boiled eggs,”
is a very poor direction to give to one of the above-mentioned good
_plain_ cooks. Some again give the lucid direction—“garnish prettily.”
Other works, too, are at times extremely tantalising to young
housekeepers with plenty of natural good taste, yet without the faintest
knowledge of the principles of cookery; they of course consult the
cookery-book, which has perhaps been made attractive by some beautiful
coloured engravings of dishes.
We can well imagine a young wife in deep consultation with her next
sister a week before her first dinner-party, the cookery-book between
them.
“Oh! what a pretty-looking dish,” exclaims one; “let’s have that.”
Alas! the index is hunted over in vain, no description of how to make
the dish appears at all; the next pretty-looking dish determined on
shares a similar fate; and at last they give it up in despair, and
either fix on dishes of which they have no idea what the appearance will
be when done, or more probably leave it to the cook to do as she likes,
with one or two little things from the pastrycook’s—an expensive way of
going to work, it should be borne in mind. I have been asked several
times in strict confidence the question, “But ought it to have looked
like that?”—a question often involving a necessary sacrifice of either
truth or politeness.
Francatelli observes: “The palate is as capable and nearly as worthy of
education as the eye and the ear.” Now, without entering into the
question as to whether a patty to eat is equal to a Patti to hear or see
in the way of enjoyment, there is no doubt that the palate is to a great
extent influenced by the eye. For instance, a large cold sirloin of beef
on the sideboard at a good old-fashioned hotel, neatly decorated with
bright green parsley and snow-white curly horseradish; the dish resting
on an equally snow-white cloth; its companions consisting of as
tempting-looking a York ham, and some bright silver flagons, the latter
enabling the looker-on almost to realise the “nut-brown ale” talked
about of old, though what it was like we have not the least idea. There
is a common saying, “It makes one hungry to look at it”; or “It makes
one’s mouth water.” Yet contrast this same piece of cold beef with a
joint I recollect being once brought up for supper at some lodgings,
where Mary Ann was, to say the least, inartistic. She brought it up just
as it was in the dish in which it had got cold—the dish smeary round the
rim with Mary Ann’s thumb-marks. The gravy had of course settled, and
was thickly studded over with hard white wafers of fat. Some of the fat,
too, had of course settled on the meat itself. Yet the meat was in every
respect equal to the decorated joint, and many a poor hungry man would
see no difference between the two, any more than a hungry bull-dog
would. At least, some might even prefer the latter, in order to lap up
the cold gravy with the blade of their knives.
A poached egg nicely done, the yellow yolk surrounded with an equal rim
of clear white, in contradistinction to one badly done, in which the
yolk has broken and run and got mixed up with the white, is another
instance of how much depends upon appearances, for both eggs would be
equally wholesome.
Now, there are few nicer and at the same time prettier-looking dishes
than a salade mayonnaise. Yet too often when directions are given, in
books or otherwise, how to make mayonnaise sauce, the latter point—that
is, appearance—is altogether left out of the question. Making mayonnaise
sauce, and simply mixing it up with some lettuce, and lobster, and
hard-boiled egg, is certainly making a very nice lobster salade. Just in
the same way the most beautiful clear jelly might be handed round in
white pudding-basins, or even in the saucepan in which it was boiled;
but how different to a handsome mould, with a few preserved fruits
inside it, placed in the centre of a bright cut-glass dish, and a little
cut lemon by way of garnish!
But we have been long enough on the subject, “How not to do it,” and
must begin at once.
First the ingredients:—A lobster; and if there is any coral in it, take
it out, and make some lobster butter with it, as it will do no good to
the salade. This lobster butter will keep, and enable you at a future
period to make lobster sauce in a hurry out of a preserved tin of
lobster; and this cannot be done without lobster butter. Next, some
fresh lettuces (French are by far the best for mayonnaise salades), two
fresh eggs—as we are only going to describe how to make enough for about
four persons—some oil, and a little parsley. We will also suppose the
house to contain some vinegar, a bottle of capers, a bottle of
anchovies, and a bottle of olives, at the same time reminding timid
housekeepers that these latter will do over and over again, and that
probably a shilling bottle of each will last a twelvemonth.
We will now describe how a cook ought to proceed in order to make a good
lobster salade.
The first thing she would do would be to put an egg in a saucepan, and
boil it for twenty minutes or so, and then place it in cold water to get
cold. Next, take a couple of anchovies out of the bottle, and put them
on a plate (putting the bottle back in the cupboard; for if you get in
the habit of putting each thing by in its place as you use them, you
will never get into a muddle). Next, take a small penknife, and cut the
anchovy open longways, and carefully remove the bone; if this is done
properly, each anchovy will make four fillets or thin strips varying
from two to three inches; wash them thoroughly in cold water, to remove
all the salt and soft part. Dry them, and roll them up, as they look at
times too much like worms if not rolled. Next, take a tea-spoonful of
capers, and drain them carefully on a cloth, in order to thoroughly
remove the vinegar in which they have been preserved. Next, take six
olives, and stone them. This is done by cutting a strip off them as
thick as you can, keeping the edge of the knife scraping the stone the
whole time. As a rule, the olive will look round after the stone is
taken out, but of course they have no ends to them. A little practice
will enable the cook to cut out the stone quite bare, leaving the flesh,
so to speak, of the olive in one piece, which curls up again, and looks
like an olive that had never been touched.
These directions may to some seem unnecessarily minute; but then we are
writing for others who perhaps have never seen an olive except in a
bottle in the grocer’s window, and then they thought them preserved
plums.
Next, chop up not too finely a little piece of bright-green parsley;
enough to cover a threepenny-piece when chopped is quite sufficient.
Put all these things by on a clean dry plate for use—viz., the
hard-boiled egg, cold, with the shell on; the anchovies, rolled up; the
capers, dry; the olives, stoned; the parsley, chopped. And, as we have
said, clear away what you have used before beginning anything fresh.
Next, wipe, or quickly wash in cold water and wipe, the lettuces, and
pile them up _lightly_ in a silver or any oval-shaped dish. Next, remove
all the meat from the lobster, not forgetting the soft part inside and
the claws; cut it all up into small pieces not much bigger than dice,
and spread the meat over the top of the lettuce in the dish, taking care
as much as possible to make the shape high in the centre. A sort of oval
pyramid may convey the idea, though it is not a very mathematical
expression. Sprinkle a little pepper and salt over the lobster, and put
the dish by in a cool place.
Next, the sauce itself. I believe the directions generally given to be
wrong in this respect. It is a mistake to put in any pepper, salt, or
vinegar at starting. I will therefore describe exactly how to make
mayonnaise sauce, at the same time stating that out of the dozens of
times I have tried, I only remember one failure, and that was on a
fearfully hot day, and I had no ice.