are all credited to great minds of the eighteenth century, so prolific
of new culinary discoveries. Through their piquant instrumentality
we may in imagination summon the splendours of the Regency and the
reign of Louis, surnamed "le Bien-Aimé," with the brilliant toilets of
its gay and pretty women--the high-heeled pointed shoe, the powdered
hair, the rouge and beauty-spot, the painted fan and walking-stick of
_fille_, duchesse, and marquise that still look at us from the canvases
of Boucher and Watteau. We may see, too, the V-shaped satin corsage,
the expansive pannier, the diaphanous _robe déshabillée_,--flounced,
frilled, flowered, and furbelowed,--the embroidered petticoat and surge
of lace and ribband, as fair dame and plumed gallant repair to the
suppers of the Palais-Royal and the Parc aux Cerfs, or sit down amid
umbrageous glades to the revels of a _fête champêtre_.
Almost as many varieties of sauces exist as of soups. But these may
vary little or largely from their usually accepted names. The cook
will tell you, if you are unacquainted with the fact yourself, that
by adding to simple melted butter a liberal amount of finely chopped
parsley (some ruin the relish with grated nutmeg, a spice which should
be used with great discretion), salt and pepper, and a dash of lemon,
you have what is termed a maître-d'hôtel sauce. Add to this finely
minced garden-cress, chervil, and a little tarragon and burnet, and
you produce a different sauce under the same name. Thus plain onion
sauce and sauce Soubise, in each of which the onion forms the dominant
chord, may differ equally, and sauce piquante and sauce Robert vary
only in their titles and the additional mustard called for by the
latter. Sauce poivrade, in like manner, is a sauce piquante with an
increased supply of pepper and without the pickled cucumber.
Among the most valuable of all sauces, though employed only cold and
served with cold viands, is that which at once suggests what Jules
Janin in an inadvertent moment termed the "cardinal of the seas," and
that at a luncheon or a late supper possesses a merit distinctively
its own. This Carême has dealt with at length in his treatise on cold
sauces. The origin of the word "mayonnaise," a blending supposed to
be the invention of the Maréchal de Richelieu, has always remained in
doubt. Its etymology has been attributed to Mahon, a town of southern
France. Yet this supposed derivation is extremely dubious; and as
it was also known as "bayonnaise," it might be ascribed equally to
Bayonne, famous for its hams, its cheese, and its chocolate, and for
having invented the bayonet.[48]
It has been variously termed mahonaise, bayonnaise, mahonnoise,
magnonaise, and mayonnaise. But Carême, after minutely describing its
preparation, from the first drop of oil to its final silky, white, and
unctuous cream, denies its accepted derivation, and pronounces it
_magnonaise_, from the verb _manier_--to stir; as it may be prepared
only through the continual stirring it undergoes, which results in
a marrowy, velvety, and very appetising sauce, unique of its kind,
and bearing no resemblance to others that are obtained only through
reductions of the range. Despite this ingenious explanation, the word
is still written "mayonnaise"; and while lights shine brilliantly, and
champagne sparkles, and the great crawfish, sublimated into salad,
receives the encomiums of appreciative guests, the famous chef of the
Empire is forgotten, and the chapter of the "Cuisinier Parisien" exists
only as a tale that is told.
It may be observed that a good sauce should be perfect in flavour,
colour, smell, and consistency. It should be savoury, flowing, and
well defined. On the proper _liaison_, a correct apportionment of the
flavourings, a knowledge of the range, and a discriminating palate,
supplemented by long experience, depends its triumph. Of course the
_bain-marie_ will be readily accessible when the sauce is obliged to
wait, the butter will be unexceptionable, and the shallot especially
will never be lacking when its virtues are in request. As has been
previously stated in the case of numerous other culinary preparations,
success depends more upon the practitioner than the formula. It is as
difficult, therefore, to describe the subtle chiaroscuro of a perfect
sauce as to define the hues that mantle the petals of the rose "Beauté
Inconstante," or the combined odours hived by a windless night of June.
Comparatively few sauces may suffice for the modest household to
supplement the espagnole, or brown sauce, and the velouté, or white
sauce, the foundations from which most others are compounded. These two
rudimentary sauces, to be well made, should not be greasy, but contain
just enough fat, according to the authorities, to present the velvety
appearance of a full-blown damask rose. Carême devotes twenty-five
pages to these "mother sauces" and their two slight modifications,
béchamel and allemande; while Francatelli points out that although
great care and watchful attention are requisite in every branch of
cookery, the exercise of these qualities is most essential in the
preparation of the grand stock sauces. In the home kitchen these are
naturally prepared in an infinitely more simple manner than according
to the elaborate recipes of the great professors of the table.
The mistress of the household who would render herself trebly
appreciated, and who by ministering to man's palate may the more
readily guide, direct, and control his character, should train herself
unerringly in the art of compounding appetising and wholesome sauces.
To be sure, some of these manipulated by competent masculine hands--but
how often slurred by some fatigued or indifferent _sous-chef_!--may be
obtained at one's club or the better-class restaurants. But here in
many instances the wine-cellar is apt to be uncertain; while frequent
dining out is not to be compared with the sense of comfort of dining
at home when the kitchen, even though unpretentious, is carefully
administered, the menu varied, the wines perfect of their kind, and
where Her Gracious Serenity's address may have conjured some dainty
entrée whose sauce, sapid and velvety, leaves nothing to be desired.
One might tire of this, perchance, with no change for a sixmonth, as
one might weary of constant sunshine or a too lavish profusion of
tender epithets. Yet it is a desirable condition, nevertheless, to fall
back upon; and in the end far the safest for digestion.
And this despite Balzac, who well understood the cuisine no less than
the "Comédie Humaine,"--that "marriage must necessarily combat a
monster who devours everything--daily routine"; or his other definition
in the "Physiology of Marriage," a physiological study that was
inspired by Savarin's "Physiology of Taste,"--"_Pressurez le mariage,
il n'en sortira jamais rien que du plaisir pour les garçons et de
l'ennui pour les maris._"
The wise woman will have many side-lights in her composition; and in
the kitchen her sauces will have many shadings.
Let us toast her in a glass of sparkling St. Péray, and acknowledge
that without her there were no home cuisine and consequently no home
life. So closely does the art advocated by the late lamented Mrs.
Glasse touch upon the fundamental happiness of mankind; and sauces
which render it an art supreme still further accentuate the amenities.
It has been said that it is not obligatory for lovely arms and
shoulders to be acquainted with rhetoric. However this may obtain--and
there are admirers both of shapely shoulders and of the graces of
languages, there can be no doubt that charming women who possess a
taste for gastronomy which they can put to practical use upon occasion,
are an infinitely greater desideratum than whose energies may be
centred strictly upon flounces or the study of metaphysics.
With the following sauces, besides the simpler forms of espagnole
and velouté, much may be accomplished at home: cream béchamel, sauce
piquante, sauce bordelaise, maître-d'hôtel and béarnaise, hollandaise,
sauce an vin blanc, sauce au beurre noir (plain, or with shallots and
parsley added), tomato sauce and its special form _à la Richelieu_,
and, finally, Francatelli's sauce Number 65 for mutton and dark-fleshed
game.[49] If, apart from those enumerated, madame be an artist in the
fashioning of sauce tartare, the mayonnaise and its shadings, and a
plain French salad dressing, all will be lovely sailing. What's sauce
for the goose, however, is not necessarily sauce for the gander, and
_vice versa_. Women will prefer the cream béchamel, mayonnaise, and
Francatelli, and the sterner sex will like them all.
It may not prove entirely without profit if to these be added sauce
_à la Schönberg_, which harmonises not only with halibut, flounder,
sea-bass, and sole, but with chicken-breasts and white-fleshed
game-birds as well, when one desires a change from the usual modes of
preparation:
"_Sauce à la Schönberg._ Make a roux of a tablespoon of butter
and flour, brown slightly, add two shallots finely minced, and
a pint of chicken broth, three tablespoons of tomato sauce,
a small bay-leaf, two cloves, some finely minced parsley, a
teaspoon of cognac, and a little white wine. Season with salt
and pepper, and strain. Then add a half can of mushrooms,
slice and brown them in a little butter with a few dice of
sweetbreads previously cooked, and, just before removing from
the range, the yolk of an egg and a half cup of cream."
The professional chef may possibly criticise it,--mesdames the
"'Compleat' Housewives" will discover in it a fragrant note of
satisfaction.
Will new sauces continue to be invented? Assuredly; of culinary as
well as other novelties there will always be an abundant supply,
however bizarre or lacking in excellence compared with the old. But
in new dishes it will be new combinations for the most part, varying
but little from the classics and those already known, rather than any
distinctly novel forms of superior merit, such as have been recently
evolved in floriculture, for instance. For the art of cookery is of
ancient time, while the evolution of the flower, especially the floral
queen, the rose, is comparatively new; and where the one has still
untold possibilities, the other has well-nigh attained its full tide
of savour and perfection, at least in theory and understanding, if not
nearly so often in practice as were to be desired.
An extended disquisition, redolent of truffles and odorous of the
herb-garden, might be devoted to the subject of sauces, of which
Charles Ranhofer in his recent manual, "The Epicurean," presents two
hundred and forty-six. But this were invading the practical domain of
the cookery books, and wandering too far from the lines of the subject
under consideration--the history and province of Gastronomy.
[Illustration]
THE SPOILS OF THE COVER
"It is difficult to imagine a happier conjunction than the
blending of the symbols when the arms of a sportsman are
quartered with those of a cook. The tints of the autumnal
woods reflected in the plumage of mature and lusty game are
types of rich experiences and genial sentiments which flit
about the sportsman's board and linger at his hearth with
as gracious a fitness as that which diffuses a faint blush
through the russet of a well-cooked mallard's breast, and with
a zest equal to the relish which lurks within a woodcock's
thigh."--JOHN ALDERGROVE.
How that beechwood on a distant hillside, its tall trees despoiled
of their foliage, and its skirts lighted with the clinging gold of
the saplings, stands out against a hoar November sky and the tablets
of memory, as one recollects an accommodating covey of grouse, a
successful "right and left," and the hoarse clamour of the crows whose
conclave was disturbed by the salvo of the barrels!
Of the wealth of aliments bestowed upon man by a bountiful
Providence for his sustenance and delectation, none lends a greater
grace or ministers more to the variety of the table than game. The
offspring of wild nature, nursed upon its fruits, its mast, and
its vegetation, and exhaling the very essence of its most secluded
recesses, it sheds an added lustre even upon the most elaborate repast.
Its comparative rarity, together with that quality which may be best
defined as distinction, invests it with a heightened charm; while to
the sportsman it is indelibly associated with scenes the recollection
of which causes the pulse to throb with a renewed joy in the sense of
living. Its pursuit naturally leads to an abiding love for nature; so
that the bird in the thicket, the wild fowl in the marsh, and the hare
in the covert become to the votary of sport more than mere adjuncts of
gustatory delight. Who shall ever forget the first game-bird he has
killed, or the first "pound trout" he has captured with the fly?--the
souvenir comes like a burst of autumnal radiance, or the redolence
of vernal flowers. To what enchantments is not game the open-sesame;
and what halcyon visions does it not enshrine! It is the emblem of
plenteousness, the symbol of maturity. The gilded woods and ripened
fruits, the teeming fields and garnered sheaves, the purple haze and
mellow afterglow, the harvest moon and the elixir of the frost--all the
largesse of the year is typified in the least of the wild life that is
included in the term "game."
[Illustration: THE SPANISH POINTER
From the engraving by Woollett, after the painting by Stubbs, 1768]
These woodcock, for instance, do they not at once bring to mind the
beauties of their native haunts?--the devious alder tangle and jungle
of wild grape where the dragon-fly flits above the murmurous stream,
and the cardinal-flower reflects itself within the glassy pool. This
ruffed grouse, in turn, how he recalls the pageant of the upland! Once
more you scent the breath of the wildwood and drink the exhilarating
draught of October. Again are you thrilled by the roar of strong
pinions as the quarry rises in his strength, to fall beneath the leaden
charge and fold his wings in everlasting sleep. Or, with the advent
upon the board of that much-in-little, the snipe, the lonely marsh with
its whispering flags and shifting cloud-shadow extends in imagination
before you--where the killdeer calls, and the bittern booms, and the
bird of mottled breast twists away with raucous cry to be lost in the
grey horizon's marge.
Thus game to the sportsman embodies an æsthetic attribute unknown to
the majority, the very associations of sport in themselves conferring
the keenest appreciation of the true instincts of gastronomy. The range
and the breech-loader are closely allied, and the field and the table
become merged in ties of mutual affinity. Nor may we overlook the great
worth of game in the sick-room, and as a ministering agent for the
invalid and convalescent. It possesses, in addition, a virtue equalled
by scarcely any other form of food, in calling forth the bouquet and
flavour of wine--whether it be a white wine with the denizens of
fresh and salt water that figure as game-fish, or a grand growth of
Bordeaux or Burgundy that is appropriately served with the furred and
feathered tenants of Sylva's court. Then if one has killed it himself,
or a friend whose skill has checked its flight has been the means of
contributing its graces, its quintessence becomes all the more adorable.
Combining so many advantages, it is to be deplored that the
preservation of game in this country is not more carefully guarded, and
that the scarcity of many species is becoming more and more apparent.
The practice of spring shooting of snipe, duck, and shore-birds, when
on their migrations to their northern nesting-grounds, cannot be too
severely censured; while the laxity in enforcing the laws and the
dissimilarity of close seasons in different counties operates still
further to cause the depletion of wild life. The pot-hunter and the
spaniel, the trap and the gin, are gradually exterminating the ruffed
grouse; the olden flocks of plover and wild pigeon have well-nigh
vanished; while snipe, woodcock, quail, and duck are now as rare in
many localities where they formerly abounded as the trout which once
swarmed in the streams. Deer and its congeners, it is true, have
received better protection of recent years, the increasing numbers
of deer at least attesting the wisdom of stringent laws stringently
enforced. It will therefore be readily evident that preservation
and protection become a question of paramount importance which may
no longer be loosely considered, or soon the last grouse will have
sounded his reveille, and the whistle of the woodcock will remain
only as a memory. The remedy is easily prescribed, and may be briefly
summarised--legitimate shooting and fishing, rigid enforcement of the
laws with heavy penalties for the offender, a single close season for
the smaller species that are found in proximity, abolishment of spring
shooting, and a rigorous surveillance of the covers. By this means the
table may possess one of its greatest luxuries in abundance, and sport
resume its former sphere as the greatest of recuperative and edifying
recreations.
In its relation to the table, the term "game" is held to include wild
fowl as well as most furred and feathered spoils of the chase. Or,
defined more accurately in its connection with gastronomy, it embraces
everything belonging to the province of sport that is edible. Correctly
speaking, no species of wild fowl, or species like the plover, rail,
pigeon, etc., may be accounted game, the quality of which consists in
the subtle presence of scent, instinctively recognised and followed by
thoroughbred dogs,--a trait expressed by Hollar's lines,
"The Feasant Cocke the woods doth most frequent,
Where Spaniells spring and pearche him by the sent."
Yet species foreign to the blue blood of flax and feather may,
nevertheless, afford sport, and prove acquisitions for the table. The
little spotted sandpiper, accordingly, whose musical _peet, weet,
weet_ rings along the brooksides and moist meadow-lands, and even the
squirrel if killed in cold weather, are entitled to rank as table-game,
providing they be properly prepared.
It should not be supposed, however, that all individuals of a given
species taste alike, flavour being the result of two important
conditions. Neither should it be presumed that a game-bird, usually
referred to as masculine, is preferable for the larder in that gender;
the truth being that for culinary purposes the hen is generally
preferable to the cock. Every sportsman will recall the difference
in the taste of certain game-birds, more especially snipe and
woodcock--depending upon the nature of their feeding-grounds, and
upon the season. Like celery, moreover, most game requires a touch
of the cold to develop its qualities. The snipe that bores in sweet,
moist pastures, and the woodcock shot on high grounds during late
autumn, would hardly be recognised as the same birds bagged under
widely dissimilar conditions. The bobolink of our summer fields is
scarcely prized until as a migrant he has fattened on the rice-fields
of the South, to acquire an added bloom under the name of reed-bird
or rice-bunting. Similarly, the sheep of Pré-Salé, the succulent
salt-marsh mutton of the Brittany coasts, renowned for its delicious
flavour, owe this quality largely to the herb absinthe which grows amid
the herbage on which they browse. The mutton of sheep fed on pastures
where thyme abounds also acquires a particularly fine savour. In like
manner, when the ruffed grouse through stress of weather has been
compelled to feed on birch-buds, or when he has dined on the berries
and foliage of the wintergreen, his aroma is strikingly accentuated,
becoming a veritable "steam of rich-distilled perfumes."
The wild duck is an apposite example of the effect of food upon
flavour; and even a pheasant _à la Sainte Alliance_ must pale before a
celery-fed canvasback or redhead bathed in its own carmine juices. The
redhead, who dives down for the roots of the _Vallisneria_ which the
lazier canvasback purloins, is identical in quality with the latter
when shot on the same feeding-grounds; the only difference between
the two when cooked consisting in the larger size of the canvasback.
Equally, the blackbird and starling, when killed on the shocked
corn-fields where the hazy sunlight broods, or in autumn woods where
they are garrulously discussing the date of their approaching flight
and marvelling at the exquisite gradations of the maples' changing
hues, become possessed of a tenderness and succulence unknown to the
glare and greenness of summer.
Another much esteemed native table-bird is the sora, crake, or Carolina
rail, who should not be confounded with the British and European
corn-crake or land-rail whom Michael Drayton refers to as "seldom
coming but on rich man's spits," and Gilbert White represents as crying
_crex! crex!_ from the low, wet bean-fields of Christian Malford and
the meadows near Paradise Gardens at Oxford. The sora throngs the
marshes of the Atlantic coast in early autumn, congregating in the
greatest quantities south of the Rappahannock, where he is slaughtered
by wholesale with comparatively little diminution of his ranks. He
is a small dark-fleshed bird of great delicacy when broiled, and by
many is prized more highly than the toothsome reed-bird or the golden
plover. Though resembling the corn-crake in many ways, his nearest
relative abroad is the spotted crake. The great-breasted or king-rail
of the fresh-water marshes is likewise much esteemed. In flavour the
sora is not unlike the wild duck; or, if the comparison may be made,
a cross between the qualities of a teal and a snipe--deriving his
special richness from the seeds of _Zizania aquatica_, or tall, wild
reed of the tidewater shores. The juicy little bobolink whose rippling
_scherzo_, flung over the fallows and buttercups of June, is basely
forgotten by the epicure in the fall, may be crunched in a mouthful;
the sora is thrice his size, and, though seldom as fat, is richer in
the quality of his ruddy flesh.
It were a parlous task to attempt to describe from memory the
respective merits of the reed-bird, the famed European ortolan, and the
English wheatear, fieldfare, and mistletoe-thrush. One stands helpless
under such a contretemps, and must necessarily await the advent and the
edict of another La Reynière. The fig-pecker of southern Europe is more
easily passed upon, and readily ranks first among small table-birds.
The tall yellowshank or stone-snipe, with his slim gilded stilts
and snow-white breast, familiar to the gunner as a migrant and a
frequent companion of the upland-plover, would be esteemed by the
sportsman-epicure if only for the recollection of his splendid spread
of wing, his graceful circlings, his loud whistling notes, and his
lovely silvery plumage.
Although considered less desirable than the snipe and woodcock, the
upland- or grass-plover--in reality a sandpiper--should by no means be
overlooked. One intuitively thanks him for the scenes he graciously
leads to--the placid September day steeped in sunshine, the tender
green of sprouting wheat-fields, the pageant of asters, and the billowy
roll of mushroom-studded pastures. One hears anew his weird, plaintive
cry in the arc overhead--like the bleat of distant folds--audible long
ere the grey forms are discernible, as the sportsman imitates their
notes, and the wavering flock, with a flutter of white wings, drops
down to the sward below. Besides the salad which should accompany all
species of game, the upland-plover, therefore, should be garnished with
his accessory, the field-mushroom, whose snowy pileus and pink gills
his dainty tread is constantly brushing, but never ruffling, amid the
old pastures, stump-lots, and sheep-walks he frequents.
But the graceful Bartramian sandpiper has other aliases than those
of upland-, field-, and grass-plover. Besides his common appellation
of "tattler," he is known in Louisiana as the "pepperpot," and more
generally as the "papabotte"--a local name, from the Creole French,
significant of all that is most prized in edible game. "Arriving from
the vast prairies of Mexico and Texas, where they spend the winter,"
says Audubon, "the dry upland plains of Louisiana called Opellousas and
Attacapas are amply peopled with this species in early spring as well
as in autumn. About New Orleans they appear in great bands in spring,
and are met with on the open plains and large grassy savannahs."