Reynière is readily perceptible, though he states in the introduction
that his work is a bona-fide register of practical facts, and that he
has not printed a recipe which has not been proved in his own kitchen.
Before undertaking his task, he had consulted all the treatises
obtainable on the subject, amounting to no less than two hundred and
fifty volumes. These, he asserts, vary very little from one another,
and any one who has occasion to refer to two or three of them will find
the recipes almost always the same--equally unintelligible to those who
are ignorant, and useless to those who are acquainted with the business
of the kitchen. The numerous "Good Housewife's Closets," "Ladies'
Companions," and "Gentlewomen's Cabinets," in fact, are virtually
identical, save for their titles and forewords.
With the recipes of the "Oracle" the reader need not be as much
concerned as with its spirit and its epicurean principles, which
reveal a strongly marked individuality, and a comprehension far in
advance of the time in Great Britain. Oracular and discursive, the
author ambles pleasantly along the road of Conviviality, scattering his
maxims and dispensing his formulas, while dipping into volume after
volume to emphasise his text. The "Oracle" may be briefly described as
a quaint medley of cookery, hygienic precepts, science, gastronomy,
and domestic economy, written by a _bon vivant_. A long chapter is
devoted to the subject of invitations to dinner, wherein punctuality
is strictly insisted upon--dining, according to the writer, being the
only act of the day which cannot be put off with impunity for even five
minutes. He would have the cook the warden in chief, as defined by
Mercier, a physician who cures two mortal maladies, Hunger and Thirst;
or a _Hominum servatorem_--a preserver of mankind, as designated by
Plautus. A good dinner, he maintains, is one of the greatest enjoyments
of human life; but it should never be at the mercy of belated
guests,--"what will be agreeable to the stomach and restorative to the
system at five o'clock will be uneatable and indigestible at a quarter
past." When he himself gave a dinner-party, the guests were invited
for five o'clock, and at five minutes after the hour specified, the
street door was locked, and the key, by his order, was set aside. But
it is perhaps in the chapter on advice to cooks, and in his directions
as to the minutiæ of boiling, baking, roasting, and frying, that he is
most suggestive. A characteristic farewell to the reader concludes the
volume, which even to-day may be consulted with profit--an observation
that will also apply to many portions of its companion treatise, "The
Art of Invigorating and Prolonging Life."
Less pretentious, and dealing more with the æsthetic side of good
living, are the essays of the "Original," by Thomas Walker, barrister
at law and magistrate, which treat of the pleasures of the table
under the titles, "The Art of Attaining High Health" and "The Art
of Dining."[41] These critical dissertations originally appeared in
1835 in a weekly periodical of which he was the editor, the series
terminating with his death the subsequent year. And if the influence of
the "Almanach" is readily discernible in the case of Dr. Kitchener, so
in like manner one detects a flavour of the "Physiology" in the genial
pages of Walker. Kitchener undoubtedly proves himself the more valiant
trencherman, while Walker remains the more refined and philosophic host.
His golden rule was, "Content the stomach and the stomach will content
you." A little irregularity in agreeable company he deems better than
the best observance in solitude. When dining alone is necessary,
however, he adds that the mind should be disposed to cheerfulness by a
previous interval of relaxation from whatever has seriously occupied
the attention, and by directing it to some agreeable object. And so
contentment ought to be an accompaniment to every meal. Punctuality
becomes the more essential, and the diner and the dinner should be
ready at the same time. Concerning dining in comfort, he holds that
a chief maxim is to have what you want when you want it, and not be
obliged to wait for little additions to be supplied, when what they
belong to is half or entirely finished.
The plates should be brought in before the dish, and the dish and
its adjuncts appear simultaneously; in other words, the necessary
condiments should always be at hand, and the wines should stand ready
to be poured out at the moment required,--the lesson of patience,
however desirable, is not a virtue that should be inculcated at the
dinner-table; and prompt service must ever form a great desideratum
of the perfect meal. In dining, more than anything else, perhaps,
whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well, though this
were far from meaning that lavish expenditure need enter into the
hospitable relations of host and guests. Forethought and careful
personal attention, it may be reiterated, play a most important part
at the board of Good Cheer; and simple dishes unexceptionally prepared
and served, with the beverages that naturally accompany them at the
proper temperature, will garnish any table with a cloth of gold. "A
good soup, a small turbot, a neck of venison, ducklings with green
peas, or chicken with asparagus, and an apricot tart," the Earl of
Dudley was accustomed to say, "is a dinner for an emperor." There are
those possibly who might prefer the much more simple menu of a French
gourmet,--"A bottle of Chambertin, a _ragoût à la Sardanapale_, and
a pretty lady _causeur_, are the three best companions at table in
France."
But it will be rendering greater justice to the author to permit him to
speak for himself on some of the niceties connected with the art he has
expounded so wisely and so well:
"Anybody can dine, but few know how to dine so as to ensure
the greatest quantity of health and enjoyment" [he agrees with
Dumas and Fayot]. "Indeed, many people contrive to destroy
their health; and as to enjoyment, I shudder when I think
how often I have been doomed to only a solemn mockery of it;
how often I have sat in durance stately, to go through the
ceremony of dinner, the essence of which is to be without
ceremony, and how often in this land of liberty I have felt
myself a slave.
"There is in the art of dining a matter of special
importance--I mean attendance, the real end of which is to
do that for you which you cannot so well do for yourself.
Unfortunately, this end is generally lost sight of, and the
effect of attendance is to prevent you from doing that which
you could do much better for yourself. The cause of this
perversion is to be found in the practice and example of
the rich and ostentatious, who constantly keep up a sort of
war-establishment, or establishment adapted to extraordinary
instead of ordinary occasions, and the consequence is that,
like all potentates who follow the same policy, they never
really taste the sweets of peace; they are in a constant state
of invasion by their own troops. It is a rule at dinners not
to allow you to do anything for yourself, and I have never
been able to understand how even salt, except it be from some
superstition, has so long maintained its place. I am rather a
bold man at table and set form very much at defiance, so that
if a salad happens to be within my reach, I make no scruple
to take it to me; but the moment I am espied, it is nipped up
from the most convenient into the most inconvenient position.
See a small party with a dish of fish at each end of the
table, and four silver covers standing unmeaningly at the
sides, whilst everything pertaining to the fish comes, even
with the best attendance, provokingly lagging, one thing after
another, so that contentment is out of the question; and all
this is done under pretence that it is the most convenient
plan. This is an utter fallacy. The only convenient plan is
to have everything actually upon the table that is wanted at
the same time, and nothing else; as, for example, for a party
of eight, turbot and salmon, with doubles of each of the
adjuncts, lobster-sauce, cucumber, young potatoes, cayenne,
and Chili vinegar, and let the guests assist one another,
which with such an arrangement they could do with perfect
ease. This is undisturbed and visible comfort.
"A system of simple attendance would induce a system of simple
dinners, which are the only dinners to be desired.... With
respect to wine, it is often offered when not wanted; and when
wanted, is perhaps not to be had till long waited for. It
is dreary to observe two guests, glass in hand, waiting the
butler's leisure to take wine together, and then perchance
being helped in despair to what they did not ask for; and
it is still more dreary to be one of the two yourself. How
different when you can put your hand on a decanter the moment
you want it!"
"Perhaps the most distressing incident in a grand dinner"
[the author continues] "is to be asked to take champagne, and
after much delay to see the butler extract the bottle from a
cooler, and hold it nearly parallel to the horizon in order
to calculate how much he is to put into the first glass to
leave any for the second. To relieve him and yourself from
the chilling difficulty, the only alternative is to change
your mind and prefer sherry, which, under the circumstances,
has rather an awkward effect. These and an infinity of minor
evils are constantly experienced amidst the greatest displays.
Some good bread and cheese and a jug of ale comfortably set
before me, and heartily given, are heaven and earth in
comparison.... The legitimate objects of dinner are to refresh
the body, to please the palate, and to raise the social humour
to the highest point; but these objects, so far from being
studied, in general are not even thought of, and display and
an adherence to fashion are their meagre substitutes."
To be niggardly with one's champagne we have already alluded to as
despicable. Yet the amount of this wine that may be dispensed at dinner
should depend on the cellar of the entertainer; and where Yquem or a
grand Deidesheimer, Lafite, or La Tâche of well-succeeded years is also
to figure, it is wise for the host to let the fact be known, and for
him to curtail the flow of sparkling wine, in order that proper justice
may be rendered to its companions. On this subject the "Original" again
proves itself a valuable signboard, and its doctrine as to the conduct
of the dinner forms a tenet worthy of all praise,--"If the master of
a feast wishes his party to succeed, he must know how to command and
not let his guests run riot, each according to his own wild fancy." We
cannot agree with the "Original" and some others that it is correct to
serve a sparkling wine, to the exclusion of all others, throughout an
extended repast. The palate and the eye weary of a single beverage,
however brilliant the vintage, and yearn for a contrast in flavour and
colour.
Simplicity is constantly urged throughout "The Art of Dining," and
again and again does the author insist upon the necessity of having
whatever dish that may be served preceded by all its minor adjuncts,
and accompanied by all the proper vegetables quite hot, so that it may
be enjoyed entirely and at once. The liquid accessories he would have
placed upon the table in such a manner as to be as much as possible
within the reach of each person; and as Mathew Bramble, in "Humphrey
Clinker," talks, in his delights of rural life, of eating trout
struggling from the stream, so he would have his dishes served glowing
or steaming from the kitchen, a quality which lends a relish otherwise
impossible.
"There are two kinds of dinners" [he goes on to say]--"one
simple, consisting of a few dishes, the other embracing a
variety. Both kinds are good in their way, and both deserve
attention; but for constancy I greatly prefer the simple
style.... In the first place, it is necessary not to be afraid
of not having enough, and so to go into the other extreme
and have a great deal too much, as is almost invariably the
practice. It is also necessary not to be afraid of the table
looking bare, and so to crowd it with dishes not wanted,
whereby they become cold and sodden. 'Enough is as good as a
feast' is a sound maxim, as well in providing as in eating.
The having too much, and setting dishes on the table merely
for appearance, are practices arising out of prejudices which,
if once broken through, would be looked upon, and deservedly,
as the height of vulgarity. The excessive system is a great
preventive of hospitality, by adding to the expense and
trouble of entertaining, whilst it has no one advantage. It
is only pursued by the majority of people for fear of being
unlike the rest of the world."
Every gastronomer will endorse the sentiment that in proportion to
the smallness of a dinner ought to be its excellence, both as to the
quality of materials and the cooking. Nor is there less truth in
the complaint that it is an existing evil that everybody is prone to
strive after the same dull style--the rule generally followed being
to consider what the guests are accustomed to; whereas it should be
reversed, and what they are not accustomed to should rather be set
before them. This stricture he applies to the serving of wines as well
as of viands--"we go on in the beaten track without profiting by the
varieties which are to be found on every side." To order dinner well he
defines as a matter of invention and combination, involving novelty,
simplicity, and taste; whereas in the generality of dinners there is no
character but that of dull routine, according to the season. Too little
attention, he complains, is paid to the mode of dining according to the
time of the year, summer dinners being for the most part as heavy and
as hot as those in winter, with the consequence of being frequently
very oppressive, both in themselves and from their effect on the room.
In hot weather the chief thing to be aimed at is to produce a light
and cool feeling, both by the management of the room and the nature
of the repast; in winter, warmth and substantial diet afford the most
satisfaction.
It may be held with reason that some of the inconveniences pointed
out with reference to service could be obviated by the service _à la
Russe_--discarding its medley of dishes on the table, and utilising its
features of carving and serving. But Walker's great aim was that of a
simple style of dinner-giving to a select few whose number he would
limit to eight. Under these circumstances it is easy to understand how
it were more appetising to dispense with any dishes in waiting which
serve to cloy rather than to stimulate appetite, and more advantageous
to have the carving performed by the master himself. At a men's dinner,
more especially, where a saddle of mutton, a haunch of venison, or
other roast forms the _pièce de résistance_, and where, therefore, "cut
and come again" is the motto of the hour, the less formal style is
certainly preferable, and productive of the best results to the guests.
It is only on one occasion that we find him wavering in the dogmas
he advances so emphatically and withal so aptly, this incertitude
occurring in connection with a dinner he had ordered at Blackwall,
the menu of which may be appropriately transcribed as a practical
illustration of his ideas on gastronomy:
"The party will consist of seven men beside myself, and every
guest is asked for some reason--upon which good fellowship
mainly depends; for people brought together unconnectedly
had, in my opinion, better be kept separate. Eight I hold to
be the golden number, never to be exceeded without weakening
the efficacy of concentration. The dinner is to consist of
turtle, followed by no other fish but whitebait, which is
to be followed by no other meat but grouse, which are to
be succeeded simply by apple-fritters and jelly; pastry on
such occasions being quite out of place. With the turtle of
course there will be punch, with the whitebait champagne,
and with the grouse claret: the two former I have ordered to
be particularly well iced, and they will all be placed in
succession on the table, so that we can help ourselves as
we please. I will permit no other wines, unless, perchance,
a bottle or two of port, if particularly wanted, as I hold
variety of wines a great mistake. With respect to the
adjuncts, I shall take care that there is cayenne, with lemons
cut in halves, not in quarters, within reach of every one
for the turtle, and that brown bread and butter in abundance
is set upon the table for the whitebait. The dinner will be
followed by ices and a good dessert, after which coffee and
one glass of liqueur each, and no more."
Surely, an excellent repast, if the cooking was all that could
have been desired, as the author happily informs the reader was
the case. But in his comments on the dinner occurs this qualifying
sentence,--"There was an opinion broached that some flounders,
water-zoutcheed, between the turtle and whitebait would have been
an improvement"; and, for once, the "Original" proves vacillating,
and adds--"Perhaps they would." Yet, if we are to believe no less
an authority than Thackeray, the dish under consideration is one
for which room may always be appropriately found--a dish that, when
well prepared, possesses ambrosial qualities. He is discoursing of
a flounder-souchy in the sketch entitled, "Greenwich Whitebait";
and one's mouth fairly waters as he reads it: "It has an almost
angelic delicacy of flavour; it is as fresh as the recollections of
childhood--it wants a Correggio's pencil to describe it with sufficient
tenderness."
The recipe for a water-souchy is thus given by Kitchener, to be made
with flounders, whiting, gudgeons, or eels:
"After cutting the fish in handsome pieces, place them in a
stewpan with as much water as will cover them, with some
parsley or parsley roots sliced, an onion minced fine, and a
little pepper and salt, to which sometimes scraped horseradish
and a bay-leaf are added. Skim carefully when boiling, and
when the fish is sufficiently done send it up in a deep dish
lined with bread sippets, and some slices of bread and butter
on a plate. Some cooks thicken the liquor the fish has been
stewing in with flour and butter, and flavour it with white
wine, lemon juice, essence of anchovy, and catsup, and boil
down two or three flounders to make a fish broth to boil the
other fish in, observing that the broth cannot be good unless
the fish are boiled too much."
This does not sound as palatable as a sole _au gratin_ or _en matelote
Normande_, or even whitebait--that "little means of obtaining a great
deal of pleasure"; but one can scarcely forget Thackeray's sentence,
even if his appreciation may have been heightened by the surroundings
of the Ship Tavern and congenial companionship.
Nearly ten years after Walker's day we find Thackeray also condemning
many similar evils:
"I would have" [he urges, and the advice is still
pertinent]--"a great deal more hospitality and less show.
Everybody has the same dinner in London, and the same soup,
and the same saddle of mutton, boiled fowls and tongue,
entrées, champagne, and so forth. Who does not know those
made dishes with the universal sauce to each: fricandeau,
sweetbreads, damp dumpy cutlets, etc., seasoned with the
compound of grease, onions, bad port wine, cayenne pepper, and
curry-powder, the poor wiry Moselle and sparkling Burgundy in
the ice-coolers, and the old story of white and brown soup,
turbot, little smelts, boiled turkey, and saddle of mutton?...
What I would recommend with all my power is that dinners
should be more simple, more frequent, and should contain fewer
persons. Ten is the utmost number that a man of moderate means
should ever invite to his table; although in a great house
managed by a great establishment the case may be different.
A man and a woman may look as if they were glad to see ten
people; but in a great dinner they abdicate their position as
host and hostess,--are mere creatures in the hands of the sham
butlers, sham footmen, and tall confectioners' emissaries who
crowd the room,--and are guests at their own table, where they
are helped last, and of which they occupy the top and bottom."
Thackeray has written frequently on the pleasures of the table, and his
name may well figure in the annals of gastronomy as one of its shining
lights, if only for his delicious essays "Memorials of Gormandising"
and "On Some Dinners at Paris," to which in their entirety the reader
is referred.
Still later, Charles Dickens keenly satirises the existing pomp and
the lack of simplicity of the English table, notably among the higher
classes, where he finds so much Powder in waiting that it flavours the
repast, pulverous particles getting into the dishes, and Society's
meats having a seasoning of first-rate footmen--society having
everything it could want, and could not want, for dinner.
Perhaps in no connection with the art of which the "Original" treats is
the advice more practical than in the remarks on variety, with which
the reference to Walker may be terminated:
"Although I like, as a rule, to abstain from much variety at
the same meal, I think it both wholesome and agreeable to
vary the food on different days, both as to the materials and
mode of dressing them. The palate is better pleased and the
digestion more active, and the food, I believe, assimilates
in a greater degree with the system. The productions of the
different seasons and of different climates point out to us
unerringly that it is proper to vary our food; and one good
general rule I take to be, to select those things which are
most in season, and to abandon them as soon as they begin to
deteriorate in quality. Most people mistake the doctrine of
variety in their mode of living; they have great variety at
the same meals, and great sameness at different meals. These
agreeable varieties are never met with, or even thought of,
in the formal routine of society, though they contribute
much, when appropriately devised, to the enjoyment of a
party. With respect to variety of vegetables, I think the
same rule applies as to other dishes. I would not have many
sorts on the same occasion, but would study appropriateness
and particular excellence. One of the greatest luxuries, to
my mind, in dining is to be able to command plenty of good
vegetables, well served up. Excellent potatoes, smoking hot,
and accompanied by melted butter of the first quality, would
alone stamp merit on any dinner; but they are as rare on state
occasions, so served, as if they were of the cost of pearls."
It may be subjoined to the many pertinent observations respecting
the duties of the entertainer, that so far as it is within his power
he should consider his guests individually, weighing their personal
likes and dislikes to such extent as may comport with the general
welfare. The first thing he should recognise as his imperative duty
is to please. Yet while a surprise in the components of the dinner
is to be desired, the choice of dishes should nevertheless be made
with reference to the taste of the majority, in distinction to
one's own preference or the predilections of the few. With the stiff
and formal dinner, or with large dinner-parties, fine discrimination
is less practicable, these functions being necessarily a burden to
all concerned. _Les dîners fins se font en petits comités_; and,
equally, in informal gatherings. The deft hand and nice judgment
may be thoroughly manifested only among intimate friends, where the
personality of the master may guide and direct, free from the trammels
of conventionality. Then that false etiquette which prescribes that the
entertainer should never rise from the table may be waived; and where
he may enhance the pleasure of his friends by an impromptu visit to the
wine-cellar in pursuit of some special vintage that the moment calls
for, or carry out a happy thought that the occasion may create, it is
his bounden duty to perform for himself what others may not perform as
well, or perform not at all. With the absence of formality, the wit may
rise to the full height of his genius, the humorist may shine, and the
accomplished and graceful liar draw a treble measure of delight from
the font of a genial and exuberant fancy.
[Illustration: LA TABLE
Frontispiece of the Second Canto of "La Conversation" of the Abbé
Délille, 1822]