grace at the utmost, when one need neither sit down in a half-famished
condition nor be sent to bed with an overcharged stomach. Seven o'clock
certainly is as late as one may dine with comfort. A deferred dinner
means either a too substantial luncheon or a distressing feeling
of "goneness," which frequently makes itself unpleasantly audible
long before the announcement that dinner is served; while lateness
in dining implies additionally an insufficient interim between the
dessert and the night's repose. No period of the day begins to be as
tedious as that which is often mistakenly extended for the benefit and
encouragement of the unpunctual. Would that the laggard who thus mars
the comfort of others might feel the true force of Boileau's stricture:
"I have always been punctual at the hour of dinner, for I knew that all
those whom I kept waiting at that provoking interval would employ those
unpleasant moments to sum up all my faults." To wait for tardy guests,
it cannot be emphasised too strongly, is to try unwarrantably the
temper of the remainder of the company and jeopardise the excellence
of the repast. All such stumbling-blocks to the perfect advance of
gastronomy, however, will doubtless be removed in time, and the
pleasures of the table eventually be realised to their fullest extent
in America.
Again, turning from the state of cookery in this country to that
in England, it must be admitted that advancement has been far less
manifest. "In general," a French writer remarks, "the English are
little inclined to epicurism; it is apparent that their palate is not
apt to appreciate the finish, the delicacy of a dish artistically
prepared." It cannot be said that this stricture is entirely just,
despite existent conditions. Neither may it be charged that the
general state of English cookery is entirely the result of supineness
on the part of a considerable portion of those whose interests are
most affected; for the travelled Briton is the first to complain
of the sameness and lack of progress which characterise his native
kitchen. With abundant material and the best of meats and fish, there
is little variety and a conspicuous want of daintiness in the English
bill of fare; while even in the capital the English restaurants,
with few exceptions, are scarcely to be commended. One must perforce
suppose that these conditions are more the outcome of the national
conservatism--the tendency to "let well enough alone"--than that they
are not realised by a certain portion of the community. The Englishman
is the last one, however, to stint at his table, whereon the ample
roast invariably figures, and whatever may chance to be served appears
in generous profusion.
Nor can one imagine a more delightsome host than the cultured Briton,
who was first to proclaim the virtues of old-vintage champagnes, and
who is still willing to undergo the martyrdom of gout for the sake of
an after-glass of port which may not be equalled elsewhere. And if the
English table be designated as "heavy" compared with that of the United
States, it must be considered that climate has much to do with the form
of a nation's alimentation. The national roast beef and ale are a fuel
for the body in a land where fogs and mists prevail, and where the
heating of dwellings and buildings is often inadequate. The chop-house
is essentially English, and so far as its bill of fare extends its
merits are unquestionable. The Englishman will also say, and his claim
cannot be disputed, Is there a better substantial soup than turtle,
or even ox-tail and mulligatawny? is any _friture_ equal in delicacy
to that of whitebait? and is not the English beefsteak incomparably
superior to the larded filet of the French?
But turtle and turbot and beef and ale need not necessarily preclude
the lighter forms of nutrition which the British lack, or that minute
attention to detail without which the cuisine must languish. It is true
that the kitchens of the very wealthy are presided over by skilled
foreign chefs, as is the case in most other countries, and that my
lord and my lady do not lack for the most exquisite refinements that
the disciples of Carême can contribute. A rich ancestral English
country-seat, shaded by its immemorial elms and limes, with its
splendid conservatories and gardens, its game-preserves and trout and
salmon waters, is perhaps the best expression of refined and luxurious
hospitality to be found; and here, assuredly, the table does not yield
in bounty and munificence to any in the world. Outside of comparatively
few dishes, however, there is but little to commend in general English
cookery; and it would seem that what else is specially characteristic
and also good consists largely in the cold pieces, such as game-,
pigeon-, and rabbit-pie, spiced beef, the lordly venison pasty, and
similar comestibles. That there is no such thing as fine modern English
cookery the Englishman will be first to acknowledge. Broadly speaking,
all which is good is old, and all which is modern is French.[33] The
cooking of vegetables is notoriously poor, and variety in preparation
is as limited on the ordinary table as the variety of the vegetables
themselves during a major portion of the year. The seedsman and the
market-gardener cannot be held accountable, for the seedsman produces
excellent varieties in profusion, many of which are grown in this
country, and market-gardeners abound who must raise them. And no
gardener may excel, if equal, the Englishman, whether his operations
extend to the kitchen-or the flower-garden. But where are his
vegetables to be met with in perfection of variety and perfection of
cooking?--a question that becomes almost as great a problem as was the
universal absence of male birds among the chaffinches or the mysterious
disappearance of the ring-ouzels to Gilbert White.
During the limited season, let us admit, there are some vegetables
which may not be surpassed, like green peas and beans, cauliflower,
asparagus, and many varieties of lettuce, especially Cos, which cannot
be grown to equal advantage under our hot summer sun. It is unfortunate
that potatoes are cooked only in about one way, for few potatoes can
compare in flavour with those raised in England. All such vegetables as
demand continuous midsummer heat for their perfect maturity, together
with late-ripening varieties of fruits, are necessarily raised at a
disadvantage in most portions of Great Britain. Yet it would seem that
the frowns of Vertumnus were far less responsible for this dearth of
variety than the apparent apathy of the nation itself or those who are
principally responsible for its alimentation--the cook, the epicure,
the restaurant, and the housewife.
Thus, in so simple a matter as the pumpkin-pie, which one occasionally
meets in the southern and southwestern shires, it is hardly surprising
that it is held in slight estimation when one reflects that the
material is cut up in pieces, and then, with half apple and half
pumpkin, a pie is made similar to the ordinary English apple-pie, and
this in a climate where a pumpkin of good quality may not be grown out
of doors. Contrary to general opinion, pumpkin-pie is not an American
but an old English dish improved upon by the New England housewife.
Three hundred years ago, when known as the "pompion," they were made
into pies by cutting a hole in the side, extracting the seeds and
filaments, stuffing the cavity with apples, and baking the whole.
The nectarine, peach, and apricot, as raised under glass in England
or grown as espaliers in favoured localities, are always superior,
while the glass-grown "pine" nowhere else reaches such perfection.
Superlative, too, is the glass-grown muskmelon--netted, ribbed,
and laced; spherical, oval, and globe-shaped; green-fleshed and
scarlet-fleshed; and melting, juicy, and delicious. But some will ask,
what can be more delectable than the scented orange-scarlet flesh of
our own "Surprise," or the Hymettus sweetness that is hived beneath
the wattled ribs of the little "Green Nutmeg"? The watermelon, with
its great, luscious, rosy core, like corn and the sweet potato and its
varieties, is not to be grown in England.
Of hardy fruits America is the chosen home, unless it be of the grape
for wine-making, wherein France reigns supreme. And of all districts
where soil and climate unite to second the skill of the horticulturist,
there is perhaps none in which nearly all the finer species and
varieties of fruit attain such superiority, combined with keeping
qualities, as in the smiling garden of the Empire State--the Genesee
Valley of New York. Excellent fruits are raised in France and southern
Germany, but only to a limited extent compared with our own country. To
the French we are indebted for many of the finest varieties of pears,
though these are rarely seen in France itself. Fruit in Europe is
always dear and often difficult to obtain. Yet in the noted Parisian
restaurants it is a rare occurrence when one cannot obtain a couple of
peaches for twenty-five francs, or revel in a melon for thirty, much
the same as pineapples may be obtained in London at a guinea apiece.
It will readily be conceded that the fish and meats of the French and
Germans are usually much inferior to those of the English--the veal of
Germany and the Pré-Salé mutton of France excepted. But, unlike the
continentals, the English fail to make the most of their opportunities
and better materials. A contemporaneous English writer thus alludes to
the state of cookery and this lack of progress in his own country:
"The adage 'God sends meat and the devil sends cooks' must
surely be of native parentage, for of no country is it so true
as of our own. Perhaps had it not been for the influx among us
of French and Italian experts we should not have progressed
much beyond the pancake and oatmeal period. But foreign chefs
limit their efforts to those who can afford to pay them for
their services. The middle classes do not fall within the pale
of their beneficence. The poor know them not. So it happens
that even as I write the greater part of the community not
only cannot afford professional assistance in the preparation
of their meals, which goes without saying, but from ignorance
expend on their larder twice as much as a Parisian or an
Italian in the same rank of life, with a very indifferent
result. There are handbooks of instructions, it is true, both
for the middle and for the lower classes. These books are at
everybody's command. But they are either left unread, or, if
read, they are not understood."[34]
Let it not be supposed by the stranger to the table of London that one
may not dine there to advantage, or that the criticisms as to strictly
English dinners apply to all hostelries and to many first-class
restaurants of the capital where the French _haute cuisine_ prevails.
London has likewise numerous Italian restaurants whose table d'hôte is
not to be despised--if one knows where to find them. But even in those
restaurants whose specialty is French cookery the menu is singularly
incommensurate in variety to the varied native products, both in
vegetable and animal foods. Even the delicious sole and turbot, however
well prepared, become a weariness through constant iteration, while
_petite marmite_ and _croûte-au-pot_ are so frequent as to cause one to
yearn for Julienne with inexpressible longing. No doubt, with a trained
and old-time diner who knows his London thoroughly, one might happen on
not a few gastronomic oases whose good English cheer would cause even
the fog of the metropolis to melt into golden sunshine.
Many old dishes still exist in the English provinces on which much
store is set in their respective localities, as, for instance, a
certain pudding, rarely found outside of Derbyshire, called Bakewell
pudding, after the little town on the Wye, which is also celebrated for
its trout. Although the ancient recipe for this, handed down from one
generation to another, is said to be possessed only by the landlady of
the Chesterfield Arms in Bakewell, it is asserted that a successful
imitation may be made as follows: Line a pie-tin with puff-paste and
fill the centre with these ingredients--first layer, lemon cheese;
second, raspberry jam; third, lemon cheese. Then strew on the top
blanched sweet almonds and strips of candied peel of lemons, oranges,
and citrons. Bake for about twenty minutes in a brisk oven, and dust
very lightly with fine sugar.
Of the innumerable forms of preparing the cutlet, the following recipe
can at least lay claim to originality, and is thoroughly English:
The cutlets should be cut from the neck of mutton, then egged and
breadcrumbed, finely minced tongue or ham having been mixed with the
crumbs. Fry a delicate brown. For the centre of the dish use the
whites of three eggs steamed in a cup. Place in a saucepan gherkins,
mushrooms, ham, and tongue cut into small bars, adding to this a sauce
of good brown gravy, with a dessertspoonful each of red-currant jelly,
Harvey's sauce, mushroom ketchup, and tomato sauce. For the quality of
this recipe the writer cannot vouch further than to observe that, like
its predecessor, it emanates from the daintiest of feminine fingers
of Wargrave, where the excellence of the contributor's kitchen is
equalled only by the beauty of her flower-garden.
The universal employment of bottled sauces, such as Worcester, Halford,
Harvey's, etc., and pungent condiments, like gherkins, mustard,
chow-chow, and ketchup, would seem to be more or less necessary in
England, owing to the monotony of her roast beef and mutton and the
extensive use of cold meats, poultry, and game. Harvey's sauce,
mentioned among the ingredients of the above-mentioned recipe, owes
its origin to this circumstance: During the middle and later years of
Mr. Meynell's mastership of the hounds in the celebrated Quorn country
there often appeared in the field Captain Charles Combers, who was
born at Brentwood in 1752, and who was more familiarly known as "The
Flying Cucumber" from the manner in which he put his horses along.
On one occasion, when on his way to Leicestershire, he stopped, as
was his wont, at Bedford to dine at the George, then kept by a man
named Harvey, where he ordered a steak; and when it was served Combers
requested Harvey to let his servant bring from his buggy a quart bottle
which contained an admirable sauce. Having poured some of it into his
plate and mixed it with the gravy of the steak, he asked Harvey to
taste it, and the host pronounced it to be a most excellent relish.
"Well, Mr. Harvey," said Combers, "I shall leave the bottle with you
to use till my return, only be careful to reserve enough for me." On
the next day Harvey had to provide a wedding dinner and introduced
the sauce, which afforded such general satisfaction that several
smaller parties were made up, and the contents of the bottle were soon
exhausted.
In due time Captain Combers returned, and, having been told that no
more sauce remained, said: "Never mind; I can make some more from my
mother's recipe; and, by-the-bye, I will give you a copy of it." He
was as good as his word. Harvey made it in large quantities, sent it
to the different shops in London, advertised it as "Harvey's Sauce,"
and by its extensive sale realised a large income. He subsequently sold
the recipe for an annuity of £400 or £500, which he received for the
remainder of his life.
Among old English dishes, "Bubble and Squeak" is the fanciful name
applied to fried beef or mutton and cabbage,--
"When 'midst the frying-pan, in accents savage,
The beef so surly quarrels with the cabbage,"--
for the preparation of which widely varied recipes are given in the
vade-mecums of English cookery. Kitchener even set the lines to
music, and furnished a sauce for the dish. Such a dish illustrates
the excellent digestion of the English. To the French it would be
impossible, and a German would think twice before attempting it. But
this were harmless compared with an English green sauce for green
geese or ducklings, the prescription for which reads: "Mix a quarter
of a pint of sorrel-juice, a glass of white wine, and some scalded
gooseberries. Add sugar and a bit of butter, and boil them up."
To cavil is easy, however, and in matters relating to cookery it were
well to bear in mind the philosophic lines of King, a contemporary of
the late lamented Mrs. Glasse:
"Good nature will some failings overlook,
Forgive mischance, not errors of the Cook;
As, if no salt is thrown about the dish,
Or nice crisp'd parsley scatter'd on the fish;
Shall we in passion from our dinner fly,
And hopes of pardon to the Cook deny,
For things which Mrs. Glasse herself might oversee,
And all mankind commit as well as she?"
And if English cookery and English restaurants leave much to be
desired, one should not forget that the art is still far from having
attained perfection in the United States, where the stranger in like
manner might find ample cause for complaint, particularly in the poor
and slipshod cookery of the hostelries of its country towns. Certainly
all who have visited in England will recall the generous hospitality of
its people, the almost homelike comfort and cleanliness of its inns,
and a service that may not be equalled by that of any other nation.
When to these are added the glories of the English countryside--the
idyllic setting amid which many a repast has been savoured--one may
well overlook any trifling lapses of the cook, in view of enchantments
that must ever be retained in tender recollection.
[Illustration]
AT TABLE WITH THE CLERGY
"Bishop and Abbot and Prior were there;
Many a Monk and many a Friar."
INGOLDSBY LEGENDS: The Jackdaw of Rheims.
Whether cookery is indebted to the Roman Catholic Church to the full
extent that is commonly supposed is questionable. It is certain,
however, that the olden monks and friars performed considerable service
in preserving ancient recipes and inventing new formulas, many of which
have been improved upon as the science has advanced.
Previous to the Renaissance the higher cultivation of cookery was
confined largely to the monasteries, which prided themselves upon their
excellent cheer and the hospitality they extended to distinguished
visitors. Indeed, numbers of food preparations may be traced to the
monastic orders, especially forms of cooking fish, eggs, and various
soups. The introduction of soup, which is mentioned for the first
time in history at the beginning of the fifteenth century, is closely
connected with the clergy. Then it was that, during the fêtes attendant
on the marriage of Catherine de Valois to Henry V of England, the
Archbishop of Sens, at the head of a procession of his priests, bore
the soup and the wine to the royal chamber, accompanied by the blessing
of the Papal See.
[Illustration: NON IN SOLO PANE VIVIT HOMO
From the original oil-painting by Klein]
Around the art of larding is likewise shed the halo of sanctity, its
discovery having occurred during the Council of Bâle in 1440, when
Amadeus of Savoy, elected pope under the name of Félix V, was tendered
a larded capon by his cook. Julienne, or a soup somewhat similar, it is
more than probable, is an old monastic dish having special reference
to days when meat was proscribed, the same observation applying to
numerous fish and vegetable soups and ragoûts.
There is much reason to suppose that not a few treatises on cookery
and on wines have appeared whose authors were dignitaries of the
church, or at least connected with clericalism, but whose rôle forbade
them attaching their names to works of this nature. Thus, during
the year 1671 there was published at Molsheim, in southern Germany,
an excellent cook-book which treated of the various branches of the
science, by Bernardin Buchinger, Abbot of Lützel, having for its title
"Koch-Buch so für Geistliche als auch Weltliche Grosse und Geringe
Haushaltungen," etc.,--"Cook-Book for large and small Religious as well
as Laical Establishments,"--a culinary grammar of much merit which has
since passed into several editions. In this work the hierophant's
name was omitted, the authorship being announced as "Durch Einen
Geistlichen Küchen-Meister desz Gotteshauses Lützel beschrieben und
practicirt,"--"described and practised by a religious Master-Cook of
the Monastery of Lützel." An important volume of three hundred pages
by Vittorio Lancellotti, published in Rome, appeared in 1627, in which
is presented month by month a description of a large number of feasts
given by various prelates in honour of eminent personages at the
commencement of the seventeenth century. The volume was dedicated to
Cardinal Ippolito Aldobrandino, and is addressed chiefly to the clergy,
whose good taste in the matter of good cheer and luxury in entertaining
are minutely set forth.[35]
To the ancient ecclesiasts the vineyards producing the finest wines
of the world owe their existence and their fame--the Johannisberg,
Steinberg, Hochheim, Dom Dechanei, Rauenthal-Pfaffenberg, and
numerous other growths of the Rheingau; the Forster Kirchenstück and
Jesuitengarten of the Rheinpfalz; the Stein and Leisten wines of
Franconia, the Liebfrauenmilch Enclos Klostergarten of Rhenish Hessia,
and the Kloster Neuberg of Austria. No less celebrated in other lands
are the rich endowments of the monastery--the Romanée, Chambertin, and
Clos-Vougeot of the Côte d'Or; the Hermitage and Château-neuf-du-Pape
of the Rhône; Saint-Emilion and Sainte-Croix-du-Mont of the Gironde,
as well as many of the priceless growths of the Haut-Médoc. Like the
odour of old arras, around the roseate and golden clusters of the vine
clings the incense of prelacy and circles the aureole of the church.
One were more than ungrateful, too, to forget the invaluable services
rendered by Dom Pérignon in contributing to the vinous delights of the
table. Fancy, if one can, a world without champagne--not as a daily
beverage, but as a talisman to loosen the tongues of the timid and a
wand to evoke the joyous sally and brilliant repartee! With what other
potable may one so appropriately pledge not only _le beau sexe des deux
hemisphères, mais les deux hemisphères du beau sexe_?
Almost equally to be commended are the Carthusian friars of Dauphiné,
who evolved the greens and golds of _Chartreuse_; the cenobites of La
Grâce-Dieu, who produced _Trappistine_; the Trappists of l'Allier, in
whose cloister originated the elixir of long life, _de Sept-Fonds_;
and the holy fathers of Rouen, who invented the delicious balm of
_Bon-Secours_.