The oyster is offered first. What can equal the American oyster in all
his salt-sea freshness, raw, on the half-shell, a perpetual stimulant
to appetite,--with a slice of lemon, and a bit of salt and pepper,
added to his own luscious juices, his perfect flavor? The jaded
palate, worn with much abuse, revives, and stands, like Oliver, asking
for more.
The soup follows. To this great subject we might devote a chapter.
What visions of white and brown, clear and thick, fresh beef stock or
the maritime delicacies of cray fish and prawn rise before us,--in
every colour, from pink or cream to the heavy Venetian red of the
mulligatawny or the deep smoke-tints of mock turtle and terrapin! The
subject grows too large for mere mention; we must give a chapter to
soup.
When we speak of fish we realize that the ocean even is inadequate to
hold them all. Have we not trout, salmon, the great fellows from the
Great Lakes, and the exclusive ownership of the Spanish mackerel? Have
we not the fee simple of terrapin and the exclusive excellence of
shad? This subject, again, requires a volume.
The roast! Ah! here we once bowed to our great Mother England, and
thought her roast beef better than ours. There are others who think
that we have caught up on the roasts. Our beef is very good, our
mutton does not equal always the English Southdowns; but we are even
improving in the blacknosed woolly brethren who conceal such delicious
juices under their warm coats.
A roast saddle of mutton with currant jelly--but let us not linger
over this thrilling theme. Our venison is the best in the world.
As for turkeys,--_we discovered them_, and it is fair to say that,
after looking the world over, there is no better bird than a Rhode
Island Turkey, particularly if it is sent to you as a present from a
friend. Hang him a week, with a truffle in him, and stuff him with
chestnuts.
As for chickens--there France has us at a disadvantage. There seems to
be a secret of fowl-feeding, or rearing, in France which we have not
mastered. Still we can get good chickens in America, and noble capons,
but they are very expensive.
The _entrées_--here we must go again to those early missionaries to a
savage shore, the Delmonicos. They were the high priests of the
_entrée_.
The salads--those daughters of luxury, those delicate expressions, in
food, of the art of dress--deserve a separate chapter.
And now the _sorbet_ cools our throats and leads us up to the game.
The American desserts are particularly rich and profuse. Our pies have
been laughed at, but they also are fit to eat, especially mince-pie,
which is first cousin to an English plum-pudding.
Our puddings are like our Western scenery, heavy but magnificent. Our
ices have reached, under our foreign imported artists, the greatest
perfection. Our fruit is abundant and highly flavoured. We have not
yet perhaps known how to draw the line as to desserts. The great _too
much_ prevails.
Do we not make our dinners too long and too heavy? How great an artist
would he be who should so graduate a dinner that there would be no
to-morrow in it! We eat more like Heliogabalus than like that
_gourmet_ who took the _beccafico_ out of the olive which had been
hidden in the pigeon, which had in its turn been warmed in the
chicken, which was cooked in the ox, which was roasted whole for the
birthday of a king. The _gourmet_ discarded the rest, but ate the
_beccafico_.
The first duty of a guest who is asked to one of these dinners is to
be punctual. Who wishes to sit next to Mr. Many-Courses, when he has
been kept waiting for his dinner? Imagine the feelings of an amiable
host and hostess who, after taking the trouble to get up an excellent
dinner, feel that it is being spoiled by the tardiness of one guest!
They are nervously watching Mr. Many-Courses, for hungry animals are
frequently snappish, and sometimes dangerous.
The hostess who knows how to invite her guests and to seat them
afterwards is a power in the State. She helps to refine, elevate, and
purify our great American conglomerate. She has not the Englishman's
Bible, "The Peerage," to help her seat her guests; she must trust to
her own intelligence to do that. Our great American conglomerate
repels all idea of rank, or the precedence idea, which is so well
understood in England.
Hereditary distinction we have not, for although there are some
families which can claim a grandfather, they are few. A grandfather is
of little importance to the men who make themselves. Aristocracy in
America is one of talent or money.
Even those more choice intelligences, which in older countries are put
on glass pedestals, are not so elevated here as to excite jealousy. We
all adore the good diner-out, but somebody would be jealous if he had
always the best seat. Therefore the hostess has to contend with much
that is puzzling in the seating of her guests; but if she says to
herself, "I will place those people near each other who are
sympathetic," she will govern her festive board with the intelligence
of Elizabeth, and the generosity of Queen Margharita.
She must avoid too many highly scented flowers. People are sometimes
weary of the "rapture of roses." Horace says: "Avoid, at an agreeable
entertainment, discordant music, and muddy perfume, and poppies mixed
with Sardinian honey; they give offence." Which is only another way of
saying that some music may be too heavy, and the perfume of flowers
too strong.
Remember, young hostess, or old hostess, that your dinner is to be
made up of people who have to sit two hours chatting with each other,
and that this is of itself a severe ordeal of patience.
Good breeding is said to be the apotheosis of self-restraint, and so
is good feeding. Good breeding puts nature under restraint, controls
the temper, and refines the speech. Good feeding, unless it is as well
governed as it should be, inflames the nose and the temper, and
enlarges the girth most unbecomingly. Good breeding is the guardian
angel of a woman. Good feeding, that is, conscientious dining, must be
the patron saint of a man! A truly well bred and well fed man is quiet
in dress, does not talk slang, is not prosy, is never unbecomingly
silent, nor is he too garrulous. He is always respectful to everybody,
kind to the weak, helpful to the feeble. He may not be an especially
lofty character, but good feeding inducts him into the character and
duties of a gentleman. He simulates a virtue if he has it not,
especially after dinner. _Noblesse oblige_ is his motto, and he feels
what is due to himself.
Can we be a thorough-bred, or a thorough-fed, all by ourselves? It is
easy enough to learn when and where to leave a card, how to behave at
a dinner, how to use a fork, how to receive and how to drop an
acquaintance; but what a varied education is that which leads up to
good feeding, to becoming a conscientious diner. It is not given to
every one, this lofty grace.
A dinner should be a good basis for a mutual understanding. They say
that few great enterprises have been conducted without it. People are
sure to like each other much better after dining together. It is
better to go home from a dinner remembering how clever everybody was,
than to go home merely to wonder at the opulence that could compass
such a pageant.
A dinner should put every one into his best talking condition. The
quips and quirks of excited fancy should come gracefully, for society
well arranged brings about the attrition of wits. If one is
comfortable and well-fed--not gorged--he is in his best condition.
The more civilized the world gets, the more difficult it is to amuse
it. It is the common complaint of the children of luxury that dinners
are dull and society stupid. How can the reformer make society more
amusing and less dangerous? Eliminate scandal and back-biting.
The danger and trials and difficulties of dinner-giving are manifold.
First, whom shall we ask? Will they come? It is often the fate of the
hostess, in the busy season, to invite forty people before she gets
twelve. Having got the twelve, she then has perhaps a few days before
the dinner to receive the unwelcome news that Jones has a cold, Mrs.
Brown has lost a relative, and Miss Malcontent has gone to Washington.
The dinner has to be reconstructed; deprived of its original intention
it becomes a balloon which has lost ballast. It goes drifting about,
and there is no health in it and no purpose. This is especially true
also of those dinners which are conducted on debt-paying principles.
How many hard-worked, rich men in America are bored to death by the
gilded and over-burdened splendour of their wives' dinners and those
to which they are to go. They sit looking at their hands during two or
three courses, poor dyspeptics who cannot eat. To relieve them, to
bring them into communion with their next neighbour, with whom they
have nothing in common, what shall one do? Oh, that depressing cloud
which settles over the jaded senses of even the conscientious diner,
as he fails to make his neighbour on either side say anything but yes
or no!
We must, perhaps, before we give the perfect dinner, renounce the idea
that dinner should be on a commercial basis. Of course our social
debts must be paid. It is a large subject, like the lighting of a
city, the cleaning of the streets, and must be approached carefully,
so that the lesser evil may not swamp the greater good. Do not invite
twelve people to bore them.
The dinner hour differs in different cities,--from seven to half-past
seven, to eight, and eight and a half; all these have their adherents.
In London, many a party does not sit down until nine. Hence the
necessity of a hearty meal at five o'clock tea. The royalties, all
blessed with good appetites, eat eggs on toast, hot scones and other
good things at five o'clock tea, and take often an _avant goût_ also
at seven.
In our country half-past seven is generally the most convenient hour,
unless one is going to the play afterward, when seven is better. A
dinner should not last more than an hour and a half. But it does last
sometimes three hours.
Ladies dress for a large dinner often in low neck and short sleeves,
wear their jewels, and altogether their finest things. But now
Pompadour waists are allowed. For a small dinner, the Pompadour dress,
half-open at the throat, with a few jewels, is in better taste.
Men should be always in full dress,--black coat, waistcoat, and
trousers, and white cravat. There is no variation from this dress at a
dinner, large or small.
For ladies in delicate health who cannot expose throat or arms, there
is always the largest liberty allowed; but the dinner dress must be
handsome.
In leaving the house and ordering the carriage, name the earliest hour
rather than the latest; it is better to keep one's coachman waiting
than to weary one's hostess. It is quite impossible to say when one
will leave, as there may be music, recitations, and so on, after the
dinner. It is now quite the fashion, as in London, to ask people in
after the dinner.
Everybody should go to a dinner intending to be agreeable.
"E'en at a dinner some will be unblessed,
However good the viands, and well dressed;
They always come to table with a scowl,
Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish,
Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish,
Curse cook, and wife, and loathing, eat and growl."
Such men should never be asked twice; yet such were Dr. Johnson, and
later on, Abraham Hayward, the English critic, who were invited out
every night of their lives. It is a poor requital for hospitality, to
allow any personal ill-temper to interfere with the pleasure of the
feast. Some hostesses send around the champagne early to unloose the
tongues; and this has generally a good effect if the party be dull.
Excessive heat in a room is the most benumbing of all overweights. Let
the hostess have plenty of oxygen to begin with.
For a little dinner of eight we might suggest that the hostess
write:--
DEAR MRS. SULLIVAN,--Will you and Mr. Sullivan dine with us on
Thursday at half-past seven to meet Mr. and Mrs. Evarts, quite
informally?
Ever yours truly,
MARY MONTGOMERY.
This accepted, which it should be in the first person, cordially, as
it is written, let us see what we would have for dinner--
Sherry. Soup. Sorrel, _à l'essence de veau_.
Lobsters, _sauté à la Bonnefoy_. Chablis.
Veal Cutlets, _à la Zingara_.
Fried sweet potatoes. Champagne.
Roast Red-Head Ducks. Currant jelly.
Claret. Curled Celery in glasses. Olives.
Cheese. Salad.
Frozen Pudding.
Grapes.
Coffee. Liqueurs.
Or, if you please, a brown soup, a white fish or bass, boiled, a
saddle of mutton, a pair of prairie chickens and salad, a plate of
broiled mushrooms, a _sorbet_ of Maraschino, cheese, ice-cream, fruit.
It is not a bad "look-out," is it?
How well the Italians understand the little dinner! They are frugal
but conscientious diners until they get to the dessert.
Their dishes have a relish of the forest and the field. First comes
wild boar, stewed in a delicious condiment called sour-sweet sauce,
composed of almonds, pistachio nuts, and plums. Quails, with a twang
of aromatic herbs, are followed by macaroni flavoured with spiced
livers, cocks' combs, and eggs called _risotto_, then golden _fritto_,
cooked in the purest _cru_ of olive oil, and _quocchi_ cakes, of newly
ground Indian corn, which is all that our roasted green corn is,
without the trouble of gnawing it off the cob,--a process abhorrent to
the conscientious diner unless he is alone. One should first take
monastic vows of extreme austerity before he eats the forbidden fruit,
onion, or the delicious corn. But when we can conquer Italian cooking,
we can eat these two delicious things, nor fear to whisper to our
best friend, nor fear to be seen eating.
The triumphs of the _dolce_ belong also to the Italians. Their sugared
fruits, ices, and pastry are all matchless; and their wines, Chianti,
Broglio, and Vino Santo, a kind of Malaga, as "frankly luscious as the
first grape can make it," are all delicious.