_Arviragus._ How angel-like he sings!
_Guiderius._ But his neat cookery! he cut our roots in characters,
And sauc’d our broths as Juno had been sick
And he her dieter.
_Cymbeline_ iv. 2.
In this passage Shakespeare exalts cookery above songs that are merely
angel-like, and anyone who has dined at a modern restaurant with “music
off” as part of the stage directions will agree with Guiderius that it is
impertinent to consider the merit of song at moments that should be given
to the praise of cookery. Incidentally, too, the passage has a value for
the cuisinologist of an antiquarian turn of mind by pointing out that the
decoration of dishes with alphabetical carrots and turnips, “roots cut in
characters,” was a commonplace of the Shakespearean table.
And if in a detached passage from a dramatic writer we can find so much
culinary thought, how much more remains to be sought after in those
masterpieces of kitchen literature given to the world by the great artist
cooks of bygone centuries.
It has always been a matter of considerable surprise to me that so few
people really read their Cookery Book with any diligence and attention.
There is no subject of conversation so popular as Cookery Book. It
blends together all persons in a common chorus of talk irrespective of
rank, age, sex, religion and education. The dullest eye lights up and a
ripple crosses the most stagnant mind when the dying embers of formal
conversation are called into brilliant flames by a few pages from the
Cookery Book. Every one lays claim to take a hand at Cookery Book talk,
no one is too bashful or ignorant in his own seeming, and yet how few
really bring to the discussion a sound literary knowledge of even Mrs.
Beeton and Francatelli, and how many prate of cookery to whom Mrs. Glasse
and John Farley are unknown names. No one will talk of Shakespeare and
the musical glasses without at least a slight knowledge of Charles Lamb’s
delightful nursery tales and the study of an article on the theory of
music in “Snippy Bits.” But if Cookery Book is mentioned—and in ordinary
society the subject is generally reached in the first ten minutes after
the introduction—the humblest and most ignorant is found laying down the
law with the misplaced confidence of a county magistrate. And yet with
Cookery Book as with lower forms of learning one can never tell whence
illumination may spring. True indeed is it that out of the mouths of
babes and sucklings strength is ordained.
I remember a beautiful and remarkable instance of this which occurred
but recently. I was privileged to dine at the family table of a great
artist and there were present besides myself several others of sound
learning and religious education from whom might be expected stimulating
and rational conversation. We began I remember with the Pre-Raphaelites
and ox-tail soup. Albert Durer started with the fish but “failed to
stay the course,” as a sporting friend of my host remarked. He it was
who brought the conversation round to the haven and heaven of all
conversation—Cookery Book. He told a story of a haggis which drew from
my host—an ardent Scotsman—a learned and literary defence of the haggis,
which in common with the thistle, the bagpipes and Burns poetry it is a
matter of patriotism for a Scotsman to uphold in the company of aliens.
There was no doubt that my friend broke down in cross-examination
as to the actual contents of the haggis, but as to the necessity of
drinking raw whisky at short intervals during its consumption he was
eloquent and convincing. When he had finished—or maybe before—I began
to describe the inward beauties of a well-grilled mutton chop, and to
detail an interesting discussion I had had the week before with a Dean
of the Church of England on the respective merits of Sam’s Chop House
in Manchester and the South Kensington Museum Grill Room. Listening is
I fear a lost art for my entertaining reminiscences were broken into by
a babel of tongues. Every one named his or her particular and favourite
dish which was discussed rejected, laughed at and dismissed by the rest
of the company. So loud was the clash of tongues that you might have
imagined you were taking part in a solemn council at Pandemonium, when
suddenly the shower of Cookery Book talk dried up and there was a pause,
a lull—a silence. At that moment the youngest son of the house whose
little curly head—like one of those heads of Sir Joshua’s angels—rested
on his hands as he listened to the earnest converse of his grave
elders—this child threw down before us a pearl of simple wisdom—“Surely
you have forgotten bread sauce and chicken!” And so we had. The artist
also remembered that we had left out sucking pig. The conversation
started with renewed force. The whole question of onions in bread sauce
was exhaustively debated and a happy evening was spent in congenial and
intellectual conversation.
But how seldom it is that you find yourself among persons capable of
discussing with knowledge any of the nicer problems of the kitchen.
At my own table the other day a graduate of Cambridge actually asked
my wife whether she put maraschino or curaçoa in the Hock cup. Yet
in educational affairs this man passes for a rational and highly
cultivated man. Colossal ignorance of this type is but too common. I
have stayed—but never for more than one week-end—with families of the
highest respectability to whom tarragon vinegar is unknown, and I once
entertained a Judge of the High Court who did not know the difference
between Nepaul and Cayenne pepper,—yet in his daily life he must have
been called upon to decide differences of graver importance.
I wish I had the pen and the inspiration of one of the early prophets
to rouse my countrymen to urge upon Education Committees, schools and
universities their duty in dealing with this national ignorance. But one
may at least make a practical suggestion. Why should not “What to do with
the Cold Mutton” be read as a first reader in our elementary schools? It
touches on no points of doctrine and teaches truths that both Anglican
and Nonconformist could discuss pleasantly at a common board.
Once the young mind has tasted of the delight of the literary side of
cookery a demand would spring up for the re-publication of many earnest,
eloquent and scientific Cookery books of olden time. The eighteenth
century was a golden age in the literature of cookery, and the works
of Charlotte Mason, Sarah Harrison’s “Housekeeper’s Pocket Book,” and
Elizabeth Marshall’s “Young Ladies’ Guide in the Art of Cookery,”—these
are books that should be in every polite library. For myself I prefer
what may be called the Archæology of Cookery and the study of “The Proper
New Book of Cookery, 1546,” or Partridge’s “Treasury of Commodious
Conceits and Hidden Secrets, 1580?” will have a charm for all who like to
pierce the veil that hides the old world from us. We have moved on since
then it is true, but for my part I like to learn how to “pot a Swan” or
“make an Olio Pye,” though such learning is no longer practical.
To those who have not access to the original editions of the classics,
let me commend that charming volume of the Book Lovers’ Library, Mr. W.
Carew Hazlitt’s “Old Cookery Books.” Problems are there touched upon that
when we have a serious business Government untrammelled by party ties
will be solved by Royal Commissions dealing with the various aspects of
cookery which, as an old writer says, is “The Key of Living.” It was
Tobias Venner, as long ago as 1620, who endeavoured to dissuade the poor
from eating partridges, because they were calculated to promote asthma.
Many Poor Law Commissions have sat since then, but the truth of Venner’s
theory has never yet been subjected to modern scientific criticism,
and every year from September to February the poor continue to remain
under the shadow of asthma. The Government give us volumes of historical
records, but I search in vain among them for the way to make Mrs. Leed’s
Cheesecakes and “The Lord Conway, His Lordship’s receipt for the making
of Amber Pudding.” Thus are we trifled with by our rulers, few of whom I
think could tell us without research why the porpoise and the peacock no
longer grace the tables of Royal persons.
But see how Nature supplements the mistakes of mankind. True it is that
Governments do nothing for our greatest art, sadly true it is that
the great masterpieces of culinary writing remain on the shelves, and
disgracefully true it is that among the idle rich of our universities
there is not one Professor of Cookery—though there be many ignorant
critics of the Art at high tables. And yet, round every board, simple
or noble, with the steam that rises from the cooked meats comes the
heartfelt praise of mankind rejoicing to lift up the voice in that
Cookery Book talk, which is the oral tradition that carries on the
religion of the “Key of Living.”
Indeed, there is only one human being who does not talk about Cookery,
and that is the high Priestess herself—the Cook. This I have on the
evidence of a policeman.