essayist Abraham Hayward, a rearrangement of two articles he had
contributed to the "Quarterly Review" in 1835 and 1836.[42] By few
writers has the subject been treated so invitingly. There is no taint
of grossness throughout his review; and if it be true that next to
partaking of a good dinner is to read about one, we must thank him
for the enjoyment he has contributed. A distinguished scholar and
epicure, he had travelled widely, and was equally at home in the French
and English capitals. All the celebrated restaurants, chefs, and
maîtres-d'hôtel of Paris were familiar to him, while few have shown
themselves as conversant with the literature of his theme. He had,
moreover, an entrée into the most distinguished circles; and, last but
not least, possessed a marvellous memory to recall the people he had
met, and the dinners and festivities at which he had assisted--with the
bon-mots, repartees, and anecdotes that the popping of corks without
number had set free. As a raconteur, with an unlimited repertory of
incidents concerning the notables who were prominent in society,
politics, and gastronomy, he is said to have been unsurpassed.
His subject, he states, has been discussed with the object of
facilitating convivial enjoyment and promoting sociability; and
in these matters he will be found both a brilliant _causeur_ and
connoisseur. Passing by his anecdotal review of Parisian cookery, his
reference to the simple expedients by which the success of a dinner
may be insured will serve to show his resources, and his grasp of the
practical side of the topic:
"We have seen Painter's turtle prepare the way for a success
which was crowned by a lark pudding. We have seen a kidney
dumpling perform wonders; and a noble-looking shield of
Canterbury brawn from Groves's diffuse a sensation of
unmitigated delight. One of Morell's Montanches hams, or a
woodcock pie from Bavier's of Boulogne, would be a sure card;
but a home-made partridge pie would be more likely to come
upon your company by surprise, provided a beefsteak be put
over as well as under the birds, and the birds be placed with
their breasts downwards in the dish. Game or wild fowl is
never better than broiled; and a boiled shoulder of mutton,
or boiled duck or pheasant, might alone found a reputation.
A still more original notion was struck out by a party of
eminent connoisseurs who entertained the Right Hon. Sir Henry
Ellis at Fricœur's, just before he started on his Persian
embassy. They actually ordered a roasted turbot, and were
boasting loudly of the success of the invention when a friend
of ours had the curiosity to ask M. Fricœur in what manner
he set about the dressing of the fish. 'Why, sare, you no
tell; we no roast him at all; we put him in oven and bake
him.'"
Some there are who would seriously object to boiled mutton as opposed
to roast, and who assuredly would cry out in horror at a duck or
game-bird boiled. Yet boiled mutton with capers is orthodox--like
corned beef and cabbage, or the _Rindfleisch_ with horseradish sauce,
which blends so well with the Münchner where one meets it in the middle
of the day in Germany. A broiled teal, wood-duck, or butterball, by all
means; but a roast canvasback, redhead, or mallard in preference always.
"Marrowbones are always popular" [the author continues].
"So is a well-made devil or a broil. When a picture of the
Dutch school, representing a tradesman in a passion with his
wife for bringing up an underdone leg of mutton, was shown
to the late Lord Hertford, his lordship's first remark was,
'What a fool that fellow is not to see that he may have a
capital broil!' A genuine _hure de sanglier_, or wild boar's
head, would elevate the plainest dinner into dignity. The
comparative merits of pies and puddings present a problem
which it is no easy matter to decide. On the whole, we give
the preference to puddings, as affording more scope to the
inventive genius of the cook. A plum-pudding, for instance,
our national dish, is hardly ever boiled enough. A green
apricot tart is commonly considered the best tart that is
made: but a green apricot pudding is a much better thing. A
cherry dumpling is better than a cherry tart. A beefsteak
pudding, again, is better than the corresponding pie; but
oysters and mushrooms are essential to its success. A
mutton-chop pudding with oysters, but without mushrooms, is
excellent."
Never having tried the last-mentioned "remove," the writer is willing
to trust to its excellence, and to the general good taste of Hayward.
But one has his doubts sometimes, the proof of the pudding being in the
eating; and possibly a mutton-chop and oyster compound may be spoiling
two things intrinsically good in themselves, and the dish deserve to
be placed in the same category with a boiled pheasant or a wild fowl.
Moreover, what may taste or appear excellent in one place does not
always appear the same in another, this holding true with many things
besides dishes, which may be affected by the climate, the surroundings,
or one's mood at the time.
The topic of fish is particularly well treated by Hayward. On the
subject of game, he has this to say concerning a native marsh-bird of
the sandpiper tribe, highly prized for its eggs and flesh, which has
become even yet more rare with the draining of the English meres and
fens:
"Ruffs and reeves are little known to the public at large,
though honourable mention is made of them by Bewick. The
season for them is August and September. They are found in
fenny countries (those from Whittlesea Meer in Lincolnshire
are best), and must be taken alive and fattened on boiled
wheat or bread and milk mixed with hemp-seed, for about a
fortnight, taking good care never to put two males to feed
together, or they will fight _à l'outrance_. Prince Talleyrand
was extremely fond of ruffs and reeves, his regular allowance
during the season being two a day: they are dressed like
woodcocks. These birds are worth nothing in their wild state;
and the art of fattening them is traditionally said to have
been discovered by the monks in Yorkshire, where they are
still in high favour with the clerical profession, as a
current anecdote will show. At a grand dinner at Bishopthorpe
(in Archbishop Markham's time) a dish of ruffs and reeves
chanced to be placed immediately in front of a young divine
who had come up to be examined for priest's orders, and was
considerately (or, as it turned out, inconsiderately) asked
to dinner by his grace. Out of sheer modesty, the clerical
tyro confined himself exclusively to the dish before him, and
persevered in his indiscriminating attentions to it till one
of the resident dignitaries (all of whom were waiting only the
proper moment to participate) observed him, and called the
attention of the company by a loud exclamation of alarm. But
the warning came too late: the ruffs and reeves had vanished
to a bird, and with them, we are concerned to add, all the
candidate's hopes of Yorkshire preferment are said to have
vanished too.
"A similar anecdote is current touching wheatears, which, in
our opinion, are a greater delicacy. A Scotch officer was
dining with the late Lord George Lennox, then commandant at
Portsmouth, and was placed near a dish of wheatears, which was
rapidly disappearing under his repeated attacks. Lady Louisa
Lennox tried to divert his attention to another dish. 'Na, na,
my leddy,' was the reply, 'these wee birdies will do verra
weel.'"
In vivid contrast to the works of Walker and Hayward is a volume
entitled "Apician Morsels" (London, 1829), wherein the author, who
veils his identity under a facetious pseudonym, has unblushingly
garbled whole chapters from the old historians, the "Almanach," and
various writers, interspersed with coarse stories of gluttony. It is to
be deplored that La Reynière cannot arise from his final resting-place
to administer the castigation the author deserves. From him it is
refreshing to turn to the "Dipsychus" of Arthur Hugh Clough and read
his animated poem, "Le Dîner," with its resonant refrain which,
strangely, has been omitted from the later editions:
"Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes past,
And he who came first had to wait for the last.
The oysters ere this had been in and been out;
While I have been sitting and thinking about
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money!
"A clear soup with eggs; _voilà tout_; of the fish
The _filets de sole_ are a moderate dish
_A la Orly_, but you're for red mullet, you say.
By the gods of good fare, who can question to-day
How pleasant it is, etc.
"After oysters, Sauterne; then sherry; champagne;
Ere one bottle goes, comes another again;
Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above,
And tell to our ears in the sounds that we love
How pleasant it is, etc.
"I've the simplest of tastes; absurd it may be,
But I almost could dine on a _poulet au riz_,
Fish and soup and omelette, and that--but the deuce--
There were to be woodcocks, and not _charlotte russe_!
So pleasant it is, etc.
"Your Chablis is acid, away with the Hock,
Give me the pure juice of the purple Médoc;
St. Péray is exquisite; but, if you please,
Some Burgundy first, before tasting the cheese.
So pleasant it is, etc.
"As for that, pass the bottle, and hang the expense--
I've seen it observed by a writer of sense
That the labouring classes could scarce live a day
If people like us didn't eat, drink, and pay.
So useful it is, etc.
"One ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend,
Having dinner and supper and plenty to spend.
And so, suppose now, while the things go away,
By way of a grace we all stand up and say,
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money!"
To English guides, so far as the metropolis is concerned, should be
added Lieutenant-Colonel Newnham-Davis' recent volume--a veritable
Murray to the table of London.[43] In this gossipy and sprightly
manual one may dine by proxy in nearly all the leading restaurants
as well as in many of the more Bohemian resorts. The appointments
and surroundings of each are picturesquely set forth, with the exact
menu and price of each dinner, together with an occasional recipe
of some distinguished foreign master of the range, or a dish for
which a restaurant is especially renowned. And while one may marvel
at the writer's facile receptivity for an almost unvaried round of
vintage champagnes, and sympathise with him in the frequent iteration
of certain dishes, one must recognise, nevertheless, that if the
dinners he discussed as an official representative of the "Pall Mall
Gazette" could be duplicated by the average diner, London were not to
be despised as a stamping-ground for the accomplished gastronomer.
The author does not hesitate to criticise, though his exceptions are
usually in the nature of a sauce piquante, rather than a drastic
condiment; and it is evident in the majority of the feasts he passes
under review--now with a boon companion, and now with a pretty and
well-gowned _causeuse_--that the special resources of the chef and
maître-d'hôtel, who are duly introduced to the reader, have been
brought into Aladdin-like play for his special delectation. The
Benedict will doubtless envy him his _petits-dîners_ with so varied
a menu of charming women to stimulate his appetite and share his
champagne and _entremets de douceur_; the bachelor will recognise how a
prolonged series of such dinners with supplementary flowers, a _loge_
at the theatre, and a concluding supper swell the _addition_, and
render rising with the lark or any attention to business the following
morning utterly beyond the compass of mortal power. To assist in
a repast with Colonel Davis, however, is to be assured of dining
excellently in London, with pleasant company and a double assurance of
the truth of the aphorism, that one can never grow old at table.
Reference has already been made to numerous French minor writers
on gastronomy; among whom should not be omitted the name of the
eminent Dr. Réveillé-Parise, author of several works on hygiene,
whose dissertation on the oyster, presented with all the charm that a
brilliant style and profound erudition may impart, is unrivalled in the
language.[44]
Much has naturally been said, both by English and by French writers,
concerning the restaurant. The celebrated Dr. Véron, who was nearly
always accustomed to dine at a restaurant in preference to dining at
his own home, gave these as his reasons:
"In your own home the soup is on the table at a certain hour,
the roast is taken off the jack, the dessert is spread out
on the sideboard. Your servants, in order to get more time
over their meals, hurry you up; they do not serve you, they
gorge you. At the restaurant, on the contrary, they are
never in a hurry, they let you wait, and, besides, I always
tell the waiters not to mind me; that I like being kept a
long while--that is one of the reasons why I come here.
Another thing, at the restaurant the door is opened at every
moment and something happens. A friend, a chum, or a mere
acquaintance comes in; one chats and laughs; all this aids
digestion. A man ought not to make digestion a business apart.
He ought to dine and digest at the same time, and nothing
aids this dual function like good conversation. Perhaps the
servant of Madame de Maintenon, when the latter was still
Madame Scarron, was a greater philosopher than we suspect
when he whispered to his mistress, 'Madame, the roast has run
short; give them another story.'"
It was after a dinner in a Fifth Avenue restaurant, at which terrapin
and '89 Pol Roger, canvasback, and '78 Haut-Bailly figured, that while
smoking his Vuelta-Abajo--impressed with the excellence of the repast,
and smitten at the thought of his absent ones--the host observed to his
companions, "Heavens! how I wish I could afford to treat my family to a
dinner like this!" The stomach also has its conscience. But Thackeray
has covered precisely such a case in the essay, "On some Dinners at
Paris." "What is the use," he asks, "of having your children, who
live on roast mutton in the nursery, to sit down and take the best
three-fourths of a _perdreau truffé_ with you? What is the use of
helping your wife, who doesn't know the difference between sherry and
Madeira, to a glass of priceless Romanée or sweetly odoriferous Château
Lafite of '42?"
Besides his sonnets "Le Toast" and "Barrière du Maine," Charles
Monselet has written most entertainingly of the restaurant under the
title, "Les Cabinets Particuliers," a sketch which figured in "Le
Double Almanach Gourmand" of 1866, of which he was the editor for
several years. In this publication appeared Albert Glatigny's "Rue des
Poitevins," one of several poems with the restaurant as their theme,
the stanzas being not unworthy of the melodious lyre of "Les Vignes
Folles" and "Les Flèches d'Or":
"C'est le vieux restaurant où vont les écoliers
Qui n'ont point submergés les cols brisés encore.
Dans l'atmosphère chaude et franche on voit éclore,
Entre deux brocs de vin des refrains cavaliers.
"Les peintres, les rimeurs,--leurs soucis oubliés,--
Y vont rire le soir d'un bon rire sonore,
Et pour mon compte, moi dans mon for, je m'honore
D'avoir allègrement grimpé ses escaliers.
"Des escaliers du temps de la serrurerie,
Larges, la rampe en fer, ouvragés, bien dallés,
Donnant sur un cour propre à la rêverie.
"Maison Laveur! hier, c'était là qu'attablés
Devant la soupe aux choux, nous guettions, mon Lemoyne,
La petite servante aux rougeurs de pivoine."
The student of Glatigny, who must always admire the rhythm and melody
of his Muse, will also remember his quaint sonnet published in "Gilles
et Pasquins," entitled "Monselet devoured by the Lobsters." The
works of Henri Murger are replete with epulary sketches of the old
Latin Quarter of Paris, a district from which Victor Hugo has also
drawn. Théodore de Banville has likewise depicted many a picturesque
restaurant scene in his airy "Odes Funambulesques." The lyrists, too,
have not been unmindful of the poetry of the kitchen.
Many visitors to Paris will remember dining at Bignon's, and doubtless
will equally recall the figures of the _addition_. Of this restaurant,
whose carte was devoid of prices, it was said that a man who dined at
the corner table for a period of years became a cosmopolite--in every
capital of Europe he would be recognised and fêted; for that matter, he
did not need to rise from his chair, as all Europe would pass in review
before him.
A provincial dining there in April, on perceiving melons on the card,
ordered one. "What!" he exclaimed, after examining his bill, "thirty
francs for a melon! You are joking!"
"Monsieur," replied Bignon, "if you can find me three or four at the
same price, I will buy them immediately."
"Fifteen francs for a peach?" inquired Prince Narischkin; "they must be
very scarce."
"It isn't the peaches that are scarce, _mon prince_; it is the
Narischkins."
"Monsieur Bignon, a red herring at two and a half francs! It seems to
me that is excessive."
"But these prices are marked in your interest," rejoined the
restaurateur. "It is the barrier I have established between my clients
and the vulgar. Why do you come here? To be among yourselves, to avoid
embarrassing or compromising surroundings. If I changed my prices, the
house would be invaded, and you would all leave."
Another patron who complained of a sauce was asked, "Did you dine here
last evening?"
"No," he replied.
"That is the trouble, then; you spoiled your taste in the other
restaurant."
Still another guest objected to the charges on his bill, comparing it
with an identical breakfast of a few days previous which amounted
to eighteen and a half francs, whereas the breakfast in question was
charged twenty-one francs, eighty centimes.
"I will investigate the mistake," said Bignon, who, with the two bills,
proceeded to the desk, returning shortly afterwards.
"It is very true, Monsieur, that a mistake was made in your favour last
Monday; but I make no claim for restitution!"
Do the anecdotes and cook-books and treatises on eating and drinking
savour of gluttony to some who eat only to live, and who are lacking
in the finesse of Good Cheer? Let all such consult a volume written by
one of the gentler sex, and hearken to her admirable definition of the
Tenth Muse:
"Gluttony is ranked with the deadly sins; it should be
honoured among the cardinal virtues. To-day women, as a rule,
think all too little of the joys of eating; they hold lightly
the treasures that should prove invaluable. They refrain
to recognise that there is no less art in eating well than
in painting well or writing well. For the _gourmande_, or
glutton, duty and amusement go hand in hand. Mind and body
alike are satisfied. The good of a pleasantly planned dinner
outbalances the evil of daily trials and tribulations. By
artistic gluttony, beauty is increased, if not actually
created. Rejoice in the knowledge that gluttony is the best
cosmetic. Gross are they who see in eating and drinking nought
but grossness. Gluttony is a vice only when it leads to
stupid, inartistic excess."[45]
[Illustration]
OF SAUCES
"Je la redoute, cette sauce. Avec elle on mangerait toujours.
La lecture seule de sa recette donne faim."
BARON BRISSE: La Petite Cuisine.
The supreme triumph of the French cuisine consists in its sauces; for
nothing can so vary the routine of daily cookery as the different
combinations of herbs and seasonings that may be utilised by a
competent artist as an adjunct and a finish to a dish. King's "Art of
Cookery" has admirably versified the mission of the sauce:
"The spirit of each dish and zest of all
Is what ingenious cooks the Relish call;
For though the market sends in loads of food,
They all are tasteless till that makes them good."
[Illustration: A SUPPER IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
From the engraving after Masquelier]
As without flattery there were no society, so without sauces there
were no gastronomy. Properly prepared, with a thorough understanding
of the hygienic nature of flavourings and their harmony with reference
to the special viands they are to enhance, a finely composed sauce is
a digestive as well as a stimulus to the organs of taste. No better
illustration of the qualities of a perfect sauce occurs in the annals
of the art than that of Baron Brisse, which refers to sauce béarnaise,
and La Reynière's comment on anchovy sauce,--"_Lorsque cette sauce est
bien traitée, elle ferait manger un éléphant_. This is La Reynière's
recipe, including its proper belongings, as given in the sixth year of
the "Almanach":
"The anchovy figures as a stimulant and aperient in a great
number of sauces, whose presence imparts to them their
principal virtues. Such are the sauces _à l'Allemande_, _à
l'anchois_, _aux câpres_, etc.; we shall confine ourselves
to the recipe of that which bears its name. Anchovy sauce is
prepared by first carefully washing the anchovies in vinegar;
the bones are then removed, the fish finely minced and placed
in a stewpan with a clear _coulis_[46] of veal and ham,
pepper, salt, nutmeg, and fine spices; after heating reduce to
the proper consistence and give it the finishing touch. This
sauce serves for the roast. The anchovy plays the principal
rôle in the sauce served with roast sirloin of beef and hare
_à la broche_. It is made with their juices and a little
bouillon, anchovies coarsely chopped, capers, fine herbs,
tarragon, pepper, salt, and vinegar. With this sauce well
prepared, one might eat an elephant.
"Anchovy sauce is also employed in several sorts of gravies,
and one may say that it is not misplaced in any piquante
sauce: for it is in itself an excellent _épigramme_.
It follows from these remarks that the anchovy is an
indispensable adjunct to good cheer. Its body figures
admirably for the déjeuner and with the hors-d'œuvres, and
its spirit makes itself distinctly felt in all sauces that it
permeates. It imparts to them a savour which stimulates the
appetite and agreeably captivates the palate."
In the middle ages the office of the _saucier_, or master sauce-maker,
was invested with great importance. A chief functionary in all grand
houses, under him were clerks, varlets, and youths termed _galopins de
saucerie_, who stood ever ready to do his bidding. Old woodcuts depict
him presiding over his receptacles--as imposing in his dignity as the
master-carver himself. Even then the adage held good that the sauce was
often worth more than the fish.
Indeed, the sauce is the sonnet of the table, as varied in its forms
as the structure of the sonnet itself. The Gaul is its master, and to
him belongs the majority of its most pleasing tenses. In the words of
the distinguished Marquis de Cussy, who maintained that a good cook
can remove your gout as you would remove your gloves,--"_Point de
sauce, point de salut, point de cuisine_; where would we be if the
grand sauces, the lesser ones, and the special ones that have rendered
the French school illustrious had not been discovered by men of the
greatest genius? The life labours of one alone would not have sufficed.
What a brilliant ladder to scale, that which, leaving the last
round--the sauce pauvre homme--is lost in the clouds with the velouté,
the grande and petite espagnole, and the réductions!"[47]