they enjoy a good lobster salade mayonnaise. I have given directions
before how to prepare this king of cold sauces. As, however, you are
making a mayonnaise salad, it is almost as easy to make two as one. Have
a lobster salad and a smoked-salmon salad. This smoked salmon must be
cut into very thin slices, and simply placed round or mixed up in the
salad just as it is—raw. If you possibly can, have these two mayonnaises
placed in silver dishes, and get a few little crayfish or a few good
prawns to add to the usual garnish of capers, anchovies, olives, cut
hard-boiled eggs, &c., which I described in a preceding chapter.
In making mayonnaise sauce you will use two, or perhaps three, raw yolks
of eggs. Now what are you going to do with the whites? Why not whip them
up into a stiff froth, and use that for ornamental purposes? For
instance, suppose you have that nice simple dish, stewed pippins, on the
table. Take a dessert-spoonful of foam shaped like an egg, and place it
on the top of each pippin. Have also in readiness a few of those tiny,
pretty little sweets called hundreds and thousands, and sprinkle a few
lightly on the white egg-froth. Contrast this dish with the pippins as
they were before. The change is marvellous, and yet costs almost
nothing. Yet many persons would think, casting their eyes over the
table, “Ah! that dish came from the pastrycook’s.”
One or even two piled-up dishes of almonds and raisins, being, if there
are not too many almonds, dark dishes, form a favourable contrast with
the light ones. A supper-table, to look really nice, must not have too
many white dishes.
If you have a large centre-dish of trifle, with whipped cream on the
top, a few hundreds and thousands sprinkled over it set it off. Now good
whipped cream is rather beyond the powers of an ordinary cook, so if you
happen to live near a really good pastrycook’s, you will find it a good
plan to have a man come round just before supper and supply the whipped
cream, but make the rest of the trifle at home.
It is an exceedingly expensive dish to order, and, owing to wine,
brandy, and liqueurs being requisite in its composition, one of the very
last dishes desirable to order. Even pastrycooks will often spoil the
ship for the sake of a ha’p’orth of tar, in respect of wine. To wit,
mock-turtle soup. Order a glass of sherry at a pastrycook’s with your
mock-turtle, and throw half of it into the soup, and see what a
difference it makes. In fact, as a rule, if you give a cook wine for
cooking purposes, they drink the wine themselves, and manage the cooking
without.
As a few last words of advice, in ornamenting your table, as well as in
amusing the children, don’t forget the crackers.
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IX.—SPRING DISHES.
Perhaps no season in the year is more eagerly welcomed than that of
spring—earth’s great annual resurrection from death unto life! How
beautiful the first really spring morning! A warm, balmy air, a deep
blue sky without a cloud, and bright sun lighting up like diamonds the
water-drops on the fresh green grass, o’er which the feathery cobwebs
drift for the first time in the year, the very spiders, in their
wondrous instinct, preparing to set their houses in order, to welcome to
their hearts the new-born fly.
The whole earth seems, like a huge chrysalis, to burst forth from its
uniform-coloured shell, and vie with the butterfly’s wings in beauty and
variety of colour. Spring is, of all times of the year, the brightest,
and the freshest, and the most beautiful!
“The rose is fairest when ’tis budding new.”
Nor does the change of food come less acceptably than the change of
scene. A moderate enjoyment of the good things of this world is
perfectly justifiable, or our palates would never have been created; and
while green hedges and fresh bright flowers delight the eye, a new set
of dishes, rendered doubly welcome by a year’s abstinence, delight the
palate.
Who is there so lost to taste as not to appreciate the first dish of
fresh green peas or new potatoes?—genuine healthy-grown ones, not
forced, which latter are barely better than those preserved in tins.
Then, again, the first piece of bright-red salmon, when it is well
cooked; or the nicely-browned forequarter of lamb, with good wholesome
English mint sauce with it—_i.e._ mint moistened in vinegar, and not a
pint of vinegar to a small pinch of mint.
There is some very old riddle about spring being a lamb-on-table season.
Whether lamb is really nicer than mutton is a question we will not now
discuss; indeed, the question is entirely a matter of taste. There are,
however, several little niceties in cooking lamb that inexperienced
cooks and housekeepers should bear in mind. One very common fallacy is
that lamb, being young and tender, does not require so much cooking as
mutton. Such, however, is not the case. Well-cooked mutton, such as a
haunch, should be cooked so as to be not exactly red, but very, very
near it, and should hold what is called red gravy. Those who have seen a
good haunch of mutton well carved will know how the gravy will settle in
it after several slices have been taken out. I believe, at some
regimental messes, many years ago, there used to be a fine for carving a
haunch so that this gravy was allowed to run out.
Now, lamb should be cooked thoroughly, and should never even border on
being red; underdone lamb is as bad as underdone veal. Of course, lamb
bears the same relation to mutton as veal to beef. The climax of
mismanagement is graphically expressed in the pathetic appeal of David
Copperfield to his poor little “child-wife” when he said—“You know, my
dear, I was made quite unwell the other day by being obliged to eat
underdone veal in a hurry.”
Another point to be remembered in connection with lamb is the gravy. A
roast forequarter of lamb will not make the gravy that a sirloin of beef
or haunch of mutton will.
Now, I daresay there are many persons who really do not know where the
gravy comes from that usually surrounds a sirloin of beef; and as these
articles are intended to instruct absolute novices, I will describe the
process, reminding those who may think anything so simple unworthy of
explanation, that even royalty some years back is reported to have
puzzled over the intricate problem as to how the apples got into the
dumpling.
We will suppose the beef to have been hanging on the spit the sufficient
time, and the cook has arrived at the critical moment called dishing-up.
Of course, under the meat to catch the fat, &c., that drops, have been
placed that large tin vessel with a well in the centre, called the
dripping-pan, which will be found to contain a pint, or a quart,
according to the size of the joint, of melted fat, or, as it is usually
called, dripping. The cook takes this dripping-pan, and carefully and
slowly pours off all the fat into a basin; at the bottom of the fat will
be found a sediment, brown or red; this is the gravy. Now, the great art
is to pour off _all_ the fat, and yet to avoid losing any of the gravy.
What is requisite is—first, common-sense; secondly, a little experience
and a steady hand.
As a rule, it is best to go on pouring till just a little sediment has
run with the fat, and then stop. Next, take some _boiling_ water, about
half a pint or a little more, and pour it into the dripping-pan, and
stir it about, taking care to scrape those parts where the gravy is
dried on and the dripping-pan looks brown; by this means the gravy will
not merely look darker, but will be absolutely richer. This must now be
poured through a fine strainer over the meat. If the cook sees that the
gravy has got a little cold in the operation, of course she would pour
it, just as it is, into a saucepan and make it hot, but not let it boil,
and then pour it through the strainer over the meat. When the party at
dinner is large, and yet the joint put on the table, it is a very good
plan to pour only half the gravy over at first, and to send up the rest
hot about ten minutes afterwards, when it can be poured over in the
dining-room.
Now, we have said that lamb does not make good gravy; when, therefore,
it is possible, get some thin stock, and use that to pour into the
dripping-pan instead of boiling water, only take care that the stock is
tasteless—anything like rich gravy would destroy the delicate flavour of
the lamb.
It should be borne in mind, too, that lamb is one of the few meats that
are none the better for keeping; the quicker it is cooked, the nicer
will it be. In hot weather, lamb has an unamiable property of getting
high quicker than other meat, especially the shoulder. The reason of
this is probably that it is “open,” and not close meat, like a
silverside of beef. A loin of mutton that has been jointed will get bad
quicker than one not jointed.
We next come to the general and nicest accompaniment to roast lamb, and
that is, nice fresh young green peas. When we say fresh, we mean lately
gathered. Peas that have been picked some time are very inferior in
flavour to those recently picked. Shell the peas, throwing them into
cold water just like potatoes after being peeled. Next get a large
saucepan of _boiling_ water, into which has been placed a table-spoonful
of salt, and a very little moist sugar—about a salt-spoon is sufficient.
Strain the peas, throw them in the boiling water gradually, in order not
to take the water off the boil for too long.
The next point to be considered is, why do some people always have peas
looking a bright green, and others send them up with a bad colour? The
secret of this is, do not cover up the saucepan. Now, as the saucepan is
open, if the fire is likewise an open one, it follows that the fire
should be pretty clear, or you will run the risk of having the peas
smoky. It will, however, generally be found that the fire, after
roasting a joint, is tolerably clear at the finish, especially as lamb
requires a _brisk_ fire. A few leaves of fresh mint should be boiled
with the peas; they should be strained off very quickly, and put into a
hot vegetable-dish, as they very soon get cold, and sent up to table
very quickly. I recollect, years ago, that cooks used to put a penny
(the old-fashioned copper ones) into the saucepan, the copper being
supposed to improve the colour; but the use of copper for the purpose of
making vegetables green should be avoided. In the case of bright-green
pickles, where the colour has been obtained by this means, the result is
that a very injurious if not absolutely poisonous compound has been
obtained. Young peas do not require more than a quarter of an hour’s
boiling; old peas will take half an hour; and when old, a good-sized
pinch of carbonate of soda may be put with advantage into the water, to
render the water as well as the peas softer.
To say that mint sauce requires mint seems somewhat of a truism; but
nevertheless this seems the point generally overlooked, especially at
hotels, where the habit seems to be to send up mint in the very smallest
possible quantity, and vinegar in exactly opposite proportions. Chop up
enough fresh mint to half-fill a tea-cup, add about a table-spoonful of
moist sugar, about three-parts of a tea-cupful of vinegar, and half a
tea-cupful of water. Let the whole stand for a few hours, in order that
the flavour of mint may get into the vinegar.
I don’t know why, but servants invariably put too much vinegar; as
nothing in the world will cure them, it is one of those things which, if
it is possible, the mistress of the house should do herself.
New potatoes differ from old in this important respect: in cooking, the
latter require cold water; the former, boiling water. In both cases salt
must be put in the water, about a table-spoonful to every two quarts.
Like peas, new potatoes are best when fresh from the garden. When really
young, the skin will rub off with a cloth. They vary in the time they
take to boil from a quarter of an hour to twenty-five minutes; but the
best plan is to wait a reasonable time, and try one with a fork and see
if it is tender, when they should be immediately strained off, as, if
they are allowed to boil too long, they will get pappy. Let them dry in
the saucepan, and when dry, put them into the vegetable-dish, with
either a lump of butter—which will melt, and make them look oily—or a
little good melted butter made with milk, into which has been put a
little finely-chopped parsley, may be poured over each potato. Perhaps
the piece of plain butter is best, however.
There are, especially in early spring, a large quantity of potatoes sold
that pretend to be new, but are not. What they are, or where they come
from (some say Holland), I don’t know, but they are not worth eating,
and it is just as well to know it. If anybody who understands the
swindle will explain, I should feel much obliged.
To boil fish such as salmon is really very easy, but requires care. The
fish must be placed in cold water, to which plenty of salt has been
added—about six table-spoonfuls to every gallon of water, or nearly a
pound of salt. Take care, also, that the water covers the fish, and that
the latter is thoroughly clean. Rub the spine, which is apt to contain
little clots of blood, with a lump of salt. Salmon always tastes best
when boiled whole. When the water boils, take care to remove all the
scum that will rise to the surface. As to the time it will take to boil,
no time can be given, as this depends more upon the thickness of the
fish than the mere weight in pounds. In carving a salmon, be sure to cut
it always parallel to the spine, and not transversely.
The best sauce with salmon is undoubtedly lobster sauce, the best method
of making which I have already described. I would remind you, however,
again, that the sauce should look red, owing to the coral having been
pounded with some butter and mixed in; also, all the shells and little
claws should be broken up and boiled in the milk that will be used for
the sauce, in order that the melted butter may be thoroughly impregnated
with the flavour of the lobster. In making shrimp sauce, the same theory
should be borne in mind. Boil the shrimps’ heads, in order that the
flavour of the shrimp may be extracted, only, before using this milk to
make into melted butter, taste, and see that it is not too salt, as salt
is often thrown over shrimps. The melted butter, into which a little
lobster-coral should have been melted to make a nice colour, should then
be poured on to the picked shrimps placed in the hot tureen; but shrimps
had better not be boiled after being picked.
When salmon first comes in, it is best to have it boiled; but a very
nice way of cooking salmon is to grill it—_i.e._, do it on the gridiron
just like a steak. Of course, the salmon for this purpose must be cut in
slices. Great care should be taken that the gridiron is perfectly clean.
The slice of salmon can be placed on the gridiron just as it is, but if
the fire is nice and clear it will be better to wrap each slice in oiled
paper; by this means the flavour of the salmon is kept in. Of course,
the cooking must be carefully watched, or the paper will very likely
catch fire. The best sauce with grilled salmon is tartare sauce, which
may briefly be described as follows:—First make some mayonnaise sauce as
thick as butter in summer-time, add to it about a tea-spoonful of
finely-chopped parsley, chopped on a chopping-board previously rubbed
over with a shallot; mix this in with a good-sized tea-spoonful of
French mustard flavoured with tarragon. The mayonnaise sauce is supposed
to contain sufficient vinegar or _dilute_ acetic acid. Grilled salmon is
more suitable for three or four persons than for a large party, as few
fires are capable of cooking more than two slices at a time, and one
slice is only sufficient for two persons.
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X.—SAVOURY SUMMER DISHES.
“It is almost too hot to eat.” How often do we hear this remark during
what is popularly known as the dog days! There is no doubt that as a
nation we do not make sufficient allowance for the variations of our
climate, and are too apt to feed ourselves and children on almost the
same food both in summer and winter. The hotel waiter will give exactly
the same answer both in July and December: “Dinner, sir—yes, sir—chops,
sir—steak—cutlet,” and he stops, having exhausted the English bill of
fare.
But it is not so much in hotel life that the difficulty of getting
suitable summer food is found as in home life. How many tens of
thousands of men are there who from sheer necessity are compelled for
the greater part of the summer to be cooped up in broiling weather in a
hot, close office, their day’s employment being varied but by occasional
visits to hotter sale-rooms, &c., containing an atmosphere ten times
more close and vitiated!
The unfortunate husband returns to his home with wearied brain and jaded
appetite. Too often mingled carelessness and selfishness has provided
such unappetising food for his dinner, that he is fain to seek for that
nourishment of which his body stands in need in fluids rather than
solids, and then the seeds are sown which eventually grow up and produce
a harvest of wretchedness and misery.
I overheard a conversation once in a little back room in a famous
pastrycook’s, now done away with, between two wives, on their husbands’
selfishness, each one of course trying to make out her own the worst.
They had started with a basin of mock-turtle soup, and had followed with
two oyster patties each. I left before they had finished. It was before
wine was allowed to be sold by pastrycooks, or, judging from
appearances, they would probably have remained there during the better
part of the afternoon.
It is the way of the world all over. I recollect a man about five foot
three passing one who was fully five foot two and a half, and
remarking:—
“Dear me, what a terrible misfortune it must be to be so short!”
Do you know any one who breakfasts in bed every day, who never attends
at all to household duties, and whose health requires a rarer wine at
dinner than others? You may be quite sure that person will be most
intolerant to any approach to self-indulgence in others, and will be
given to hold forth little homilies on the duties of early rising,
industry, and self-denial. Charity begins at home, and those only who
deny themselves can make allowances for the want of self-denial in
others.
Great allowance should be made for those who, after a hard day’s mental
work, return home on a hot day, irritable, thirsty, exhausted, without
being hungry. There is a great art in adapting the food for the
occasion. There are a certain class of persons, especially in this
country, who seem to fail to perceive that what is suitable at one
season of the year is quite unsuited at another. For instance, hot
pea-soup, followed by an Irish stew, on a broiling July day, is quite as
much out of character as ices at Christmas-time.
In England, too, people do not seem to understand how to make the most
of the means at their disposal for making themselves comfortable. How
many thousands there are who, having good gardens, yet never use them
except to walk in! For breakfast or tea what better spot can be chosen
than a shady corner of the lawn; yet how often do we find this done?
Probably many would say, “Oh, but the people next door can see us.” As a
nation we are undoubtedly very shy and ungregarious. This latter
quality, if one may be allowed to use the expression, is particularly
shown at railway-stations. You may walk down a long train and find one
man in each compartment, and each one glares at you if you attempt to
enter.
The constitutional shyness of the middle classes has a strong ally in
the constitutional rudeness of the lower.
Many years ago almost the only lunch obtainable in London was a Bath
bun, washed down with tepid ginger-beer. But this bun had to be eaten
under difficulties. First, the extraordinary height of the stool on
which one was bound to sit made one giddy; then a crowd of small boys,
with noses flattened white against the window outside, would carry on a
running conversation, such as “Give us a bit, guv’nor,” &c.
Unfortunately, the faster you tried to eat the bun, the more it choked
you; and as to the ginger-beer, it too often refused to go anywhere
except to the nose. A lunch is still a great difficulty in certain parts
of London. It would be an interesting Parliamentary return—first, the
number of licensed victuallers in London; secondly, the number of
licensed victuallers who sold victuals.
Were any one, some hot day, to place a small table on the pavement, and
sit down and eat an ice, like thousands do in Paris, the result would be
such a crowd that one would probably be locked up for the night, for
obstructing the public thoroughfare.
There is, perhaps, no dish so suitable for hot weather as curry. But
there are curries and curries. I have seen some that have made me
shudder to look at them. If you see pieces of meat on a large dish,
almost swimming in a quantity of bright light-coloured yellow gravy,
people will probably call it curry; but my advice is, don’t eat any if
you can get anything else. I will try and describe how it ought to be
done. Say the dish is curried sweetbreads. The sweetbreads must be fried
as directed in the article entitled “Uses and Abuses of a Frying-pan.”
The curry sauce must be poured round them directly they are done, and
this sauce is made as follows:—
We will describe how to make enough for about six people.
First, take six large onions, and peel and slice them, and fry them a
nice brown-colour in a stew-pan, using about two ounces of butter. Next
take two apples, about the same size, or rather larger than the onions,
and as sour as possible. Peel them, remove the core, slice, and add to
the onions in the stew-pan, then add a pint of good strong stock. Stir
it all up, and let the whole boil till the apples are quite soft. Add to
this a large brimming dessert-spoonful of Captain White’s curry-_paste_,
and a good-sized tea-spoonful of ordinary curry-powder. The whole of
this must be rubbed through a fine wire sieve, with a large wooden
spoon. If you have not patience to rub it all through, you can’t make
curry.
The next point necessary is that this curry sauce should be made of the
necessary thickness; and for the purpose, what I have alluded to before
under the name of “brown thickening” is necessary.
Now, as brown thickening is almost an essential in every house where
gravies and sauces are made properly, I will describe how this brown
thickening ought to be made. As the process is somewhat troublesome, and
a large quantity is as easy to make as a small, it will be found best to
make sufficient to last some time, as brown thickening will keep good
for months if made properly.
Take half a pound of flour, and, having thoroughly dried it on a large
newspaper before the fire, sift it carefully. Next take half a pound of
butter and melt it in an enamelled saucepan; a sort of white curdled
substance will be generally found mixed with it, some of which can be
skimmed off the top, and some will settle at the bottom. Skim the butter
and pour off all that is as clear as good salad-oil, and only use this
for the brown thickening.
Next mix thoroughly well together the sifted flour and the hot melted
butter in an enamelled stew-pan, and stir it over a quick fire with a
wooden spoon. If the flour has been properly dried, and the butter
properly clarified, the whole mass will stick together, and shake about
in the stew-pan. The stirring must be continued till the whole mass
begins to turn colour. As soon as it is obtained a light fawn-colour, or
looks like the outside of a nicely-baked French roll, remove the
stew-pan from the fire, but still continue stirring. Throw in a large
slice of onion; this will help to check the heat, and at the same time
assist in giving the thickening a nice flavour.