with a so-called friend, who played upon him the following cruel
practical joke—A little soup and fish was followed by a plain leg of
mutton, and the gourmand was informed that he saw his dinner before him.
He accordingly gorged freely, while his host scarcely tasted a mouthful.
The leg of mutton was, however, followed by a splendid haunch of
venison.
“It was cruel not to tell me,” said the guest, with tears of anguish
rolling down his cheeks.
The story does not sound like a true one, and we trust for the sake of
human nature it is not; but it exemplifies our point in saying, or
rather asking, is it not a mistake when game is cheap and plentiful, to
leave it quite to the last?
I must say I admire the good, honest English hospitality of the North.
It may be called the Black Country, but as long as black is associated
with blackcock and grouse, long may it remain so.
Nowhere do you get grouse in such perfection as in the neighbourhood of
the moors. They have not yet arrived at that depraved state of appetite
in which it is considered the right thing to send game to table nearly
putrid; nor, as a rule, do you get one, or at the outside two, mouthfuls
put on your plate by an elegant waiter. Elegant waiters are all very
well in their way, but we prefer grouse.
Now game, whether grouse, partridge, pheasant, or woodcock, requires
careful cooking, and, above all things, good gravy.
By good gravy we mean that which will assist, and not counteract or
destroy, the flavour of the game. Weak beef-tea or rich turtle soup
would be alike wrong; and it will, we fear, be too often found that
cooks fail very much in adapting the gravy to the occasion. Roast goose
with sage-and-onion stuffing would bear a gravy which, so to speak,
would kill the delicate flavour of a partridge.
Game served as a salmi, which nine times out of ten means game cooked
before and warmed up, requires quite a differently-flavoured sauce to
game proper—_i.e._, game, not too fresh, and at the same time not at all
high, roasted to a turn and served quickly.
In cooking game I fear we cannot learn much from that nation of cooks,
the French. I am such an admirer of French cooking as a rule, that I
wish to speak with the greatest diffidence, but did you ever taste any
game, never mind of what kind, at any foreign hotel or restaurant
abroad, to compare with the game we get at home?
I say hotel or restaurant, as I have had no experience of French country
private houses.
Whether this is owing to the game itself being of inferior quality or
flavour—as is undoubtedly the case with red-legged partridges, when
compared with the ordinary English ones—or to other causes, I cannot
say, but simply record the fact.
There is no doubt that a large class of men enjoy their food when game
is in season more than at any other time.
The class to whom we refer are those who live for the greater part of
the year in London, and as a rule never move a mile except in a hansom;
to such the 12th of August is the commencement of what may be termed
their annual training, the exercise they take during the next three
months probably saving them from the inevitable gout and dyspepsia which
would necessarily follow a town life such as theirs without such
intervals.
What a change! First the early rising—and there are thousands whom
nothing but hunting or shooting will persuade to get up early—the
substantial breakfast, the glass of bitter, the gun examination, the
struggle into the heavy greased shooting-boots, and then the tramp
through the heather. What with the exercise and the bracing air of the
moors, lunch is approached with feelings which by contrast approximate
to what we should imagine the alderman’s would have been, had he carried
out the famous doctor’s recipe—viz., to live on a shilling a day, and
earn it.
Let us hope the hungry sportsmen may not meet with the disappointment
that occurred to a shooting party on the moors, that we referred to
before. The first brace of grouse shot were sent to a neighbouring farm
to be cooked for lunch. The farmer’s wife, however, had them _boiled_,
and stuffed with sage and onions.
There are various ways of cooking grouse, but only one which we consider
to be worthy of consideration, and that is what we term grouse _au
naturel_, or in other words plain roast, with good gravy and fried
bread-crumbs, or bread sauce.
To overpower the delicious flavour of a good grouse with strong sauces
seems to us as cruel a waste as to mull good 1848 La Fitte claret, and
mix in cinnamon and sugar.
As an instance, however, of what cooks may come to, we will mention an
Italian method of spoiling grouse—the ingredients for this extraordinary
dish comprising mace, garlic, brandy, macaroni, tomato sauce, and
Parmesan cheese. Imagine what a dish this Italian cook and our farmer’s
wife could manufacture between them!
The first point to be considered with regard to game is, How long should
it be kept?
When game is bought, it is of course impossible to say how long it has
been killed, except from appearances. As a rule, the first symptom of
discolouring, or the faintest smell of being high, shows that the birds
are ripe for cooking. We would, however, allow a pheasant a longer time
than either a partridge or a grouse. A thoroughly fresh pheasant is more
tough than a fowl.
Game, in fact, should be treated exactly like a good haunch of mutton.
No one would keep a haunch till it is _high_, but yet every one knows
that the longer it is kept the more tender it becomes. In a large number
of London shops the game for sale has already been kept too long,
reminding one of the story of the man who arrived home after a days’
shooting, who had, however, been driven to buy a brace for appearances,
the look of which called forth the remark from his wife—
“Well, my dear, it is time they were shot, for they are getting very
high.”
The next point to be considered is the actual cooking. We will suppose
the birds ready trussed. They should be wiped inside, but never washed.
All game requires a brisk fire, and plenty of basting. It is the custom
among French cooks to fasten a thin slice of bacon over the breast, in
order to prevent the bird being too dry. Indeed, they go so far as to
send the bird to table with the bacon still on. In my opinion, this
spoils the flavour of the bird altogether, giving it what may be termed
a greasy taste. If bacon is fastened on at all, it should be taken off
before the bird is taken down; the breast should then be basted with a
little butter, and frothed and browned before it is sent up.
With regard to the time that it takes to cook game, it is difficult to
lay down any general rule. The time of course varies with the size of
the birds. Young, small partridges want about twenty-five minutes;
good-sized partridges as much as thirty-five minutes; small grouse will
take a little over half an hour, and good-sized ones require
three-quarters; pheasants require from thirty-five minutes to an hour;
or even more, according to the size.
The principal thing, however, for the cook to bear in mind is to adapt
the time to the period of dinner when the game will be required. Herein
lies the great secret of game being badly cooked. Have you not often at
a large dinner-party had game completely dried up, the outside skin
being quite hard? The reason of this is that the game was ready for
table about the period you were finishing your soup. The fact is, cooks,
especially young and inexperienced, get nervous about time, forgetting
that it is quite as bad to have things dried up as to have them
underdone. It would be a good plan were the housekeeper to give the
following directions to the cook:—Do not begin to cook the game until
you send up the soup. Suppose the dinner to consist of soup, fish,
entrées, and joint, followed by game, there is ample time to cook
grouse, or even a small pheasant, by putting them down as soon as the
soup is served. In any case tell the cook never to put down game until
they know that dinner may be served. The late arrival of some important
guest should never be the excuse of overcooked game. It would be far
better to have a slight pause in the middle of the dinner than to have
things spoilt. Besides, a pause after soup, fish, entrées, and joint is
never objectionable.
Another important point is the basting. Game should be basted directly
it is put down. Ordinary dripping is quite good enough to commence with,
but it will be found an improvement if during the last five minutes a
little butter is used instead. Baste quickly with a little butter, and
froth it at the same time, shaking a little fine dried flour over the
breast out of a flour-dredger. When this is done, let the game be sent
up immediately. Treat it, in fact, like a soufflé, which everybody
knows, or ought to know, requires a running-man for a waiter to be
served properly.
In making bread sauce, it will be generally found that cooks make it a
long time before dinner—in fact, putting in the bread-crumbs, so to
speak, to soak in a saucepan, with an onion, in a little milk. The
result often is that the milk all dries up, and the sauce gets burnt; a
fresh lot has to be made in a hurry, and a sort of bread poultice is
sent to table. There is, however, a good deal of difference between
bread sauce and a bread poultice. The way to make the former is as
follows:—Have ready some dry bread-crumbs, put these in some milk, or,
still better, cream, and boil them, with an onion and a few peppercorns,
for about ten minutes; take out the onion, add a pinch of salt, and a
little butter, keep stirring till the butter is dissolved and well mixed
in; add, if you like, a suspicion of nutmeg, and the sauce is finished.
Take care in taking out the onion that it does not break, as it is
extremely disagreeable to have a piece of onion left in the sauce; it is
apt to get into the mouth by mistake, and give notice of its presence by
a crunch which is not at all pleasant.
With regard to gravy for game, what is required is that it should be
good and strong, yet without any predominant flavour. For instance, some
cooks like to add mushroom ketchup to gravy. This, when the gravy is
intended for roast goose or fowl, would be unobjectionable, but should
certainly be avoided when the gravy is intended for game. Again, the
flavour of garlic should be guarded against. There is an old proverb
which says, “It is a pity to spoil the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar.” So,
too, it is a pity to spoil a brace of grouse for the sake of a little
gravy-beef, and recollect a little and good is better than plenty and
poor. Equal quantities of good gravy-beef and knuckle of veal should be
used; of course, less gravy-beef is necessary when extract of meat is
used. The gravy may be thickened with a little brown thickening, but not
too much. A very little arrowroot may be used, but the gravy for game
should be by no means thick, yet at the same time it should look of a
rich dark colour.
To make a salmi of game. It is almost always the case that the game has
been previously cooked. Take, therefore, any game-bones or trimmings
that can be got, and place them, with a bay-leaf, to stew as long as
possible in some gravy similar to what we have described, which is
simply good strong stock made from gravy-beef, knuckle of veal stewed
with an onion in which a few cloves have been stuck, a head of celery, a
carrot and turnip, and a large handful of parsley, flavoured with pepper
and salt, &c. After stewing all the game-bones, you can strain off the
gravy from them and the bay-leaf; make the gravy a trifle thicker with a
little more brown thickening; make this gravy hot in a stew-pan and then
add the remains of the game, cut off as neatly as possible; let it soak
in the gravy, but do not let it boil; about a quarter of an hour before
serving, add a wine-glassful of madeira, or good golden sherry. A pale
dry sherry is not nearly so good for the purpose. It is really the
addition of the wine that makes the gravy into the salmi sauce—just as
in nearly all the French restaurants in London it will often be seen in
the bill of fare, something with sauce Madère, which simply means some
ordinary gravy to which has been added a spoonful of sherry.
To make fried bread-crumbs—the best accompaniment to grouse—a clear fire
is necessary. Get an enamelled stew-pan, and put a little butter in it
(about an ounce), then get some bread-crumbs, stale and not too fine,
throw them in the butter, and keep stirring till they begin to change
colour; as soon as they do, remove the stew-pan from the fire, but keep
on stirring; the process of cooking, as we have said before, goes on
some time after the stew-pan is removed. As soon as they are
sufficiently brown, place them on some blotting-paper, in order that all
the grease may be soaked up.
The blotting-paper can be placed in front of the fire, and the
bread-crumbs tossed lightly about with a fork. The bread-crumbs can be
made hot in the oven when required for use, but should not be allowed to
remain in too long, as they are apt to get too hard and crisp, and
thereby get converted into toothbreakers.
As we have said before, game, at any rate in this country, is far too
good a thing to be left to the last, and then to be brought forward only
in mouthfuls. The fact is, we are all of us to a great extent creatures
of habit. We, as a rule, do what other people do, without reasoning
whether it is right or wrong, good or bad, but simply because we shrink
from drawing out a line for ourselves, or because we fear to be thought
eccentric. For instance, take an ordinary party of, say, ten persons at
dinner at the present season. We cling to soup, fish, entrées, and
joint, and follow it up with game, served in the same course with
sweets, the latter often being expensive to make, and uncared for by the
majority. Suppose we change our dinner into, first, a little good clear
soup; secondly, a good haunch of mutton, well kept and well cooked, and
let this be followed by some game in sufficient quantity. When we are by
ourselves, we own probably we could manage half a grouse after “a cut
off the joint.” Why therefore not save the money too often wasted over
second-rate entrées and sweets intended more to please the eye than the
palate, and spend it in giving a dinner which, if not quite in the
fashion, will at any rate please?
Were this done, you may be certain of one point, that your house will be
considered one at which it is worth while dining.
A glass of Pomerey and Grem’s champagne, cold, but not frozen, at
dinner, followed by a good bottle of claret, say Château Margeaux (which
may be placed on a top shelf in the kitchen during the day to bring out
its flavour), after dinner, will have the effect of sending home your
guests enabled to say from their hearts, or at any rate their stomachs,
“I have dined.”
HOW TO COOK HARE.
Once again has that season come round in which earth appears to be most
lavish in her gifts to men. In our own country may be seen miles of
ground on which rich golden grain waves in the autumn sun, waiting for
the reaper’s hook, while in the present age, when the iron horse almost
annihilates both time and distance, within a few hours’ journey from our
shores may be seen that glorious sight where the earth seems reeling
with rich purple profusion soon to be converted into the wine that
“cheereth God and man.” As often happens, with change of season also
comes change of food, a change doubly welcome in a country like our own,
which seems to possess fewer changes than others, on the beef and
mutton, mutton and beef, day after day and week after week. There are,
perhaps, few changes more decided than that of hare in the shape of
food, and few dishes that persons would care less to eat every day.
Still, it is a change, and a pleasant one; but hare requires rather more
skill in cooking than many cooks are aware of. Hare really properly
cooked has simply to be compared with hare carelessly served to prove
the truth of this statement.
I will begin by describing that simple dish, roast hare. Now what is the
common fault to be found with this excellent dish, as we get it in nine
houses out of ten? It is nearly always dried up, that part of the meat
of the back which in roasting is nearest the fire seems covered with a
thick, hard skin, the reason being that it has roasted too long, too
fast, and has not been sufficiently basted. In cooking hare, and, in
fact, in cooking any kind of meat, the nature of that meat should be
borne in mind. The specialty about hare is that it has a tendency to
taste what we may call dry; and also, it possesses very little natural
fat. Consequently the cook’s great object should be to keep the hare as
moist as possible, and to prevent it from getting dry. In all high-class
works on cooking, entrées made from hare are invariably spoken of as
larded fillets, which are finished by the addition of various sauces,
&c.; but I do not think it would be very practical to describe the
process of larding fillets of hare. Larding requires practice, and one
practical lesson of _seeing_ it done would be worth a volume of
bulk—indeed I might as well attempt to explain how to shoot the hare; I
fear the cook who depended upon “reading” for her knowledge of larding
would miss her mark, as surely as the sportsman whose sole experience
consisted of a similar kind would miss his.
There is an old saying, “A disease once known is half-cured;” the
disease, so to speak, against which we have to contend is dryness. In
roasting a hare, therefore, bear in mind the importance of basting, and
also of not letting the hare be too close to the fire in the early stage
of roasting. But to begin at the beginning: We will suppose the hare
caught and hung up, head downwards, in his fur jacket. Now the first
thing to be thought of is the length of time that a hare should be kept
before it is cooked. This entirely depends upon the weather; a perfectly
fresh hare should never be cooked unless the whole of it is intended for
hare-soup, which is rarely the case save in small private houses. Some
persons prefer the hare absolutely high; the best course is a happy
medium between being too high and too fresh, and cooks should bear in
mind that what often appears very high and offensive when raw, becomes
perfectly right when cooked.
We will not dwell upon that not very agreeable but still necessary
process of skinning the hare, but will at once commence to make the
stuffing, which must be tied up inside it. Ordinary veal stuffing, as it
is generally called, is best for the purpose, and, as I think I have
before pointed out, the most common fault is too much lemon.
The following recipe will, I think, be found well adapted to improve,
and not destroy or overcome, the flavour of the hare:—Take ¼lb. of beef
suet, and chop it very finely, with 2oz. of raw lean ham; add a
tea-spoonful of chopped fresh parsley and 2 tea-spoonfuls of dried mixed
savoury herbs, or 1, if these savoury herbs are fresh. These herbs are
sold ready mixed, in bottles, which is the simplest method, and are
composed principally of marjoram, basil, thyme, &c. As the herbs get
drier, more must be used, but, as I have said, if quite fresh, 1
tea-spoonful; if very dry, 2; the cook consequently must use her
judgment for intermediate stages. Add to this, to continue the stuffing,
¼ of the rind of a lemon (this latter should be chopped very fine); add
a little cayenne pepper and salt, about 5oz. of bread-crumbs, and 2
whole eggs. The whole quantity should be well pounded in a mortar.
Some persons add the liver of the hare to the stuffing; if the liver is
quite fresh this may be done, but not unless; and if the hare has been
kept a proper time, the liver is very often the part that exhibits most
the—what shall we call it?—ravages of time, and in such case should on
no account be used. This stuffing must be placed in the hare, taking
care to wipe the inside first, and sewn up; the hare should then be hung
up before the fire, at a greater distance than meat would be ordinarily;
plenty of dripping should be ready melted in the dripping-pan, and the
cook should _keep basting as often as possible_; this latter is the
secret of having the hare moist, and without that hard dry coating
outside which we mentioned. As for the time a hare takes to roast, it is
almost impossible to say—a small one taking an hour, and a very large
one nearly two. Much depends, also, on the fire, and the distance the
hare is kept from it in the early stages. Bear in mind, however, that
underdone can be remedied, and overdone can’t. An inexperienced cook can
cut into the joint at the back, about where the hind-leg joins the body,
and look; or stick a little piece of firewood in after the knife, and
judge by the colour whether it is done or not. On the average, an hour
to an hour and a quarter will be ample. Near the finish, however, take
away the dripping-pan and get a little butter; baste the hare with this
to finish, putting the hare near the fire so as to froth the butter, and
at the same time dredge the hare with some flour, so as to get it a nice
brown-colour, and serve some good rich, hot gravy with it in a separate
tureen. As hare is an awkward joint to carve, it will be found best
_not_ to pour gravy over it, for the sake of the table-cloth and the
feelings of the carver. Red-currant jelly should always be handed round
with hare, and the gravy will be much improved by a few cloves, a tiny
piece of cinnamon being boiled in it and then strained off; add also
half a glass of rich port wine, and by rich I mean not a dry wine, but
rather port-wine dregs. The last spoonful of port in the bottle should
always be reserved for purposes of this kind.
We will now discuss what is, to my mind, a far preferable method of
cooking hare, and that is, jugged hare. For this purpose a stone jar
with a wide mouth will be found to be better than an ordinary jug, which
used to be used, and which gives its name to the dish. Have ready some
good brown gravy, free from fat. Next cut up the hare into joints, each
joint not being larger than would be considered the proper quantity for
one help; fry these joints in a little butter in a frying-pan, so as to
turn them a nice brown without cooking them. Have the empty jar made hot
by placing it in the oven, and have a cloth ready to tie over its mouth.
Then as soon as the joints of hare are browned, throw them into the hot
empty jar, pour a large glass of port wine in too, and tie the cloth
quickly over the mouth of the jar, and let it stand for, say, a quarter
of an hour or more, on the dresser. By this means the fumes of the wine
will rise—the jar being hot—and will impregnate the meat of the hare in
a way in which it would never do were it simply added to the gravy.
After this has stood some time, untie the jar and add the gravy, with a
small piece of cinnamon, six cloves, two bay-leaves, and the juice of
half a lemon. The gravy should be strongly impregnated with onion, and
should be thickened with a little arrowroot rather than with brown
thickening. The port will materially assist the colour; a good spoonful
of red-currant jelly may also be added to it and dissolved in it, though
in addition red-currant jelly will be handed round with it. Next place
this jar up to its neck in a large saucepan of boiling water, only take
care that the jar is well tied down, or much of the flavour will be
lost; allow this to remain in the boiling water for about an hour to an
hour and a half, when it will be found to be sufficiently done, as
jugged hare, like roast hare, is generally over-cooked rather than
under. Stuffing-balls should be added to it, but not cooked with it. For
this purpose prepare some stuffing as directed for roast hare. Roll this
stuffing into small balls, a little larger than marbles, and throw them
into some boiling fat. A few minutes will be sufficient to cook them;
drain them on a cloth and make them hot in the oven before adding them
to the jugged hare.