sparkled in a crystal decanter, the white porcelain was of
the choicest quality, the plates had heaters of boiling water
under them, and a servant, demure but neat, was in attendance.
"The repast was a happy mean between the frugal and the
luxurious. Some crab soup had just been removed, and there was
now on the table a salmon-trout, an omelette, and a salad.
"'My dinner shows you what perhaps you did not know,' said
the pastor, with a smile, 'that according to the laws of the
church meat is forbidden to-day.' The visitor bowed her
assent, but at the same time, as a private note informs me,
slightly blushed, which, however, by no means prevented the
curé from eating.
"Operations were already begun upon the trout, its upper side
being fully disposed of; the sauce gave proof of a skilful
hand, and the pastor's features betokened inward satisfaction.
That dish removed, he attacked the omelette, which was round,
full-bellied, and cooked to a nicety. At the first stroke of
the spoon, there ran out a thick juice, tempting both to sight
and smell; the dish seemed full of it, and my dear cousin
confessed that her mouth watered.
"Some signs of natural sympathy did not escape the curé,
accustomed to watch the passions of men; and, as if in answer
to a question which Madame R. took great care not to put,
'this is a tunny omelette,' said he. 'My cook has a wonderful
knack at them. Nobody ever tastes them without complimenting
me.' 'I am not at all astonished,' replied the lady visitor;
'for on our worldly tables there is never seen an omelette
half so tempting.'
"This was followed by the salad--a finishing item which I
recommend to the use of all who have faith in my teaching, for
salad refreshes without fatiguing, and strengthens without
irritating. I usually say it renews one's youth.
"The dinner did not interrupt their conversation. Besides the
matter in hand, they spoke of the events of the time, the
hopes of the church, and other topics. The dessert passed,
consisting of some Septmoncel cheese, three apples, and some
preserved fruit; and then the servant placed on a small table
a cup of hot mocha, clear as amber, and filling the room with
its aroma. Having sipped his coffee, the curé said grace.
'I never drink spirits,' he said as they rose; 'it is a
superfluity I offer to my guests, but personally reserve as a
resource for old age should it please God that I live so long.'
"In the meantime six o'clock had arrived, and Madame R.,
hurrying home, found herself late for dinner, and several
friends waiting for her whom she had invited for that day.
I was one of the party, and thus came to hear of the curé's
omelette; for our hostess did nothing but speak of it during
dinner, and everybody was certain it must have been excellent.
"Thus it is that as a propagator of truths I feel it my
duty to make known the preparation; and I give it the more
willingly to all lovers of the art that I have not been able
to find it in any cookery book.
"Hash up together the roes of two carp, carefully bleached,
a piece of fresh tunny, and a little minced shallot; when
well mixed throw the whole into a saucepan with a lump of the
best butter, and whip it up till the butter is melted. This
constitutes the specialty of the omelette.
"Then in an oval dish mix separately a lump of butter with
parsley and chives, and squeezing over it the juice of a
lemon, place it over hot embers in readiness. Next complete
the omelette by beating up twelve eggs, pouring in the roes
and tunny, and stirring till all is well mixed; then, when
properly finished, and of the right form and consistence,
spread it out skilfully on the oval dish which you have ready
to receive it, and serve up to be eaten at once.
"This dish should be reserved for breakfasts of refinement,
for connoisseurs in gastronomic art--those who understand
eating, and where all eat with judgment; but especially let
it be washed down with some good old wine, and you will see
wonders."
Among the dignitaries of the Roman Church, Richelieu was preëminent as
an entertainer, his table being renowned for its excellence, and no
one being more exacting with his cooks. _A chartreuse à la Cardinal_
or a _boudin_ of fowls _à la Richelieu_ at once recalls his Eminence,
and the brilliant reign during which he himself virtually wielded the
sceptre. "I do not think very highly of that man," said the Comte de M.
in speaking of a candidate who had just secured an important position:
"he has never eaten _boudin à la Richelieu_, and is unacquainted with
cutlets _à la Soubise_."
During the war of Hanover, when the surrounding country had been
devastated by the French army, Maréchal Richelieu, grandnephew of
the cardinal, wished to give a suitable dinner to a large number of
distinguished captives before setting them free. He was informed by his
cooks that the larder was empty.
"But it was only yesterday that I saw two horns passing by the window."
"That is true, Monseigneur, there is a beef and some few roots; but
what would you do with them?"
"What would I do with them? _Pardieu_, I would have the best supper in
the world!"
"But, Monseigneur, it is impossible."
"Nothing is impossible. Rudière, write out the menu that I will
dictate. Do you know how to write out a menu properly?"
"I acknowledge, Monseigneur, that--"
"Give me your pen."
And with this the maréchal, taking the place of his secretary,
improvised a classic supper worthy of Vatel. At the end of the bill of
fare was added:
"If through any mischance this repast is not an excellent one, I will
deduct one hundred pistoles from the wages of Maret and Rouquelère.
Begin, and doubt no more. RICHELIEU."
There was a certain Bishop of Burgundy who took his share of
responsibility in consuming, with a humour all his own, viands which
had not been come by legally. Desiring to eat venison when not quite
in season, he sent half the body of the deer that tempted him as a
present to the prefect, who lived in the same town, accompanying
the gift with the following note: "_Partageons la responsabilité:
chargez-vous du temporel; je me charge du spirituel._" (Let us share
the responsibility; charge yourself with the temporal part; I will
attend to the spiritual.)
Equally felicitous is an incident recounted of Archbishop de Sanzai of
Bordeaux, who was especially fond of the fowl which Savarin pronounced
one of the finest gifts of the New World to the Old. Having won a
truffled turkey on a wager from a grand vicar of his diocese, the
archbishop, after waiting a week, became impatient at the delay of
the loser in providing the bird. Accordingly, he took him to task and
reminded him that delays are dangerous, to which the vicar replied that
the truffles were not good that year. "Bah, bah!" was the rejoinder,
"we will chance the truffles; depend upon it, it is only a false report
that has been circulated by the turkeys."
"There needs to be two to eat a truffled turkey," the Abbé Morellet was
accustomed to say; "I never do otherwise. I have one to-day; we will be
two--the turkey and myself."
It may be of interest to note that the importation of the turkey to
Europe has been attributed by various scholiasts to the Jesuits,
in proof of which they assert that in many French provinces it was
formerly termed a _jésuite_, and that in some of the more remote
departments it was the custom to refer to it in the following manner:
"Come to dine with me; we will have a fat jésuite." "Monsieur, will you
pass me some of the jésuite?" It is also said to have been referred to
as a _jésuite en capilotade_ and a _jésuite au feu d'enfer_. Savarin
gives the period of its importation by the order in question as the
latter part of the seventeenth century; while the Marquis de Cussy
states it was imported a century earlier from Paraguay by the Jesuits,
and was served for the first time in public at the marriage of Charles
IX of France, when, according to Montluc, the young king disposed of
the left wing.
The true date of the turkey's flight into history is the early part
of the sixteenth century, when the learned confessor and historian to
Cortez, Fra Agapida, returned to Spain from his first visit to Mexico,
and wrote a brief narrative of the wonders of the New World. In this
account he called attention to the abundance of fine fish-food, and the
excellence of the venison and a variety of "wild cattle." "There is
also a bird," adds the discerning presbyter, "much greater in bigness
than a peacock, that is found within the forests and _vegas_ (meadows)
all over this country. It surpasses as food any wild bird we have found
up to this time. The natives do shoot these birds with arrows and catch
them in various kinds of springes and snares. They are sometimes very
large, being as much as thirty pounds in weight. They can fly, but
prefer to run, which they can do with exceeding swiftness."
No less is the introduction of the potato from South America due to the
monks, who first brought it to Europe in the proud galleons of Spain.
In Canon Barham's "A Lay of St. Nicholas," where the temptations of
the flesh proved stronger than the spiritual powers of the head of the
abbey, turkey and chine figure as the pieces of "resistance," with old
sherris sack, hippocras, and malmsey to flank them,--
"The Abbot hath donn'd his mitre and ring,
His rich dalmatic and maniple fine;
And the choristers sing as the lay-brothers bring
To the board a magnificent turkey and chine."
The capon, however, appears to have been the greatest favourite with
the clergy; its frequent companion, the carp, doubtless owing its
popularity to the fact that it is so easily raised, rather than that
it is more esteemed than numerous other species of fish. Even more
than the capon, the carp suggests the cenobites, bringing up a whole
train of monastic orders--with the cloister and the abbey as its most
congenial home. It is inalienably associated with the cassock and
chasuble, the rosary and censer, the peal of the organ and the glory of
old stained glass. It is essentially the sacred fish--the true "sole"
of piety. It whispers of sanctity and breathes of _Benedicites_. In
fancy one sees the abbot, rotund and rubicund, presiding at table,
with one eye upon the fish and the other lifted aloft, uttering his
_Bonum est confiteri_ ere the loud "Amen" resounds through the vaulted
chamber, and carp and capon are bathed in the red juices of the
monastery vineyard. Or it may be a pike, a mullet, or a dish of eels
that, cunningly prepared by the master-cook of the brotherhood, steeps
the refectory with the perfume of shallots and fine herbs, and justly
merits a _Benedic, anima mea_ from the partakers of the repast.
From an anecdote related by the Franciscan Jean Paulli de Thann, it
would appear that the olden monks had learned from the Scriptures a
particular method of carving fowls when they partook of them in secular
company. A gentleman had invited his confessor, who was a monk, to dine
in company with his wife, his two sons, and two daughters. There was a
fine capon for the roast, which the host requested the guest to carve.
The latter excused himself, but the host insisted.
"Inasmuch as you demand it," replied the monk, "I will carve the fowl
according to biblical principles."
"Yes," exclaimed the hostess, "act according to the Scriptures."
The theologian therefore began the carving. The baron was tendered
the head of the fowl, the baroness the neck, the two daughters a
wing apiece, and the two sons a first joint, the monk retaining the
remainder.
"According to what interpretation do you make such a division?"
inquired the host of his confessor, as he regarded the monk's heaping
plate and the scant portions doled out to the family.
"From an interpretation of my own," replied the monk. "As the master
of your house, the head belongs to you by right; the baroness, being
most near to you, should receive the neck, which is nearest the head;
in the wings the young girls will recognize a symbol of their mobile
thoughts, that fly from one desire to another; as to the young barons,
the drumsticks they have received will remind them that they are
responsible for supporting your house, as the legs of the capon support
the bird itself."
In England, during Elizabeth's reign, fish was largely consumed on the
festival of St. Ulric, a pious custom referred to by Barnaby Googe:
"Wheresoever Huldryche hath his place, the people there brings in
Both carpes and pykes, and mullets fat, his favour here to win.
Amid the church there sitteth one, and to the aultar nie,
That selleth fishe, and so good cheep, that every man may buie;
Nor anything he loseth here, bestowing thus his paine,
For when it hath been offred once, 't is brought him all againe,
That twise or thrise he selles the same, vngodlinesse such gaine
Doth still bring in, and plenteously the kitchen doth maintaine.
Whence comes this same religion newe? What kind of God is this
Same Huldryche here, that so desires and so delightes in fishe?"
With fish much is possible in the way of a generous dietary during
the Lenten penance and on meagre days. To the devout Thomas à Kempis
nothing was more delicious to the taste than a salmon, always excepting
the Psalms of David. The possibilities of a fish diet, however,
have nowhere been more appreciably set forth than by Father Prout
on the occasion of the classic "Watergrasshill Carousal," when Sir
Walter Scott was among the guests. And though the turkey which was in
readiness was forgone on account of the day being Friday and therefore
a fast-day, the repast, nevertheless, did not languish. The trout,
it will be remembered, the witty priest had caught himself from the
neighbouring stream, as well as a large eel from the lake at Blarney.
To these were added from the excellent market at Cork a turbot, two
lobsters, a salmon, and a hake, with a hundred of Cork-harbour oysters.
Besides these figured also a keg of cod-sounds, a great favourite of
the bishop of the diocese, which invariably appeared at the table of
Father Prout when his lordship was expected. With eggs, potatoes, sauce
piquante, lobster-sauce, whiskey and claret in addition, the sacerdotal
banquet proved a signal success, fully bearing out the sentiment
expressed by the shepherd in the "Noctes" at the end of a Scottish
repast,--"We 've just had a perfec' dinner, Mr. Tickler--neither ae
dish ower mony, nor ae dish ower few."
Fish naturally demands a white wine; but a carp may be prepared--and
doubtless is prepared--so sauced and spiced and aromatised by practised
cloistral hands that a red wine, the favoured colour of the cowl,
may accord with it perfectly. This is not saying that an abbot who
may be as renowned for his gastronomic abilities as for his oratory
necessarily confines himself or his followers to red wine with fish.
Much will depend, of course, upon the mode of preparation,--it is to
be supposed that the cellarer has both red and white wine at command
to draw from as occasion demands; to be confined to a single variety
must be as onerous to the cloth as to the layman. When the celebrated
vineyard of Clos-Vougeot was the property of the Bernardin monks,
before it was confiscated and declared national property, Dom Gobelot
was the father-cellarer. It was he who, after being forced to retire to
private life at Dijon, with a hundred dozen bottles of a famous year
of his vineyard as a souvenir, proudly replied to the young Bonaparte,
conqueror in Italy and returning from Marengo, when he requested some
old Vougeot for his table: "If he wishes some forty-year-old Vougeot,
let him come and drink it here; it is not for sale." And does not
history record that Pope Gregory XVI, in the year 1371, made the Abbot
of Clos-Vougeot a cardinal to express his gratitude for a present of a
basket of his best old wine which the abbot had sent him?
The famous wine of "Est, Est, Est" owes its celebrity to a German
bishop named Fuger, who, while on a journey to Italy, sent his
secretary in advance in order to provide the best accommodations. He
was especially charged to test the wine in all the inns en route, and
wherever he found it best to write the word "Est" on the wall of the
_albergo_. Arriving at Montefiascone, a small town on the highroad from
Florence to Rome, the secretary found the wine so superior that he
was at a loss to describe it until he bethought him of the inscription
that a sultan of Lahore had engraved on the door of his seraglio,--"If
there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here!"
Accordingly, he wrote the word "Est" thrice in large characters on
the wall of the principal inn--a fatal word for the bishop, who
tarried so long and drank so freely that he died ere reaching his
destination--Rome. His tomb exists at Montefiascone. On either side
of his mitre and his arms his secretary had carved a reversed glass,
with this epitaph on the stone: _Est, Est, Est, et propter nimium est
Johannes de Fuger dominus meus mortuus est_. The explanation of the
epitaph and emblems is given by the Roman prelate, Valery. It is still
further averred that the death of Cardinal Mauri, a distinguished
Italian prelate, whose remains were interred near those of the German
bishop in the Church of St. Flavien, was also hastened by his fondness
for the Montefiascone wine. The story of the bibulous bishop was told
in 1825 in German, in a poem of fourteen stanzas, by Wilhelm Müller,
father of Professor Max Müller.[39] It has also been excellently
rendered in English verse by an American poetess whose name the
efforts of the writer have been unable to trace:
"Men have ridden for love,
And men have ridden for gold,
And men have ridden for honour
In the chivalrous days of old.
Little of love recked he,
Nor honour, nor golden store,
But the Abbot would ride for dinner,
And he rode for good wine more.
'I will travel the world,
Travel the world in quest--
Taste red, white, and yellow,'
Cried this jolly old fellow,
'Till I find the wine that is best.'
_Vanitas vanitorum!_
"'My servant leal,' said he,
'Now ride thou on before,
And drink where'er the branches
Hang withering at the door.
Then, if the wine be worthy,
That I should stop at all,
Write "est"--but if it is not,
Write "non" upon the wall.'
"Promptly rode the man,
In hamlet, city, and town,
_Albergo_ and _osteria_,
He gulped the good wine down.
Where'er the wine was worthy
There they slept or dined,--
Before, the trusty varlet,
The lazier monk behind.
"Among the hills and valleys,
Festooned with wreathing vine,
Where purple grapes and opal
Drop red and golden wine,
There is a wine delicious
In a hamlet little known,
With a taste like the mountain flower
That blooms in spring alone.
Here pause, O wandering Abbot!
Thy ponderous frame can rest,
Lo! the prudent, observant,
Intelligent servant
Has written here 'Est, Est, Est.'
"The Abbot he drank at dinner,
The Abbot he drank at night,
And he called for more _fiasci_
When dawned the morning light.
He murmured, 'I go no farther,
_Per Bacco!_ I cease my quest;
Wine of Hymettus sweetness,
Nectar of gods,--_est, est_!
"But even an Abbot has limits,
Though his were exceeding wide;
He passed them and, as you can fancy,
Dropped from the table and died:
Drowned as it were in the nectar,
Dead of the wine that is best,
In his hand the empty wine-cup,
His last words '_Est, est, est_!'
_Vanitas vanitorum!_
"This very same wine we are drinking
To-night in classic Rome,
Sipping it after dinner
In our quiet foreign home.
I have told as I heard the story,
And now the white wine that is best,
Let us all fill a bowl of--
Here's peace to the soul of
The monk of the _Est, Est, Est_!"
To judge of the quality of Montefiascone, one must drink it at its
home; like other white wines of the former Papal States, it will not
bear the shock of distant carriage. As for the German ecclesiast,
one should not take him too seriously, but consider him rather from
the picturesque point of view, as Rowlandson and Combe have done
with the reverend Syntax. "Other times, other manners,"--to-day his
reverence would have made the journey by rail and not by post, and
thus, doubtless, would have missed the _fiasci_ of Montefiascone. One
must also bear in mind that the wine in question, being of the muscat
type, is extremely heady and exciting to the nerves, its deleterious
effects being masked by its unctuousness and engaging aroma; so that
an unsuspecting beer-drinking bishop, accustomed to copious libations
of a milder fluid, might readily and unwittingly find himself under
the table, and, even though a hierarch, prove an easy subject for a
_De Profundis_. Many years have elapsed since the prelate's demise;
and it is to be supposed that, meanwhile, the nectar of _Est_ has been
rendered less potent and even more delectable in heavenly vineyards.
[Illustration: PROMENADE DU GOURMAND
Frontispiece of "Le Manuel du Gastronome ou Nouvel Almanach des
Gourmands" (1830)]
[Illustration]
SUNDRY GUIDES TO GOOD CHEER
"Sir, _Respect Your Dinner_; idolize it, enjoy it properly.
You will be many hours in the week, many weeks in the
year, and many years in your life the happier if you
do."--THACKERAY.
A review of the dinner-table were incomplete without a reference to
several writers, other than those already cited, who have wielded a
more or less pronounced influence on gastronomy. Of such, two English
authors deserve especial mention, each of whom has sought to prove
that the art of the gastronomer is the art of being happy; and that,
if blessed with a good appetite and sound digestion, one may round off
many a corner of life's miseries.
To Dr. William Kitchener the merit of reforming English cookery
as it existed during the early part of the past century is due to
no inconsiderable degree. The overladen table, with its pompous
decorations, heavy viands, and superabundance of wines, was first
severely censured in "The Cook's Oracle," and later in Thomas Walker's
periodical, "The Original," since reprinted in book form. The first
edition of the "Oracle" appeared in 1817; and, like Mrs. Glasse's
"Art of Cookery," was subsequently much amended and enlarged.[40] An
eccentric and would-be dietetic reformer, the author was ridiculed at
first, as is often the case with those who advance new ideas or attempt
to disturb existing conditions. "Christopher North," whose own Pegasus
was often inclined to strange curvets, reviled him as he also did
Tennyson; and Hood addressed him in three mock-heroic odes. But beneath
his mannerisms and diatribes there remained much practical sense, an
extended culinary knowledge, and no little shrewd observation.
It was the author's endeavour to "improve plain cookery and to render
food acceptable to the palate without being expensive to the purse"--a
precept altogether admirable. The preface to the third edition
emphasises, very truly, that among the manifold causes which concur to
impair health and produce disease, the most general is the improper
quality of food, this most frequently arising from the injudicious
manner in which it is prepared. Yet it remains to be added that since
the days of the "Oracle" man has greatly improved in this respect,
even in England; that despite the multiplicity of diseases, hygiene is
becoming far better understood by the masses; and that for the various
ills arising through the stomach, chemistry and the doctors have
devised numerous simple correctives which have proved of inestimable
value.
The key-note of the "Oracle" is contained in the sentence, "Unless
the stomach be in good humour, every part of the machinery of life
must vibrate with languor,"--a sentiment with which all those who have
touched twoscore will profoundly agree. It is for elderly stomachs
whose bloom may have been somewhat brushed off that the doctor's
counsels will be found preëminently deserving of attention. To the
epicure he likewise proved an excellent mentor; to the dyspeptic, a
friend in need.