England can boast of a Spenser, Shakspeare, Milton, and many other
illustrious poets, clearly indicating that the national character of
Britons is not deficient in imagination; but we have not had one single
masculine inventive genius of the kitchen. It is the probable result
of our national antipathy to mysterious culinary compounds, that none
of the bright minds of England have ventured into the region of
scientific cookery. Even in the best houses, when I was a young man,
the dinners were wonderfully solid, hot and stimulating. The menu of a
grand dinner was thus composed:--Mulligatawny and turtle soups were the
first dishes placed before you; a little lower, the eye met with the
familiar salmon at one end of the table, and the turbot, surrounded by
smelts, at the other. The first course was sure to be followed by a
saddle of mutton or a piece of roast beef; and then you could take your
oath that fowls, tongue, and ham, would as assuredly succeed as
darkness after day.
Whilst these never ending pieces de resistance were occupying the
table, what were called French dishes were, for custom's sake, added to
the solid abundance. The French, or side dishes, consisted of very
mild but very abortive attempts at Continental cooking, and I have
always observed that they met with the neglect and contempt that they
merited. The universally adored and ever popular boiled potato,
produced at the very earliest period of the dinner, was eaten with
everything, up to the moment when sweets appeared. Our vegetables, the
best in the world, were never honoured by an accompanying sauce, and
generally came to the table cold. A prime difficulty to overcome was
the placing on your fork, and finally in your mouth, some half-dozen
different eatables which occupied your plate at the same time. For
example, your plate would contain, say, a slice of turkey, a piece of
stuffing, a sausage, pickles, a slice of tongue, cauliflower, and
potatoes. According to habit and custom, a judicious and careful
selection from this little bazaar of good things was to be made, with
an endeavour to place a portion of each in your mouth at the same
moment. In fact, it appeared to me that we used to do all our compound
cookery between our jaws. The dessert--generally ordered at Messrs.
Grange's, or at Owen's, in Bond Street--if for a dozen people, would
cost at least as many pounds. The wines were chiefly port, sherry, and
hock; claret, and even Burgundy, being then designated "poor, thin,
washy stuff." A perpetual thirst seemed to come over people, both men
and women, as soon as they had tasted their soup; as from that moment
everybody was taking wine with everybody else till the close of the
dinner; and such wine as produced that class of cordiality which
frequently wanders into stupefaction. How all this sort of eating and
drinking ended was obvious, from the prevalence of gout, and the
necessity of everyone making the pill-box their constant bedroom
companion.