HmtilllHflliliiliilliii 
 
FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 James B. Herndon, Jr, 
 
 PRESENTED BY HIM TO THE 
 
 School of Hotel 
 A dministration 
 
 CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 TX 633.P4 1901 
 
 The delights of delicate eating / 
 
 3 1924 000 481 824 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924000481824 
 
THE DELIGHTS OF 
 DELICATE EATING 
 
 BY 
 
 Elizabeth Robins Pennell 
 
 n 
 
 New York AKRON, OHIO Chicago 
 
 THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1901 
 
Copyright, 1901, by 
 
 THE SAAI,FIEI<D PUBWSHING COMPANY, 
 
 Akron, Ohio. 
 
Note. — These papers were first published in the 
 "Pall Mall Gazette " under the heading, " Wares of 
 Autolycus." It is due to the courteous permission of 
 the editors of that Journal that they are now re-issued 
 in book form. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 I HAVE always wondered that woman could be 
 so glib in claiming equality with man. In 
 such trifling matters as politics and science and 
 industry, I doubt if there be much to choose 
 between the two sexes. But in the cultivation 
 and practice of an art which concerns life more 
 Seriously, woman has hitherto proved an infe- 
 rior creature. 
 
 For centuries the kitchen has been her ap- 
 pointed sphere of action. And yet, here, as in 
 the studio and the study, she has allowed man 
 to carry off the laurels. Vatel, Careme, Ude, 
 Dumas, Gouffe, Etienhe, these are some of the 
 immortal cooks of history: the kitchen still 
 waits its Sappho. Mrs Glasse, at first, might 
 be thought a notable exception ; but it is not so 
 much the merit of her book as its extreme rar- 
 ity in the first edition which has made it fa- 
 mous. 
 
 Woman, moreover, has eaten with as little 
 5 
 
6 Introduction 
 
 distinction as she has cooked. It seems almost 
 — much as I deplore the admission — as if she 
 were of coarser clay than man, lacking the 
 more artistic instincts, the subtler, daintier 
 emotions. 
 
 I think, therefore, the great interest of the 
 following papers lies in the fact that they are 
 written by a woman — a greedy woman. The 
 collection, evidently, does not pretend to be a 
 "Cook's Manual," or a "Housewife's Compan- 
 ion": already the diligent, in numbers, have 
 catalogued recipes, with more or less exactness. 
 It is rather a guide to the Beauty, the Poetry, 
 that exists in the perfect dish, even as in the 
 masterpiece of a Titian or a Swinburne. 
 Surely hope need not be abandoned when there 
 is found one woman who can eat, with under- 
 standing, the Feasts of Autolycus. 
 
 ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Virtue of Gluttony 9 
 
 A Perfect Breakfast 17 
 
 Two Breakfasts 25 
 
 The Subtle Sandwich, ^ . . . .33 
 
 A Perfect Dinner, 43 
 
 An Autumn Dinner 51 
 
 A Midsummer Dinner 59 
 
 Two Suppers 67 
 
 On Soup 75 
 
 The Simple Sole, 89 
 
 Bouillabaisse, 97 
 
 The Most Excellent Oyster, . . .105 
 
 The Partridge 117 
 
 The Archangelic Bird, 125 
 
 Spring Chicken, . . . . . -135 
 The Magnificent Mushroom, , . .143 
 The Incomparable Onion, . . . • iS5 
 The Triumphant Tomato, 
 
 • .-■"d 
 
Contents. 
 
 A Dish of Sunshine, 
 
 On Salads, 
 
 The Salads of Spain, 
 
 The Stirring Savoury, 
 
 Indispensable Cheese, 
 
 A Study in Green and Red, 
 
 A Message from the South, 
 
 Enchanting Coffee, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 • 179 
 
 • 191 
 . 205 
 . 215 
 
 • 223 
 . 231 
 
 • 239 
 ' 249 
 
THE VIRTUE OF GLUTTONY 
 
 Gluttony is ranked with the deadly sins; it 
 should be honoured among the cardinal virtues. 
 It was in the Dark Ages of asceticism that con- 
 tempt for it was fostered. Selfish anchorites, 
 vowed to dried dates and lentils, or browsing 
 Nebuchadnezzar-like upon grass, thought by 
 their lamentable example to rob the world of 
 its chief blessing. Cheerfully, and without a 
 scruple, they would have sacrificed beauty and 
 pleasure to their own superstition. If the 
 vineyard yielded wine and the orchard fruit, if 
 cattle were sent to pasture, and the forest 
 abounded in game, they believed it was that 
 men might forswear the delights thus offered. 
 And so food came into ill repute and foolish 
 fasting was glorified, until a healthy appetite 
 passed for a snare of the devil, and its gratifi- 
 cation meant eternal damnation. Poor deluded 
 humans, ever so keen to make the least of the 
 short span of life allotted to them ! 
 9 
 
lo The Virtue of Gluttony 
 
 With time, all superstitions fail ; and asceti- 
 cism went the way of many another ingenious 
 folly. But as a tradition, as a convention, 
 somehow, it lingered longer among women. 
 And the old Christian duty became a new fem- 
 inine grace. And where the fanatic had fasted 
 that his soul might prove comelier in the sight 
 of God, silly matrons and maidens starved, or 
 pretended to starve, themselves that their bod- 
 ies might seem fairer in the eyes of man. And 
 dire, indeed, has been their punishment. The 
 legend was that swooning Angelina or tear- 
 stained Amelia, who, in company, toyed ten- 
 derly with a chicken wing or unsubstantial 
 wafer, later retired to the pantry to stuff her- 
 self with jam and pickles. And thus gradu- 
 ally, so it is asserted, the delicacy of women's 
 palate was destroyed; food to her perverted 
 stomach was but a mere necessity to stay the 
 pangs of hunger, and the pleasure of eating 
 she looked upon as a deep mystery, into which 
 only man could be initiated. 
 
 In this there is much exaggeration, but still 
 much truth. To-day women, as a rule, think 
 all too little of the joys of eating. They hold 
 
The Virtue of Gluttony 1 1 
 
 lightly the treasures that should prove invalua- 
 ble. They refuse to recognise that there is no 
 less art in eating well than iii painting well or 
 writing well, and if their choice lay between 
 swallowing a bun with a cup of tea in an aer- 
 ated bread shop, and missing the latest picture 
 show or doing without a new book, they would 
 not hesitate; to the stodgy bun they would 
 condemn themselves, though that way madness 
 lies. Is it not true that the woman who would 
 economise, first draws her purse-strings tight 
 in the market and at the restaurant? With her 
 milliner's bill she may find no fault, but in 
 butcher's book, or grocer's, every halfpenny is 
 to be disputed. 
 
 The loss is hers, but the generous-hearted can 
 but regret it. Therefore let her be brought 
 face to -face with certain fundamental facts, 
 and the scales will fall quickly from her eyes, 
 and she will see the truth in all its splendour. 
 
 First, then, let her know that the love of 
 good eating gives an object to life. She need 
 not stray after false gods ; she will not burden 
 herself with silly fads, once she realizes that 
 upon food she may concentrate thought and en- 
 
12 The Virtue of Gluttony 
 
 ergy, and her higher nature — which to her 
 means so much — be developed thereby. Why 
 clamour for the suffrage, why labour for the 
 redemption of brutal man, why wear, with 
 noisy advertisement, ribbons white or blue, 
 when three times a day there is a work of art, 
 easily within her reach, to be created? All his 
 life a Velasquez devoted to his pictures, a 
 Shakespeare to his plays, a Wagner to his ope- 
 ras: why should not the woman of genius spend 
 hers in designing exquisite dinners, inventing 
 original breakfasts, and be respected for the 
 nobility of her self-appointed task? For in the 
 planning of the perfect meal there is art ; and, 
 after all, is not art the one real, the one impor- 
 tant thing in life? 
 
 And the object she thus accepts will be her 
 pleasure as well. For the gourmande, or glut- 
 ton, duty and amusement go hand in hand. 
 Her dainty devices and harmonies appeal to 
 her imagination and fancy; they play gently 
 with her emotions; they develop tothe utmost 
 her pretty sensuousness. Mind and body alike 
 are satisfied. And so long as this pleasure en- 
 dures it will never seem time to die. The an- 
 
The Virttfe of Gluttony 13 
 
 cient philosopher thought that time had come 
 when life afforded more evil than good. The 
 good of a pleasantly planned dinner outbal- 
 ances the evil of daily trials and tribulations. 
 
 Here is another more intimate, personal rea- 
 son which the woman of sense may not set 
 aside with flippancy or indifference. By artis- 
 tic gluttony, beauty is increased, if not actually 
 created. Listen to the words of Brillat-Sava- 
 rin, that suave and sympathetic gourmet: "It 
 has been proved by a series of rigorously exact 
 observations that by a succulent, delicate, and 
 choice regimen, the external appearances of 
 age are kept away for a long time. It gives 
 more brilliancy to the eye, more freshness to 
 the skin, more support to the muscles ; and as 
 it is certain in physiology that wrinkles, those 
 formidable enemies of beauty, are caused by 
 the depression of muscle, it is equally true 
 that, other things being equal, those who un- 
 derstand eating are comparatively four years 
 younger than those ignorant of that science." 
 Surely he should have called it art, not science. 
 But let that pass. Rejoice in the knowledge 
 that gluttony is the best cosmetic. 
 
14 The Virtue of Gluttony 
 
 And more than this: a woman not only grows 
 beautiful when she eats well, but she is be- 
 witchingly lovely in the very act of eating. 
 Listen again, for certain texts cannot be heard 
 too often : " There is no more pretty sight than 
 a pretty gourmande under arms. Her napkin is 
 nicely adjusted ; one of her hands rests on the 
 table, the other carries to her mouth little mor- 
 sels artistically carved, or the wing of a par- 
 tridge, which must be picked. Her eyes spar- 
 kle, her lips are glossy, her talk cheerful, all 
 her movements graceful; nor is there lacking 
 some spice of the coquetry which accompanies 
 all that women do. With so many advantages 
 she is irresistible, and Cato, the censor himself, 
 could not help yielding to the influence. " And 
 who shall say that woman, declaiming on the 
 public platform, or "spanking" progressive 
 principles into the child-man, makes a prettier 
 picture? 
 
 Another plea, and one not to be scorned, is 
 the new bond of union love of eating weaves 
 between man and wife. " A wedded pair with 
 this taste in common have once a day at least 
 
 
The Virtue of Gluttony 15 
 
 has been pronounced a closer tie than religion, 
 but what of food? What, indeed? Let men 
 and women look to it that at table delicious 
 sympathy makes them one, and marriage will 
 cease to be a failure. If they agree upon their 
 sauces and salads, what matter if they disagree 
 upon mere questions of conduct and finance? 
 Accept the gospel of good living and the sexual 
 problem will be solved. She who first dares to 
 write the great Food Novel will be a true 
 champion of her sex. And yet women meet 
 and dine together, and none has the courage 
 to whisper the true secret of emancipation. 
 Mostly fools! Alas! that it should have to be 
 written ! 
 
 And think — that is, if you know how to think 
 — of the new joy added to friendship, the new 
 charm to casual acquaintanceship, when food is 
 given its due, aiid is recognised as something 
 to be talked of. The old platitudes will fade 
 and die. The maiden will cease to ask "What 
 do you think of the Academy?" The earnest 
 one will no longer look to Ibsen for heavy 
 small talk. Pretence will be wiped away, con- 
 versational shams abolished, and the social 
 
1 6 The Virtue of Gluttony 
 
 millennium will have come. Eat with under- 
 standing, and interest in the dishes set before 
 you must prove genuine and engrossing, as en- 
 thusiasm over the last new thing in art or 
 ethics has never been — never can be. The 
 sensation of the day will prove the latest ar- 
 rangement in oysters, the newest device in 
 vegetables. The ambitious will trust to her 
 kitchen to win her reputation; the poet will 
 offer lyrics and pastorals with every course; 
 the painter will present in every dish a lovely 
 scheme of colour. 
 
 Gross are they who see in eating and drink- 
 ing nought but grossness. The woman who 
 cannot live without a mission should now find 
 the path clear before her. Let her learn first 
 for herself the rapture that lies dormant in 
 food ; let her next spread abroad the joyful tid- 
 ings. Gluttony is a vice only when it leads 
 to stupid, inartistic excess. 
 
A PERFECT BREAKFAST 
 
 Breakfast means many things to many men. 
 Ask the American, and he will give as defini- 
 tion: "Shad, beefsteak, hash, fried potatoes, 
 omelet, coffee, buckwheat cakes, waffles, corn- 
 bread, and (if he be a Virginian) batter pud- 
 ding, at 8 o'clock A.M. sharp." Ask the Eng- 
 lishman, and he will affirm stoutly: "Tea, a 
 rasher of bacon, dry toast, and marmalade as 
 the clock strikes nine, or the half after." And 
 both, differing in detail as they may and do, 
 are alike barbarians, understanding nothing of 
 the first principles of gastronomy. 
 
 Seek out rather the Frenchman and his kins- 
 men of the Latin race. They know: and to 
 their guidance the timid novice may trust her- 
 self without a fear. The blundering Teuton, 
 however, would lead to perdition; for he, in- 
 sensible to the charms of breakfast, does away 
 with it altogether, and, as if still swayed by 
 nursery rule, eats his dinner at noon — and may 
 
 2 17 
 
1 8 A Perfect Breakfast 
 
 he long be left to enjoy it by himself! There- 
 fore, in this, as in many other matters that 
 cater to the higher pleasures, look to France 
 for light and inspiration. 
 
 Upon rising — and why not let the hour vary 
 according to mood and inclination? — forswear 
 all but the petit dejeuner: the little breakfast of 
 coffee and rolls and butter. But the coffee 
 must be of the best, no chicory as you hope for 
 salvation ; the rolls must be crisp and light and 
 fresh, as they always are in Paris and Vienna; 
 the butter must be pure and sweet. And if 
 you possess a fragment of self-respect, enjoy 
 this petit dejeuner alone, in the solitude of your 
 chamber. Upon the early family breakfast 
 many and many a happy marriage has been 
 wrecked; and so be warned in time. 
 
 At noon once more is man fit to meet his fel- 
 low-man and womani Appetite has revived. 
 The day is at its prime. By every law of na- 
 ture and of art, this, of all others, is the hour 
 that calls to breakfast. 
 
 When soft rains fall, and winds blow milder, 
 and bushes in park or garden are sprouting and 
 spring is at hand, grace your table with this 
 
A Perfect Breakfast 19 
 
 same sweet promise of spring. Let rosy radish 
 give the touch of colour to satisfy the eye, as 
 chairs are drawn in close about the spotless 
 cloth: the tiny, round radish, pulled in the 
 early hours of the morning, still in its first vir- 
 ginal purity, tender, sweet, yet peppery, with 
 all the piquancy of the young girl not quite a 
 child, not yet a woman. In great bunches, it 
 enlivens every stall at Covent Garden, and 
 every greengrocer's window ; on the breakfast- 
 table it is the gayest poem that uncertain 
 March can sing. Do not spoil it by adding 
 other hors d'ceuvresj nothing must be allowed to 
 destroy its fragrance and its savour. Bread 
 and butter, however, will serve as sympathetic 
 background, and enhance rather than lessen its 
 charm. 
 
 Vague poetic memories and aspirations 
 stirred within you by the dainty radish, you 
 will be in fitting humour for ceufs aux saucissons, 
 a dish, surely, invented by the Angels in Para- 
 dise. There is little earthly in its composition 
 or flavour; irreverent it seems to describe it in 
 poor halting words. But if language prove 
 weak, intention is good, and should others 
 
20 A Perfect Breakfast 
 
 learn to honour this priceless delicacy, then 
 will much have been accomplished. Without 
 more ado, therefore, go to Benoist's, and buy the 
 little truffled French sausages which that temple 
 of delight provides. Fry them, and fry half the 
 number of fresh eggs. Next, one egg and two 
 sausages place in one of those irresistible little 
 French baking-dishes, dim green or golden 
 brown in colour, and, smothering them in rich 
 wine sauce, bake, and serve — one little dish 
 for each guest. Above all, study well your 
 sauce ; if it fail, disaster is inevitable ; if it suc- 
 ceed, place laurel leaves in your hair, for you 
 will have conquered. "A woman who has 
 mastered sauces sits on the apex of civilisa- 
 tion." 
 
 Without fear of anti-climax, pass suavely on 
 from aufs aux saucissons to rognons sauth. In 
 thin elegant slices your kidneys should be cut, 
 before trusting them to the melted butter in 
 the frying pan ; for seasoning, add salt, pepper, 
 and parsley; for thickening, flour ; for strength, 
 a tablespoonful or more of stock ; for stimulus, 
 as much good claret ; then eat thereof and you 
 will never repent. 
 
A Perfect Breakfast 21 
 
 JDainty steps these to prepare the way for the 
 breakfast's most substantial course, which, to 
 be in loving sympathy with all that has gone 
 before, may consist of cdtelettes de mouton au nat- 
 urel. See that the cutlets be small and plump, 
 well trimmed, and beaten gently, once on each 
 side, with a chopper cooled in water. Dip 
 them into melted butter, grill them, turning 
 them but once that the juice may not be lost, 
 and thank kind fate that has let you live to 
 enjoy so delicious a morsel. Pommes de terre 
 sauf/es rmiy be deemed chaste enough to appear 
 — and disappear — at the same happy moment. 
 
 With welcome promise of spring the feast 
 may end as it began. Order a salad to follow : 
 cool, quieting, encouraging. When in its per- 
 fection cabbage lettuce is.to berhad, none could 
 be more submissive and responsive to the woo- 
 ing of oil and vinegar. Never forget to rub 
 the bowl with onion, now in its first youth, ar- 
 dent but less fiery than in the days to come, 
 strong but less imperious. No other garniture 
 is needed. The tender green of the lettuce 
 leaves will blend and harmonise with the 
 anemones and tulips, in old blue china or daz- 
 
22 A Perfect Breakfast 
 
 zling crystal, that decorate the table's centre; 
 and though grey may be the skies without, 
 something of May's softness and June's radi- 
 ance will fill the breakfast-room with the 
 glamour of romance. 
 
 What cheese, you ask? Suisse, of course. 
 Is not the month March? Has not the tnenu, 
 so lovingly devised, sent the spring rioting 
 through your veins? Suisse with sugar, and 
 prolong the sweet dreaming while you may. 
 What if work you cannot, after thus giving the 
 reins to fancy and to appetite? At least ydu 
 will have had your hour of happiness. Break- 
 fast is not for those who toil that they may 
 dine; their sad portion is the mid-day sand- 
 wich. 
 
 Wine should be light and not too many. The 
 true epicure will want but one, and he may do 
 worse than let his choice fall upon Graves, 
 though good Graves, alas ! is not to be had for 
 the asking. Much too heavy is Burgundy for 
 breakfast. If your soul yearns for red wine, 
 be aristocratic in your preferences, and, like 
 the Stuarts, drink Claret — a good St. Estdphe 
 or St. Julien. 
 
A Perfect Breakfast 23 
 
 Coffee is indispensable, and what is true of 
 coffee after dinner is true as well of coffee after 
 breakfast. Have it of the best, or else not at 
 all. For liqueur, one of the less fervent, more 
 maidenly varieties. Maraschino, perhaps, or 
 Prunelle, but make sure it is the Prunelle, in 
 stone jugs, that comes from Chalon-sur-Saone. 
 Bring out the cigarettes — not the Egyptian or 
 Turkish, with suspicion of opium lurking in 
 their fragrant recesses — but the cleaner, purer 
 Virginian. Then smoke until, like the Gypsy 
 in Lenau's ballad, all earthly trouble you have 
 smoked away, and you master the mysteries of 
 Nirvana. 
 
TWO BREAKFASTS 
 
 Spring is the year's playtime. Who, while 
 trees are growing green and flowers are bud- 
 ding, can toil with an easy conscience? Later, 
 mere " use and wont" accustoms the most sensi- 
 tive to sunshine and green leaves and fragrant 
 blossoms. It is easy to work in the summer. 
 But spring, like wine, goes to the head and 
 gladdens the heart of man, so that he is fit for 
 no other duty than the enjoyment of this new 
 gladness. If he be human, and not a mere 
 machine, he must and will choose it for the 
 season of his holiday. 
 
 This is why in the spring the midday break- 
 fast appeals with most charm. It may be 
 eaten in peace, with no thought of immediate 
 return to inconsiderate desk or tyrannical easel. 
 A stroll in the park, a walk across the fields, or 
 over the hills and far away, should be the most 
 laborious labour to follow. It would be a 
 crime, indeed, to eat a dainty breakfast, daint- 
 
 25 
 
26 Two Breakfasts 
 
 ily designed and served, in the bustle and ner- 
 vous hurry of a working day. But when the 
 sunny hours bring only new pleasure and new 
 capacity for it, what better than to break their 
 sweet monotony with a light, joyous feast that 
 worthily plays the herald to the evening's ban- 
 quet? 
 
 It must be light, however: light as the sun- 
 shine, that falls so softly on spotless white linen 
 and flawless silver; gay and gracious as the 
 golden daffodils in their tall glass. The table's 
 ornaments should be few : would not the least 
 touch of heaviness mar the effect of spring? 
 Why, then, add to the daffodils? See, only, 
 that they are fresh, just plucked from the cool 
 green woodland, the morning dew still wet 
 and shining on their golden petals, and make 
 sure that the glass, though simple, is as shapely 
 as Venice or Whitefriars can fashion it. 
 
 Daffodils will smile a welcome, if radishes 
 come to give them greeting; radishes, round 
 and rosy and crisp; there is a separate joy in 
 the low sound of teeth crunching in their crisp- 
 ness. Vienna rolls (and London can now sup- 
 ply them) and rich yellow butter from Devon 
 
Two Breakfasts 2 J 
 
 dairies carry out the scheme of the first garden- 
 like course. 
 
 Sweeter smiles fall from the daffodils, if now 
 they prove motive to a fine symphony in gold ; 
 as they will if omelette aux rognons be chosen as 
 second course. Do not trust the omelet to 
 heavy-handed cook, who thinks it means a 
 compromise between piecrust and pancake. It 
 must be froth)', and strong in that quality of 
 lightness which gives the keynote to the com- 
 position as a whole. Enclosed within its melt- 
 ing gold, at its very heart, as it were, lie the 
 kidneys elegantly minced and seasoned with 
 delicate care. It is a dish predestined for the 
 midday breakfast, too beautiful to be wasted 
 on the early, dull, morning hours ; too immate- 
 rial for the evening's demands. 
 
 Its memory will linger pleasantly, even when 
 pilaff de volaille d, V Indienne succeeds, offering a 
 new and more stirring symphony in the same 
 radiant gold. For golden is the rice, stained 
 with curry, as it encircles the pretty, soft 
 mound of chicken livers, brown and delicious. 
 Here the breakfast reaches its one substantial 
 point ; but meat more heavy would seem vul- 
 
28 Two Breakfasts 
 
 gar and gross. The curry must not be too, hot, 
 but rather gentle and genial like the lovely 
 May sunshine. 
 
 Now, a pause and a contrast. Gold fades 
 into green. As are the stalks to the daffodils, 
 so the dish of petits pais aux laitues \.q pilaff and 
 omelette. The peas are so young that no device 
 need be sought to disguise their age ; later on, 
 like fadejd beauty, they may have recourse to 
 many a trick and a pose, but not as yet. The 
 lettuce, as unsophisticated, will but emphasise 
 their exquisite youth. It is a combination that 
 has all the wonderful charm of infant leaves 
 and tentative buds on one and the same branch 
 of the spring-fired bush. 
 
 No sweet. Would not the artifice of jellies 
 and cream pall after such a succession of Na- 
 ture's dear tributes? Surely the menu should 
 finish as it began, in entrancing simplicity. 
 Port Salut is a cheese that smells of the dairy ; 
 that, for all its monastic origin, suggests the 
 pink and white Hetty or Tess with sleeves well 
 uproUed over curved, dimpling arms. Eat it 
 with Bath Oliver biscuits, and sigh that the 
 end should come so soon. Where the need to 
 
Two Breakfasts 29 
 
 drag in the mummy at the close of the feast? 
 The ancients were wise; with the last course 
 does it not ever stare at you cruelly, with 
 mocking reminder that eating, like love, hath 
 an end? 
 
 Graves is the wine to drink with daffodil- 
 crowned feast — golden Graves, light as the 
 breakfast, gay as the sunshine, gladdening as 
 the spring itself. Coffee completes the com- 
 position nobly, if it be black and strong. And 
 for liqueur, Benedictine, in colour and feeling 
 alike, enters most fittingly into the harmony. 
 Smoke cigarettes from Virginia, that southern 
 land of luxuriant spring flowers. 
 
 There is no monotony in spring sunshine; 
 why, then, let spring's breakfast always strike 
 the same monotonous note? Another day, an- 
 other mood, and so, as logical consequence, 
 another menu. From your own garden gather 
 a bunch of late tulips, scarlet and glowing, but 
 cool in their shelter of long tapering leaves. 
 Fill a bowl with them : it may be a rare bronze 
 from Japan, or a fine piece of old Delft, or any- 
 thing else, provided it be somewhat sumptuous 
 as becomes the blossoms it holds. Open with 
 
30 Two Breakfasts 
 
 that triumph of colour which would have en- 
 chanted a Titian or a Monticelli: the roseate 
 salmon of the Rhine, smoked to a turn, and cut 
 in thin slices, all but transparent. It kindles 
 desire and lends new zest to appetite. 
 
 After so ardent a preparation, what better 
 suited for ensuing course than aufs brouilUs aux 
 pointes d'asperges? the eggs golden and fleecy as 
 the clouds in the sunset's glow; the asparagus 
 points imparting that exqusite flavour which is 
 so essentially their own. Cloudlike, the love- 
 liness gradually and gracefully disappears, as 
 in a poet's dream or a painter's impression, 
 and spring acquires a new meaning, a new 
 power to enchant. 
 
 Who, with a soul, could pass on to a roast or 
 a big heating joint? More to the purpose is ris 
 de veau a la Toulouse, the sweetbreads broiled 
 with distinction, and then, in pretty fluted cais- 
 sons, surrounded with Bechamel sauce and rav- 
 ishing ^a^ozJ/ of mushrooms and cock's combs. 
 They are light as a feather, but, still a trifle 
 flamboyant in honour of the tulips, while the 
 name carries with it gaiety from the gay south- 
 ern town of the Jeux Floraux. 
 
Two Breakfasts 31 
 
 Next, a salad is not out of place. Make it 
 of tomatoes, scarlet and stirring, like some 
 strange tropical blossoms decking the shrine of 
 the sun. Just a suspicion of shallot in the 
 bowl ; the perfect dressing of vinegar and oil, 
 pepper and salt; and the luxuriant tropics 
 could not yield a richer and more fragrant 
 offering. It is a salad that vies with Cleopatra 
 in its defiance to custom. Love for it grows 
 stronger with experience. The oftener it is 
 enjoyed the greater the desire to enjoy it again. 
 
 Why, then, venture to destroy the impres- 
 sion it leaves with the cloying insipidity of 
 some ill-timed sweet? It is almost too early 
 for strawberries worth the eating, save in a 
 macidoine, and they alone would come next in 
 order, without introducing an element of con- 
 fusion in the well-proportioned breakfast of 
 spring. A savoury, too, would, at this special 
 juncture, have its drawbacks. Cheese again 
 best fulfils the conditions imposed. But now, 
 something stronger, something more definite 
 than Port Salut is called for; if Camembert 
 prove the cheese of your choice, there will be 
 no chance for criticism. One warning : see that 
 
32 Two Breakfasts 
 
 it is ripe ; for the Camembert that crumbles in 
 its dryness is nothing short of iniquitous. 
 
 Tulips and tomatoes point to Claret as the 
 wine to be drunk. Burgundy is for the even- 
 ing, when candles are lighted, and the hours of 
 dreaming have begun. St Est^phe, at noon, 
 has infinite merit, and responds to the tulip's 
 call with greater warmth than any white wine, 
 whether from the vineyards of France or Ger- 
 many, of Hungary or Italy. Coffee, as a mat- 
 ter of course, is to the elegantly-designed 
 breakfast what the Butterfly is to the Nocturne. 
 And when all is said, few liqueurs accord with 
 it so graciously as Cognac; that is, if the dishes 
 to precede it have tended to that joyful flam- 
 boyancy born of the artist's exuberance in mo- 
 ments of creation. 
 
 Eat either breakfast, or both ; and be thank- 
 ful that spring comes once a year. 
 
THE SUBTLE SANDWICH 
 
 If things yield themselves unto our mercy 
 why should we not have the fruition of them, 
 or apply them to our advantage? From evil, 
 good may come ; from the little, springs great- 
 ness. A reckless gamester, to defy the pangs 
 of hunger, which might drag him from his be- 
 loved cards, brings to the gaming table slices 
 of bread with ham between. If other men 
 despise — ^or deplore, according to their passing 
 mood — his folly, to their own pleasure and 
 profit can they still turn his invention. The 
 sandwich has become a universal possession for 
 all time, though for a century the earl who 
 created it has lain dead. His foibles should be 
 forgotten, his one redeeming virtue remem- 
 bered. For him a fair and spacious niche in 
 the world's Valhalla. 
 
 A hero indeed is he who left the sandwich as 
 an heirloom to humanity. It truly is the stafiE 
 3 33 
 
34 The Subtle Sandwich 
 
 of life, a substantial meal for starving traveller 
 or bread-winner ; but none the less an incom- 
 parable work of art, a joy to the gourmand of 
 fancy and discretion. The very name has 
 come to be a pregnant symbol of holiday-mak- 
 ing for all with souls to stir at the thought of 
 food. and drink. It is an inexhaustible' stimu- 
 lus to the imagination ; to the memory a tender 
 guide to the past's happiest days and hours. 
 
 For, in fancy, between the slices of bread, 
 place thick, uncompromising pieces of beef or 
 mutton, and to the Alps you are at once trans- 
 ported. Again, on the short, fragrant grass 
 you sit ; from its temporary snow-grave a little 
 above, Perren or Imboden fetches the bottle of 
 wine, ordinary enough in reality, nectar as you 
 drink it there ; Seller's supplies you take from 
 the faithful knapsack, opening paper package 
 after paper package; and your feast of big, 
 honest, no-nonsense-about-them sandwiches you 
 devour with the appetite of a schoolboy, and the 
 zeal of the convert to plain living and high 
 mountain climbing. 
 
 Or, thin the slices, make them the covering 
 for ham and tongue, or — if you be greatly fa- 
 
The Subtle Sandwich 3$ 
 
 voTired — for sardines and anchovies ; and then 
 memory will spread for you the banquet in the 
 pleasant pastures that border the Cam, the wil- 
 lows bowering you from the August sun with 
 shade, your boat moored to the cool bank ; and 
 with Claret cup, poured, mayhap, into old col- 
 lege tankards, you quench your thirst, while 
 lazily you listen to the distant plashing of oars 
 and lowing of kine, and all life drifts into an 
 idle dream. 
 
 Or, the ham of Bayonne, the pdtd de foie gras 
 of Perigueux, you bury in the deep recesses of 
 a long, narrow, qx'\s^ petit pain, and then, quick 
 in a French railway carriage will you find your- 
 self: a bottle of wine is at your side; the Echo 
 de Paris lies spread on the seat before you ; out 
 of the window long lines of poplars go march- 
 ing with you toward Paris, whither you are 
 bound " to make the feast." 
 
 Grim and gruesome, it may be, are some of 
 the memories evoked: ill-considered excursions 
 to the bar of the English railway station, hasty 
 lunches in chance bun shops, foolish testings of 
 "ham and beef" limitations. But, henceforth, 
 take heed to chasten your experience with the 
 
36 The Subtle Sandwich 
 
 sandwich, that remembrance may not play you 
 such scurvy tricks. Treat it aright with under- 
 standing and respect, and it will keep you in 
 glad holiday humour, in the eating thereof as 
 in the memory. 
 
 Life, alas! is not all play in Thames sun- 
 shine and keen Alpine air, or in hopeful jour- 
 neying through the pleasant land of France. 
 But in the everyday of stern work and doleful 
 dissipation the sandwich is an ally of infalli- 
 ble trustworthiness and infinite resources. In 
 the hour of need it is never found wanting. 
 To dine well, authorities have proclaimed in 
 ex caihedrd utterance, you must lunch lightly; 
 but not, therefore, does it follow that the light 
 luncheon should be repellently prosaic. Let it 
 be dainty — a graceful lyric — that it may fill you 
 with hope of the coming dinner. And lyrical 
 indeed is the savoury sandwich, well cut and 
 garnished, served on rare faience or old sil- 
 ver; a glass, or perhaps two, of Bordeaux of 
 some famous vintage, to strengthen its subtle 
 flavour. 
 
 An ally again at afternoon tea it proves, if at 
 five o'clock drink tea you must; a mistake, 
 
The Subtle Sandwich 37 
 
 surely, if you value your dinner. To belittle 
 the excellence of crumpets and muffins well 
 toasted, would be to betray a narrow mind' and 
 senseless prejudice;' but these buttery, greasy 
 delicacies in private should be eaten, where 
 the ladies of Cranford sucked their oranges. 
 And at the best their excellence is homely. 
 In the sandwich well devised is something 
 exotic and strange, some charm elusive and 
 mysterious. 
 
 But let not the sandwich be of ham, except 
 rarely, for the etherealized luncheon, the mys- 
 tic tea. Reserve this well-meaning, but un- 
 poetic, viand for the journey and the day of 
 open-air sport, to which so admirably it is 
 fitted. Nor so reserving it, will you be ham- 
 pered in making what Dumas calls tartines a 
 VAnglaise. Infinity is at your disposal, if you 
 be large and liberal enough to grasp the fact. 
 One hundred numbered the varieties known to 
 that genius of Glasgow, who, for his researches, 
 has been honored by a place in dictionary and 
 Encyclopaedia. To these you may add, if time 
 and leisure you find for a trip to Budapest and 
 the famous Kiigler's, where, with your tea, will 
 
38 The Subtle Sandwich 
 
 be served such exquisite sandwiches, so origi- 
 nal and many in their devices that you can but 
 come away marvelling, in all eagerness to em- 
 ulate the artist who designed them. 
 
 For the luncheon sandwich, choose from the 
 countless treasures of the sea. Rapture is in 
 the sardine, not the oiled from France, but the 
 smoked from Norway; tunny fish or anchovies 
 are dreams of delight; caviar, an ecstacy, the 
 more delicious if a dash of lemon juice be 
 added. And, if you would know these in per- 
 fection, use brown bread instead of white. 
 Salmon is not to be scorned, nor turbot to be 
 turned from in contempt; they become tri- 
 umphs if you are not too niggardly with cay- 
 enne pepper; triumphs not unknown to Cheap- 
 side. Nor are the various so-called creams — 
 of shrimps, of lobster, of salmon — altogether to 
 be despised, and they, too, the better prove for 
 the judicious touch of cayenne. But confine not 
 your experiments to the conventional or the 
 recommended. Overhaul the counter of the 
 fishmonger. Set your wits to work. Cultivate 
 your artistic instincts. Invent! Create! Many 
 are the men who have painted pictures: few 
 
The Subtle Sandwich 39 
 
 those who have composed a new and perfect 
 sandwich. 
 
 Upon the egg> likewise, you may rely for in- 
 spiration — the humble hen's e%g, or the lordly 
 plover's. Hard-boiled, in thin slices (oh! the 
 memories of Kugler's,. and the Russian railway 
 station, and the hor d'muvres, Tartar-guarded 
 sideboard, now awakened!) or well grated; by 
 itself, or in endless combinations, the egg will 
 ever repay your confidence. 
 
 Upon sausage, also, you may count with lov- 
 ing faith. Butterhrod mit Wurst— Wurst and 
 philosophy, these are the German masterpieces. 
 And here, you may visit the delicatessen shop to 
 good purpose. Goose-liver, Brunswick, garlic, 
 Bologna, truffled — all fulfil their highest des^ 
 tiny, when in thinnest of thin slices^ you lay 
 them between slices no less thin of buttered 
 bread — brown or white, as artistic appropriate- 
 ness suggests — a faint suspicion of mustard to 
 lend them piquancy. 
 
 Beef and mutton, when not cut in Alpine 
 chunks, are comforting, and with mustard duly 
 applied, grateful as well. Fowl and game, 
 galantine and tongue, veal and brawn — no 
 
40 The Subtle Sandwich 
 
 meat there is, whether fresh or boned or potted, 
 that does not adapt itself gracefully to certain 
 occasions, to certain needs. And here, again, 
 be not slow to arrange new harmonies, to sug- 
 gest new schemes. It should be your endeavor 
 always to give style and individuality to your 
 sandwiches. 
 
 Cheese in shavings, or grated, has great merit. 
 Greater still has the cool cucumber, fragrant 
 from its garden ground, the unrivalled tomato, 
 the crisp, sharp mustard and cress. Scarce a 
 green thing growing that will not lend itself to 
 the true artist in sandwich-making. Lettuce, 
 celery, water-cress, radishes — not one may you 
 not test to your own higher happiness. And 
 your art may be measured by your success in 
 proving the onion to be the poetic soul of the 
 sandwich, as of the salad bowl. For afternoon 
 tea the dainty green sandwich is the daintiest 
 of them all. 
 
 If to sweets your taste incline, then easily 
 may you be gratified, though it be a taste 
 smacking of the nursery and the schoolroom. 
 Jams and marmalades you may press into ser- 
 vice ; chocolate or candied fruit. And sponge 
 
The Subtle Sandwich 41 
 
 cake may take the place of bread, and, with 
 strawberries between, you have the American 
 strawbetry short-cake. 
 
 But, whatever your sandwich, above all 
 things see that its proportions be delicate and 
 symmetrical ; that it please the eye before ever 
 the first fragment has passed into the mouth. 
 
A PERFECT DINNER 
 
 Fashion and art have little in common. Save 
 for chance, they would remain always as the 
 poles apart. The laws of the one are transitory, 
 of the other eternal ; and as irreconcilable are 
 they in the observance. Make then your choice 
 between them, since no man may serve two 
 masters. 
 
 Know that if ever the noble art of cookery 
 be wrecked, it will be upon the quicksands of 
 Fashion. In many ways is it threatened by 
 the passing mode, but, above all others, one 
 danger looms up before it, grim, relentless, 
 tragic : the more awful because, to the thought- 
 less, at first it seems sweet as siren's singing. 
 It is an evil born of the love of display and of 
 the keen competition between Fashion's vota- 
 ries. For they who would pose as delicate 
 diners, think to eclipse their rivals by number 
 of courses and bewildering variety. How to 
 prolong the menu, rather than how to perfect it 
 43 
 
44 A Perfect Dinner 
 
 is their constant stud)'. In excess they would 
 emulate the banquets of the ancients, though 
 they are too refined by far to revive the old 
 vomitories — the indispensable antidote. Dish 
 follows dish, conceit is piled upon conceit; and 
 with what result? Before dinner is half over, 
 palates are jaded, " fine shades" can no more be 
 appreciated, every new course awakens fear of 
 the morrow's indigestion. Or else, pleasure is 
 tempered by caution, a melancholy compro 
 mise; nothing is really eaten, the daintiest 
 devices are but trifled with, and dinner is de- 
 graded into a torture fit for Tantalus. Surely, 
 never was there a more cruel, fickle mistress 
 than Fashion ! Sad, immeasurably sad, the fate 
 of her worshippers. 
 
 Art despises show, it disdains rivalry, and it 
 knows not excess. A Velasquez or a Whistler 
 never overloads his canvas for the sake of gor- 
 geous detail. To the artist in words, superflu- 
 ous ornament is the unpardonable sin. And so 
 with the lovers of Gasterea, the tenth and fairest 
 of the Muses. Better by far Omar Khayyam's 
 jug of wine and loaf of bread, if both be good, 
 
A Perfect Dinner 45 
 
 lus. Who would hesitate between the feasts of 
 Heliogabalus and the frugal fowl and the young 
 kid, the raisins, figs, and nuts of Horace? 
 
 It matters not how many courses between 
 oysters and coffee Fashion may decree, if, turn- 
 ing your back upon her and her silly preten- 
 sions, you devise a few that it will be a privi- 
 lege for your guests to eat, a joy for them to 
 remember. Bear in mind the master's model 
 luncheon and its success. No menu could have 
 been simpler; none more delicious. The table 
 was laid for three, a goodly number, for all the 
 slurs cast upon it. At each plate were "two 
 dozen oysters with a bright golden lemon; at 
 each end of the table stood a bottle of Sauterne, 
 carefully wiped all except the cork, which 
 showed unmistakably that it was long since the 
 wine had been bottled." After the oysters 
 roasted kidneys were served ; next, truffled foie- 
 grasj then the famous fondue, the beautiful 
 arrangement of eggs beaten up with cheese, 
 prepared over a chafing-dish at table, stimu- 
 lating appetite by all the delights of anticipa- 
 tion. Fruit followed, and coffee ; and last, two 
 liniiMirs " nnp a snirit tn olear and the other 
 
46 A Perfect Dinner 
 
 an oil, to soothe." Be not content to read, 
 but go and do likewise ! 
 
 Imagine a dinner planned on the same pat- 
 tern, and the conventional banquet of the day 
 soon will seem to you the monstrosity it is. 
 Observe two all-important rules and you may 
 not wander far wrong. One is to limit the 
 number of courses ; the other to serve first the 
 substantial dishes, then those that are lighter, 
 first the simpler wines, afterwards those of finer 
 flavours. 
 
 The hors d'ceuvre, however, is an exception. 
 If too substantial it would defeat its end. It 
 must whet the appetite, not blunt it. In its 
 flavour must its strength lie ; at once keen and 
 subtle, it should stimulate, but. never satisfy. 
 An anchovy salad touches perfection ; the an- 
 chovies — the boneless species from France — the 
 olives skilfully stoned, the capers in carefully 
 studied proportions, the yellow of the egg well 
 grated, the parsley, chopped fine, must be ar- 
 ranged by an artist with a fine feeling for deco- 
 rative effect, and the dressing of oil, vinegar, 
 pepper, and salt, poured gently over the design 
 so as not to destroy the poetry of line and col- 
 
A Perfect Dinner 47 
 
 our. A erisp Vienna roll, with sweet fresh 
 butter, makes an excellent accompaniment, but 
 one to be enjoyed in moderation. 
 
 Crime Soubise is the soup to follow. Thick, 
 creamy, onion-scented, the first spoonful en- 
 chants, and a glamour is at once cast over 
 dinner and diners. Sufficing in itself, it needs 
 neither Parmesan nor toast to enhance its mer- 
 its. Like a beautiful woman, unadorned it is 
 adorned the most. 
 
 Admirably, it prepares the way for oysters, 
 deftly scalloped, with shallots and fragrant 
 bouquet garni to lend them savour, and bread 
 crumbs to form a rich golden-brown outer 
 covering. If not unmindful of the eye's pleas- 
 ure, you will make as many shells as there are 
 guests serve the purpose of a single dish. 
 
 Without loitering or dallying with useless 
 entries, come at once to the one substantial 
 course of the pleasant feast — and see that it be 
 not too substantial. Avoid the heavy, clumsy, 
 unimaginative joint. Decide rather for idyllic, 
 Tournedos aux Champignons ; the fillet tender and- 
 saignant, as the French say, the mushrooms, not 
 of the little button variety, suggesting tins or 
 
48 A Perfect Dinner 
 
 bottles, but large and black and fresh from the 
 market. Rapture is their inevitable sauce: 
 rapture too deep for words. To share the same 
 p\&tepommes souffldes may be found worthy. 
 
 None but the irreverent would seek to blur 
 their impressions by eating other meats after 
 so delectable a dish. Order, rather, a -vege- 
 table salad, fresh and soothing: potatoes, cauli- 
 flower, carrots, celery, a suspicion of garlic, 
 and a sprinkling of parsley. Eat slowly; fool- 
 ish is the impatient man who gallops through 
 his pleasures in hot haste. 
 
 And now, he bold, defy convention, and do 
 away with sweets. After so tender a poem, 
 who could rejoice in the prose of pudding? 
 But " a last course at dinner, wanting cheese, 
 is like a pretty woman with only one eye." 
 Therefore, unless you be blind to beauty, let 
 cheese be served. Port Salut will do as well 
 as another; neither too strong nor too mild, it 
 has qualities not to be prized lightly. 
 
 Fruit is the sweet envoy to the Ballade of Din- 
 ner. And of all winter's fruits, the fragrant, 
 spicy little Tangerine orange is most delicious 
 and suggestive. Its perfume alone, to those 
 
A Perfect Dinner 49 
 
 who have dined discreetly, is a magic pass to 
 the happy land of dreams. Conversation ral- 
 lies, wit flashes, confidences are begotten over 
 walnuts and almonds, and so, unless in surly, 
 taciturn mood — as who could be after so' ex- 
 quisite a dinner? — let these have a place upon 
 your menu. 
 
 See that your wines are as perfect of their 
 kind as your courses. Too many would be a, 
 dire mistake. A good Sauterne, a light Bur- 
 gundy will answer well if "of the first quality." 
 Cheap, or of a poor vintage, they will ruin the 
 choicest dish. 
 
 Upon coffee, too, much depends. It must be 
 strong, it must be rich, it must be hot. But 
 strength and richness may not be had unless it 
 be fresh roasted and ground. Worse a hundred- 
 fold you may do than to mix Mocha with My- 
 sore ; theirs is one of the few happy unions. If 
 romance have charm for you, then finish with a 
 little glass of green Chartreuse — the yellow is 
 for the feeble and the namby-pamby; powerful, 
 indeed, is the spell it works, powerful and 
 ecstatic. 
 
 And having thus well and wisely dined, the 
 4 
 
go A Perfect Dinner 
 
 cares of life will slip from you ; its vexations 
 and annoyances will dwindle into nothingness. 
 Serene, at peace with yourself and all mankind, 
 you may then claim as your right the txue joys 
 of living. 
 
AN AUTUMN DINNER 
 
 Why sigh if summer be done, and already 
 grey skies, like a pall, hang over fog-choked 
 London town? The sun may shine, wild winds 
 may blow, but every evening brings with it the 
 happy dinner hour. With the autupm days 
 foolish men play at being pessimists, and talk 
 in platitudes of the cruel fall of the leaf and 
 death of love. And what matter? May they 
 not still eat and drink? May they not still 
 know that most supreme of all joys, the perfect 
 dish perfectly served? Small indeed is the evil 
 of a broken heart compared to a coarsened pal- 
 ate or disordered digestion. 
 
 " Therefore have we cause to be merry ! — and 
 to cast away all care." Autumn has less to 
 distract from the pleasure that never fails. 
 The glare of foolish sunlight no longer lures to 
 outdoor debauches, the soft breath of the south 
 wind no longer breathes hope of happiness in 
 Arcadian simplicity. We can sit in peace by 
 51 
 
52 An Autumn Dinner 
 
 our fireside, and dream dreams of a long suc- 
 cession of triumphant menus. The touch of 
 frost in the air is as a spur to the artist's inven- 
 tion ; it quickens ambition, and stirs to loftier 
 aspiration. The summer languor is dissipated, 
 and with the re-birth of activity is re-awakened 
 desire for the delicious, the piquante, the fan- 
 tastic. 
 
 Let an autumn dinner then be created! 
 dainty, as all art must be, with that elegance 
 and distinction and individuality without which 
 the masterpiece is not. Strike the personal 
 note ; forswear commonplace. 
 
 The glorious, unexpected overture shall be 
 soupe aux monks. For this great advantage it 
 can boast : it holds the attention not only in the 
 short — all too short — moment of eating, but 
 from early in the morning of the eventful day; 
 nor does it allow itself to be forgotten as the 
 eager hours race on. At eleven — and the heart 
 leaps for delight as the clock strikes— the /<?/- 
 au-feu is placed upon the fire; at four, tomatoes 
 and onions — the onions white as the driven 
 snow — communing in all good fellowship in 
 a worthy saucepan follow ; and at five, after an 
 
An Autumn Dinner 53 
 
 hour's boiling, they are strained through a 
 sieve, peppered, salted, and seasoned. And 
 now is the time for the mussels, swimming in 
 a sauce made of a bottle of white wine, a bou- 
 quet-garni, carrot, excellent vinegar, and a glass 
 of ordinary red wine, to be offered up in their 
 turn, and some thirty minutes will suffice for 
 the ceremony. At this critical point, bouillon, 
 tomatoes, and mussels meet in a proper pot 
 well rubbed with garlic, and an ardent quarter 
 of an hour will consummate the union. As 
 you eat, something of the ardour becomes 
 yours, and in an ecstasy the dinner begins. 
 
 Sad indeed would it prove were imagination 
 exhausted with so promising a prelude. Each 
 succeeding course must lead to new ecstasy, 
 else will the dinner turn out the worst of fail- 
 ures. In turbot au gratin, the ecstatic possibil- 
 ities are by no means limited. In a chaste 
 silver dish, make a pretty wall of potatoes, 
 which have been beaten to flour, enlivened 
 with pepper and salt, enriched with butter and 
 cream — cream thick and fresh and altogether 
 adorable — seasoned with Parmesan cheese, and 
 left on the stove for ten minutes, neither more 
 
54 ^n Autumn Dinner 
 
 nor less; let the wall enclose layers of turbot, 
 already cooked and in pieces, of melted butter 
 and of cream, with a fair covering of bread- 
 crumbs; and rely upon a quick oven to com- 
 plete the masterpiece. 
 
 After so pretty a conceit, where would be 
 the poetry in heavy joints or solid meats? Ris 
 de veau aux (ruffes surely would be more in sym- 
 pathy; the sweetbreads baked and browned 
 very tenderly, the sauce fashioned of truffles 
 duly sliced, marsala, lemon juice, salt and 
 paprika, with a fair foundation of benevolent 
 bouillon. And with so exquisite a dish no dis- 
 turbing vegetable should be served. 
 
 And after? If you still hanker for the roast 
 beef and horseradish of Old England, then go 
 and gorge yourself at the first convenient res- 
 taurant. Would you interrupt a symphony that 
 the orchestra might play " God save the Queen"? 
 Would you set the chorus in " Atalanta in Caly- 
 don" to singing odes by Mr. Alfred Austen? 
 There is a place for all things, and the place 
 for roast beef is not on the ecstatic menu. 
 Grouse, rather, would meet the diner's mood — 
 grouse with memories of the broad moor and 
 
An Autumn Dinner 55 
 
 purple heather. Roast them at a clear fire, 
 basting them with maternal care. Remember 
 that they, as well as pheasants and partridges, 
 should " have gravy in the dish and bread-sauce 
 in a cup." Their true affinity is less the vege- 
 table, however artistically prepared, than the 
 salad, serenely simple, that discord may not be 
 risked. Not this the time for the bewildering 
 macMoine, or the brilliant tomato. Choose, in- 
 stead, lettuce; crisp cool Romaine by choice. 
 Sober restraint should dignify the dressing ; a 
 suspicion of chives may be allowed ; a sprink- 
 ling of well-chopped tarragon leaves is indis- 
 pensable. Words are weak to express, but the 
 true poet strong to feel the loveliness now fast 
 reaching its climax. 
 
 It is autumn, the mood is fantastic : a sweet, 
 if it tend not to the vulgarity of heavy puddings 
 and stodgy pies, will introduce an amusing, a 
 sprightly element. Omelette souffle'e claims the 
 privilege. But it must be light as air, all but 
 ethereal in substance, a mere nothing to melt 
 in the mouth like a beautiful dream. And yet 
 in melting it must yield a flavour as soft as the 
 fragrance of flowers, and as evanescent. The 
 
$6 An Autumn Dinner 
 
 sensation must be but a passing one that piques 
 the curiosity and soothes the excited palate. 
 A dash of orange-flower water, redolent of the 
 graceful days that are no more, another of wine 
 from Andalusian. vineyards, and the sensation 
 may be secured. 
 
 By the law of contrasts the vague must give 
 way to the decided. The stirring, glorious 
 climax after the brief, gentle interlude, will be 
 had yn. canape des olives farcies, the olives stuffed 
 with anchovies and capers, deluged with cay- 
 enne, prone on their beds of toast and girded 
 about with astonished watercress. 
 
 Fruit will seem a graceful afterthought; 
 pears all golden, save where the sun, a passion- 
 ate lover, with his kisses set them to blushing 
 a rosy red ; grapes, purple and white and vo- 
 luptuous; figs, overflowing with the exotic 
 sweetness of their far southern home ; peaches, 
 tender and juicy and desirable. To eat is to 
 eschew all prose, to spread the wings of the 
 soul in glad poetic flight. What matter, in- 
 deed, if the curtains shut out stormy night or 
 monstrous fog? 
 
 Rejoice that no blue ribbon dangles unneces- 
 
An Autumn Dinner 57 
 
 sarily and ignominiously at your buttonhole. 
 Wine, rich wine to sing in the glass with 
 "odorous music," the autumn dinner demands,, 
 Burgundy, rich red Burgundy, it should be; 
 Beaune or Pomard as you will, to fire the blood 
 and set the fancy free. And let none other but 
 yourself warm it; study its temperature as the 
 lover might study the frowns and smiles of his 
 beloved. And the " Spirit of Wine" will sing 
 in your hearts that you too may triumph 
 
 In the savour and scent of his music. 
 His magnetic and mastering song. 
 
 And the Burgundy will make superfluous Port 
 and Tokay, and all the dessert wines, sweet or 
 dry, which unsympathetic diners range before 
 them upon the coming of the fruit. 
 
 Drink nothing else until wineglass be pushed 
 aside for cup of coffee, black and sweet pf sa- 
 vour, a blend of Mocha and Mysore. Rich, 
 thick, luxurious, Turkish coffee would be a 
 most fitting epilogue. But then, see that you 
 refuse the more frivolous, feminine liqueurs. 
 Cognac, old and strong-hearted, alone would 
 meet the hour's emotions — Cognac, the gift of 
 
58 An Autumn Dinner 
 
 the gods, the immortal liquid. Lean back and 
 smoke in silence, unless speech, exchanged 
 with the one kind spirit, may be golden and 
 perfect as the dinn.T. 
 
A MIDSUMMER DINNER 
 
 At midsummer, the gourmand subsists chiefly 
 on hope of the good time coming. The 12th 
 ushers in season of glorious plenty. , But, for 
 the moment, there is a lull in the market's 
 activity. Green things there are in abun- 
 dance; but upon green things alone it is not 
 good for man to live. Consult the oracle; turn 
 to the immortal, infallible "Almanack," and 
 confirmation of this sad truth will stare you in 
 the face plainly, relentlessly. Sucking-pig is 
 sole consolation offered by benevolent De la 
 Reynifere to well-nigh inconsolable man. But 
 what a poem in the sucking-pig that gambols 
 gaily over his pages : a delicious roasted crea- 
 ture, its little belly stuffed full of liver and 
 truffles and mushrooms, capers, anchovies, 
 aromatic pepper, and salt, all wrought together 
 into one elegant farce; while in dish apart, as 
 indispensable acolyte, an orange sauce waits to 
 complete the masterpiece ! En daube, this ami- 
 59 
 
6o A Midsummer Dinner 
 
 able little beast is not to be despised, nor en 
 ragoiit need it be dismissed with disdain, though, 
 let man of letters beware ! The Society of Au- 
 thors, with his welfare at heart, should warn 
 him while still there is time. What zest might 
 be given to the savourless Author, their organ, 
 were its columns well filled with stately and 
 brilliant discourses upon food and good eating. 
 How the writer of delicate perceptions should 
 eat: is that not, as subject, prettier and more 
 profitable far than how much money he can 
 make by publishing here and lecturing there? 
 
 The poor gourmand, in sorry plight during 
 midsummer's famine, may seek blessed light 
 also from Filippini, Delmonico's cook. Out of 
 the fulness of his heart he speaketh, leaving 
 not one of August's thirty-one shortening days 
 without elaborate menu. But London must fast 
 while New York feasts. At Delmonico's, happy 
 diners may smile gracious welcome to Lima 
 beans and sweet corn, to succotash and egg- 
 plant, to chicken h I'okra and clam chowder, 
 but what hope for the patrons of Verrey's and 
 Nichol's? What hope, unless, forthwith, they 
 
A Midsummer Dinner 6i 
 
 broad Atlantic? For the rest, Filippini reveals 
 not the originality, the invention that one 
 would have hoped from him, even at the season 
 when men are struck dead by the sun in the 
 streets of his dear town of adoption. Roast 
 turkey, with cranberry sauce, is suggestive of 
 November's drear days; Brussels sprouts sum 
 up greengrocers' resources in midwinter. But 
 why falter? . Hope need never be abandoned 
 by the wise, whose faith is strong in himself. 
 
 The season presents diflHculties, but the beau- 
 tiful dinner may still be designed. To meet 
 August's flaming mood, it should be rich, and 
 frankly voluptuous. Let flowers that bespeak 
 autumn's approach and the fulness of harvest 
 give the dinner its keynote. In Delft bowl, of 
 appropriate coarseness, heap the late summer's 
 first dahlias, all scarlet and gold as London's 
 sunset at the fall of the year. To the earth's, 
 ripeness and fertility their bold, unabashed 
 hues bear loud and triumphant witness. 
 
 Let the soup be at once tribute and farewell 
 to spring that has gone. Regret will be lux* 
 uriously expressed in pur^e de petits pais j spinach 
 added to the fresh peas to lend flavour and col- 
 
62 A Midsummer Dinner 
 
 our, a dash of sugar for sweetness' sake, a pinch 
 oi paprika to counteract it, a suspicion of onion 
 to strengthen it. Arrowroot, in discreet meas- 
 ure, will answer for thickening, and impart 
 more becoming consistency even than iiour. 
 Pleasure in the eating will be tempered by sor- 
 row in the prospect of parting, and therefore 
 intensified a hundredfold. Where the joy in 
 possession but for the ever-present fear of loss ? 
 
 With the second course, banish regret. For- 
 get yesterday; be indifferent to to-morrow; 
 revel riotously in to-day. Hure de saumon d, la 
 CambacMs will point out the way to supreme 
 surrender. Close to the head, the delicate 
 silver-rose of the fish must be cut in lavish pro- 
 portions; braised gently, its removal to the 
 dish that is waiting is signal to surround it 
 with trufHes and mushrooms and stoned olives 
 — garland beyond compare ; a sauce of drawn 
 butter, seasoned with paprika and lemon juice 
 and parsley, is essential accompaniment. And 
 now the present truly has conquered ! 
 
 The third course must not betray the sec- 
 ond's promise. Gay and fantastic, it must be 
 
A Midsummer Dinner 63 
 
 Rognons d'agneau d. Vipicurienne enters nobly into 
 the breach ; the lamb's dainty kidneys are split 
 and grilled with decorum, their fragrant cen- 
 tres are adorned with sympathetic sauce Tartare, 
 golden potatoes h la Parisienne insist upon serv- 
 ing as garniture, and Mr. Senn demands, as 
 finishing touch, the stimulating seduction of 
 sauce Poivrade. Who now will say that August 
 is barren of delicious devices? 
 
 To follow : poulet sauti ti V Hongroise, the clash 
 of the Czardas captured and imprisoned in a 
 stew-pan. With the Racoczy's wild drumming 
 stirring memory into frenzy, stew the fowl, 
 already cut into six willing pieces, with butter, 
 a well-minced onion, pepper— /a/n>Jfl by choice 
 — and salt ; ten minutes will suffice — how, in- 
 deed, endure the strain a second longer? Then 
 to the notes of the cymbal, moisten with Bicha- 
 mel sauce and fa'ir quantity of cream, and re- 
 joice in the fine Romany rapture for just twenty 
 minutes more. Decorate with croutons, and send 
 fancy, without fetters, wandering across the 
 plains and over the mountains of song-bound 
 Magyarland. To play the gypsy, free as the 
 
64 A Midsummer Dinner 
 
 this as it should be in the month, more than 
 all others, pledged to pleinairisme i Insipid, as 
 life without love, is the dinner without imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 Vegetables have no special place in the 
 scheme of August's dinner. But a salad will 
 not come amiss. Remember, the feast is or- 
 dered in sheer voluptuousness of spirit. The 
 fifth course calls for the scarlet splendour of 
 tomatoes; and the presiding dahlias, in bowl 
 of Delft, clamour for the gold of mayonnaise 
 sauce to carry out the exulting trumpeting 
 harmony. A hint, here, to the earnest, am- 
 bitious gourmand ; if cream be worked, deftly 
 and slowly, into the thickening sauce, sublime 
 will be the results. 
 
 A sweet, at this juncture, would err if over- 
 chaste in conception. Picture to yourself the 
 absurd figure cut by tapioca pudding or apple 
 dumpling on conscientiously voluptuous menu ? 
 A macMoine mMngu^e would have more legiti- 
 mate claim to close the banquet with distinc- 
 tion. August supplies fruit without stint: 
 plums and greengages and apricots and necta- 
 rines and peaches and pears and grapes and 
 
A Midsummer Dinner 65 
 
 bananas; all join together to sweet purpose, 
 with ecstatic intent; a large wine-glass of 
 Claret, a generous sprinkling of Cognac will 
 guard against puerility. The protecting me- 
 ringue should be crisp and pale golden brown ; 
 and later it will need the reinforcement of thick 
 luscious cream. 
 
 A sweet fails to delight, unless a savoury 
 comes speedily after. Caviar de Russie en cripes 
 is worthy successor of* macMoine mMngu^e. 
 Mingle cream with the caviar, and none who 
 eats will have cause to complain. It reconciles 
 to the barbarous, even where Tolstoi and Marie 
 Bashkirtseff may have failed. 
 
 To dally with fruit is graceful excuse to lin- 
 ger longer over wine. Plums and greengages, 
 their bloom still fresh, their plump roundness 
 never yet submitted to trial by fire, figs — pale 
 northern ghosts, alas! — peaches, grapes, make 
 exquisite interlude — between dinner and coffee. 
 Refrain not: abstinence, of all follies created 
 by man, is the most wicked, the most unpar- 
 donable. 
 
 Drink Chambertin, that the song in your 
 heart may be fervent and firm. Drink, that 
 5 
 
66 A Midsummer Dinner 
 
 your courage may be strong for the feasting. 
 Shake off the shackles of timidity. Be fearless 
 and brave, turning a deaf ear to the temptations 
 of the temperate. To be moderate at mid- 
 summer is to disregard the imperative com- 
 mands of immoderate nature. 
 
 Coffee, made as the Turks make it, will bring 
 languorous, irresistible message from the sen- 
 suous East. Fine Champagne will add the en- 
 ergy of the fiery West. Adorable combination ! 
 Oh, East is East, and West is West; but the 
 twain the day of the August dinner shall meet. 
 
TWO SUPPERS 
 
 Tradition is a kindly tyrant. Why then strive 
 to shake off its shackles? To bow the neck 
 gladly beneath the yoke is at times to win rich 
 reward, first in charm of association, and then 
 in pleasantness of actual fact. 
 
 Is there not a tradition in-England that sup- 
 per is more appropriate to the quiet of Sunday 
 evenings than dinner ? No use to ask whence 
 it arose or whither it leads. There it is, though 
 many would evade it as senseless makeshrift. 
 To forswear dinner for all time and eternity 
 would be worse than folly; it is life's most sol- 
 emn, most joyous ceremony. But once and 
 again, for dear sake of contrast, to find a seduc- 
 ing substitute is wisdom in a world where all 
 pleasures fail, and man is constant to one 
 thing never. And now that summer has come 
 and holds the green earth in its ardent embrace, 
 now that days are long, and sweetest hours are 
 those when the sun sinks low, there is new 
 
 fiT 
 
68 Two Suppers 
 
 delight in the evening meal that leaves one 
 free to dream in the twilight, that does not 
 summon one indoors just as all outdoors is 
 loveliest. Supper on every day in the week 
 would be a mistake; but on one in seven it 
 may well be commended, especially when the 
 month is June. In the afternoon, tea is served 
 in the garden, or whatever London can offer in 
 the garden's stead. There are a few straw- 
 berries in a pretty old porcelain dish to lend an 
 air of dainty substance, and there is rich cream 
 in which they may hide their pretty blushes; 
 and there is gay talk and happy silence. In- 
 dolent hours follow. Is it not Sunday, and are 
 not all weekly cares pigeon-holed out of sight ? 
 Nor do ths advantages of the occasional sup- 
 per end here. It is excellent excuse for the 
 ice-cold banquet which in the warm summer- 
 time has its own immeasurable virtues. A 
 supper should be cold ; else it deteriorates into 
 mere sham dinner. Never do cold dishes seem 
 more delicious than when cruel thermometer is 
 at fever heat. You see ? There is logic in the 
 Sunday evening supper, at this season of all 
 seasons for love, and eating, and drinking. 
 
Two Suppers 69 
 
 But supper does not mean, necessarily, veal 
 and ham pie, above which British imagination 
 dares not soar. It is not limited to the half- 
 demolished joint — sad wreck of midday's meal. 
 It may be as fair and harmonious as dinner 
 itself, as noble a tribute to the artist, as superb 
 a creation. Only the thoughtless and prosaic 
 will dismiss it carelessly in the ordering, be- 
 lieving that any odds and ends will answer. 
 Whatever is left over is to many the one possi- 
 ble conception of the late evening meal. But 
 the gourmand, exulting in his gluttony, makes 
 of it a work of art, good in the eating, good in 
 the remembrance thereof. 
 
 Summer allows wide scope for his fertile 
 fancy. He may begin with salmon, refreshing 
 to the eye in its arrangement of pale silver and 
 rose, cold as the glaciers of Greenland after its 
 long hours of repose on voluptuous bed of ice. 
 A mayonnaise sauce, creamy and rich, turning 
 the silver to gold, like a fairy godmother of 
 legend, is the cherished accompaniment. The 
 feeling of wonder, aroused in the hours of 
 watching under the trees, being still upper- 
 most, it will seem as if the soft hues of the 
 
JO Two Suppers 
 
 afterglow had been embodied in this exquisite 
 prologue, with its rose and citron, its gold and 
 soft grey tints. 
 
 Tender spring chickens may then give greet- 
 ing to the summer-time. They also will have 
 spent hours in close communion with solid 
 blocks of ice, and will be as cool as the breezes 
 that blow over the high snow fields of Switzer- 
 land. For, be it noted in passing, without a 
 refrigerator the perfect supper is sheer impos- 
 sibility. Success depends largely upon tem- 
 perature. Lukewarm supper would be as 
 detestable as a lukewarm dinner. With the 
 innocent chickens, chilling and chaste, a green 
 salad will be as appropriate as edelweiss on 
 Alpine slopes. It should be made of the hearts 
 of the youngest of young cabbage lettuces, 
 touched with onions, and fatigued with the one 
 most admirable salad dressing that man evef 
 devised. Linger as long as may be, for thiii 
 surely is one of the beautiful moments that re^ 
 pay the artist for his toiling and his intervals 
 of despair. 
 
 Asparagus will prove most seemly successor. 
 Let it also be cold beyond suspicion. A sauce 
 
Two Suppers '}\ 
 
 of vinegar and oil, pepper and salt, force it to 
 yield its most subtle sweetness. It will prove 
 another course to call for lingering. Unless 
 happiness be realised, of what use is it to be 
 happy ? He who is not conscious of pleasure 
 when he eats is not worthy to sit at table with 
 the elect. Like the animals, he is content to 
 feed, and the art of the cook is, alas ! lost upon 
 him. 
 
 A savoury at this banquet would be superflu- 
 ous. The presence of cheese would be but 
 deference to convention, and faithfulness to 
 tradition does not demand as its price sacrifice 
 of all freedom in detail. The asparagus would 
 be dishonoured were it to give place to aught 
 more substantial than strawberries. Some- 
 times in the day's menu, as in a decorative 
 scheme, loveliness is enhanced by repetition. 
 As a second curve emphasises the grace of the 
 first, so strawberries at supper carry out with 
 great elegance the strawberry scheme of after- 
 noon ted. Pretty hillocks of sugar, and deep 
 pools of cream, make a rich setting for this 
 jewel among fruits. 
 
 The wine, clearly, should be white, and it, 
 
^2 Two Suppers 
 
 too, should be iced — remember the month is 
 June. Few Rhine wines could consistently re- 
 fuse to be pressed into service. But French 
 vineyards have greater charm than German, 
 though the Lorelei may sing in near waters, 
 and to Graves, or Barsac, preference will be 
 wisely proffered. 
 
 Be fearful of striking a false note. See that 
 the coffee, black and strong though it be, is as 
 cold as wine and salmon, chicken and salad. 
 And pour the green Chartreuse into glasses 
 that have been first filled with crushed ice. 
 And as you smoke your cigarette, ask yourself 
 if the Sunday evening supper tradition be not 
 one crying for preservation at all costs. 
 
 When another week has rolled by and dis- 
 appeared into the Ewigkeit, vary the menu. An 
 element of the bizarre, the strange, the un- 
 accustomed, often lends irresistible piquancy. 
 Be faithful to the refrigerator, however fickle 
 to other loves. Open the banquet with a stir- 
 ring salad fashioned of red herring and pota- 
 toes, and, perhaps, a few leaves of lettuce. It 
 savours of the sensational, and stimulates 
 appetite. 
 
Two Suppers 73 
 
 That disappointment may not ensue, desert 
 well-trodden paths, and,. borrowing from Ger- 
 many, serve a dish of meat, amusing in its 
 quaint variety. Slices of lamb may provide a 
 pretty centre; surroni-ding them, scatter slices 
 of the sausage of Brunswick and Bologna, here 
 and there set in relief against a piece of grey 
 Leberwurst. As garniture, eiiciicle the dish 
 with a garland of anchovies, curled up into en- 
 chanting little balls, and gherkins, and hard- 
 boiled eggs cut in delicate rounds. Memories 
 will crowd fast upon you as you eat; memories 
 of the little German towns and their forgotten 
 hilltops, visited in summers long since gone, of 
 the little German inn, and the friendly land- 
 lord, eager to please ; of the foaming mugs of 
 beer, and the tall, slender goblets of white 
 wine. Before supper is done, you will have 
 travelled leagues upon leagues into the play- 
 time of the past. 
 
 Cheese now is as essential as it would have 
 been intrusive in the other menu. Gruy^re 
 should be your choice, and if you would have 
 it of fine flavour, seek it not at the English 
 cheesemonger's, but at the little German delica- 
 
74 Two Suppers 
 
 tessen shop. Brown bread would best enter into 
 the spirit of the feast. 
 
 As epilogue, fruit can never be discordant, 
 and what fruit in early June insists upon being 
 eaten with such sweet persistency as the straw- 
 berry. But, on your German evening, fatigue 
 it with Kirsch, leave it on its icy couch until 
 the very last minute, and memories of the 
 Laperouse will mingle with those of the smoky 
 inn of the Fatherland. 
 
 Is there any question that Hock is the wine, 
 when sausage and red herring and Gruyfere 
 cheese iigure so prominently in the menu's com- 
 position ? Drink it from tall slender glass, that 
 it may take you fully into its confidence. 
 Coffee need not be iced. In fact, it should 
 positively be hot — can you doubt it ? And Cog- 
 nac now will prove more responsive to your 
 mood than Chartreuse. There is no written 
 law to regulate these matters. But the true 
 artist needs no code to guide him. He knows 
 instinctively what is right and what is wrong, 
 and doubts can never assail him. 
 
ON SOUP 
 
 "When all around the wind doth blow," draw 
 close the curtains, build up a roaring fire, 
 light lamp and candles, and begin your dinner 
 with a good — good, mind you — dish of soup. 
 Words of wisdom are these, to be pondered 
 over by the woman who would make her even- 
 ing dinner a joyful anticipation, a cherished 
 memory. 
 
 Soup, with so much else good and great, is 
 misunderstood in an England merrier than 
 dainty in her feasting. Better is this matter 
 ordered across the Border. For the healthy- 
 minded, Scotch mists have their compensation 
 in Scotch broth ; odoriferous and appetising is 
 its very name. But in England, soup long 
 since became synonymous with turtle, and the 
 guzzling alderman of legend. Richness is 
 held its one essential quality — richness, not 
 strength. Too often, a thick, greasy mess, 
 that could appeal but to the coarsest hunger, 
 75 
 
76 On Soup 
 
 will be set before you, instead of the dish that 
 can be comforting and sustaining both, and yet 
 meddles not with the appetite. It should be 
 but a prelude to the meal — the prologue, as it 
 were, to the play — its excellence, a welcome 
 forecast of delights to follow, a welcome stimu- 
 lus to light talk and lighter laughter. Over 
 Julienne or bisque frowns are smoothed away, 
 and guests who sat down to table in monosylla- 
 bic gloom will plunge boldly into epigram- 
 matic or anecdotic gaiety ere ever the fish be 
 served. 
 
 Magical, indeed, is the spell good soup can 
 cast. Of its services as medicine or tonic, why 
 speak ? Beef tea gives courage to battle with 
 pain and suffering ; consommd cheers the hours 
 of convalescence. Let all honour be done to it 
 for its virtues in the sick-room ; but with so 
 cheerful a subject, it is pleasanter to dwell on 
 its more cheerful aspects. 
 
 More legitimate is it to consider the happy 
 part it plays in the traveller's programme. 
 And for this — it must be repeated, as for all 
 the best things in the gourmand' s life — one jour- 
 neys to France. But first remember — that con- 
 
On Soup yj 
 
 trast may add piquancy to the French menu — 
 the fare that awaits the weary, disconsolate 
 traveller at English railway station : the stodgy 
 bun, Bath and penny varieties both, and the 
 triangular sandwich ; the tea drawn overnight, 
 and the lukewarm bovril, hopelessly inadequate 
 substitute for soup freshly made from beef or 
 stock. At a luncheon bar thus wickedly 
 equipped, eating becomes what it never should 
 be! — a sad, terrible necessity, a pleasureless 
 safeguard against pangs of hunger, a mere 
 animal function, and therefore a degradation 
 to the human being educated to look upon food 
 and drink — even so might the painter regard 
 his colours, the sculptor his clay and marble— as 
 means only to a perfect artistic end. 
 
 Or, consider also, to make the contrast 
 stronger, the choicest banquet American rail- 
 ways, for all the famed American enterprise, 
 provide. To journey by the " Pullman vesti- 
 buled train " from New York to Chicago is lux- 
 ury, if you will. Upon your point of view 
 depends the exact amount of enjoyment yielded 
 by meals eaten while you dash through the 
 world at the rate of eighty miles an hour, more 
 
yS On Soup 
 
 or less, and generally less. There is charm in 
 the coloured waiters, each with gay flower in 
 his button-hole, and gayer smile on his jolly, 
 black face; there is pretence in the cheap, 
 heavy, clumsy Limoges off which you eat, out 
 of which you drink, in the sham silver case in 
 which your Champagne bottle is brought, if 
 for Champagne you are foolish enough to call. 
 But bitterness is in your wine cup, for the wine 
 is flat; heaviness is in your breakfast or dinner, 
 for bread is underdone and sodden, and butter 
 is bad, and the endless array of little plates 
 discourages with its suggestion of vulgar plenty 
 and artless selection ; and all is vanity and vex- 
 ation, save the corn bread — the beautiful golden 
 corn bread, which deserves a chapter to itself — 
 and the fruit: the bananas and grapes, and 
 peaches and oranges, luscious and ravishing as 
 they seldom are on any but American soil. 
 Nor will you mend matters by bestowing your 
 patronage t:pon the railway restaurants of the 
 big towns where you stop: the dirty, fly-bitten 
 lunch counters. Pretentious, gorgeous, mag- 
 nificent, they maybe; but good, no! All, even 
 the privilege of journeying at the rate of eighty 
 
On Soup 79 
 
 miles an hour, would you give for one bowl of 
 good soup at the Amiens buffet. 
 
 For, when everything is said, it is the soup 
 which makes travelling so easy and luxurious 
 in France. A breakfast, or a dinner, of courses, 
 well-cooked, and well-served into the bargain, 
 you may eat at many a wayside station. Wine, 
 ordinary as its name, perhaps, but still good 
 and honest, is to be had for a paltry sum when- 
 ever the train may stop. Crisp rolls, light 
 brioches tempt you to unwise excesses. Not a 
 province, scarce a town, but has its own special 
 dainty; nougat at Mont^limart, sausages at 
 Aries, pdt^ de foie gras at P^rigueux ; and so you 
 might go on mapping out the country according 
 to, not its departments, but its dishes. These, 
 however, the experienced traveller would gladly 
 sacrifice for the delicate, strong, refreshing, 
 inspiriting bouillon, served at every buffet. This 
 it is which helps one to forget fatigue and dust 
 and cinders, and the odious Frenchman who 
 will have all the windows shut. Bouillon, and 
 not wine, gives one new heart to face the long 
 night and the longer miles. With it the day's 
 journey is well begun and well ended. It sus- 
 
8o On Soup 
 
 tains and nourishes; and, better still, it has its 
 own aesthetic value ; perfect in itself, it is the 
 one perfect dish for the place and purpose. No 
 wonder, then, that it has kindled even Mr. 
 Henry James into at least a show of enthusi- 
 asm ; his bowls of bouillon ever remain in the 
 reader's memory, the most prominent pleas- 
 ures of his " Little Tour in France." 
 
 Equally desirable in illness and in health, 
 during one's journeys abroad and one's days at 
 home, why is it then that soup has never yet 
 been praised and glorified as it should? How 
 is it that its greatness has inspired neither ode 
 nor epic; that it has been left to a parody — 
 clever, to be sure, but cleverness alone is not 
 tribute sufficient — in a child's book to sing its 
 perfections. It should be extolled, and it has 
 been vilified ; insults have been heaped upon it ; 
 ingratitude from man has been its portion. 
 The soup tureen is as poetic as the lovingxup; 
 why should it suggest but the baldest prose to 
 its most ardent worshippers? 
 
 " Thick or clear'" whispers the restaurant 
 waiter in your ear, as he points to the soups on 
 the bill of fare. "Thick or clear," — there you 
 
On Soup 8 1 
 
 have the two all-important divisions. In that 
 simple phrase is expressed the whole science of 
 soupmaking; face to face with first principles 
 it brings you. But whether you elect for the 
 one or the other, this great fundamental truth 
 there is, ever to be borne in mind: let fresh 
 meat be the basis of your consomm^ as of your 
 bisque, of your gumbo as of your pates d'ltalie. 
 True, in an emergency, Liebig, and all its 
 many offshoots, may serve you — and serve you 
 well. But if you be a woman of feeling, of 
 fancy, of imagination, for this emergency alone 
 will you reserve your Liebig. Who would eat 
 tinned pineapple when the fresh fruit is to be 
 had ? Would you give bottled tomatoes prefer- 
 ence when the gay pommes d" amour, just picked, 
 ornament every stall in the market ? Beef ex- 
 tract in skilful hands may work wonders; the 
 soup made from it may deceive the connoisseur 
 of great repute. But what then ? Have you 
 no conscience, no respect for your art, that you 
 would thus deceive ? 
 
 Tinned soups also there be in infinite vari- 
 ety, ox-tail, and mock-turtle, and Julienne, and 
 gravy, and chicken broth, and many more than 
 
82 On Soup 
 
 one likes to think of. But dire indeed must be 
 your need before you have recourse to them. 
 They, too, will answer in the hour of want. 
 But at the best, they prove but make-shifts, but 
 paltry make-believes to be avoided, even as you 
 steer clear of the soup vegetables and herbs — 
 bits of carrot and onion and turnip and who 
 knows what ?— bottled ingeniously, pretty to the 
 eye, without flavour to the palate. One does 
 not eat to please the sense of sight alone ! 
 
 When, heroically, you have forsworn the en- 
 snaring tin and the insinuating bottle, the hori- 
 zon widens before you. " Thick and clear " : 
 the phrase suggests but narrow compass; broad 
 beyond measure is the sphere it really opens. 
 
 Of all the Doges of Bobbio, but one — if tra- 
 dition be true — sickened of his hundred soups. 
 Three hundred and sixty-five might have been 
 their number with results no more disastrous. 
 Given a cook of good instincts and gay imagi- 
 nation, and from one year's end to the other 
 never need the same soup be served a second 
 time. 
 
 A word, first, as to its proper place on the 
 menu. The conservative Briton might think 
 
On Soup 83 
 
 this a subject upon which the last word long 
 since had been spoken. If soup at all, then 
 must it appear between hors d'auvre and fish : 
 as well for Catholic to question the doctrine of 
 infallibility as for self-respecting man to doubt 
 the propriety of this arrangement. But they 
 don't know everything down in Great Britain, 
 and other men there be of other minds. Order 
 a dinner in the American West, and a proces- 
 sion of smiling, white-robed blacks — talking, 
 alas! no more the good old darkey, but pure 
 American — swoop down upon you, bringing at 
 once, in disheartening medley, your blue-points, 
 your gumbo, your terrapin, your reed birds, and 
 your apple pie. What sacrilege ! In the pleas- 
 antest little restaurant in all Rome, close to 
 the Piazza Colonna, within sound of the Corso, 
 was once to be seen any evening in the week — 
 may be still, for that matter — a bemedalled 
 major finishing his dinner with his minestra in- 
 stead o£his dolce. But if a fat, little grey-haired 
 man once consent to wear a coat scarce longer 
 than an Eton jacket, may not, in reason, worse 
 enormities be expected of him ? Truth to tell, 
 the British convention, borrowed from France, 
 
84 On Soup 
 
 is the best. If, in good earnest, you would 
 profit by your potage, give it place of honour at 
 the top of the menu. Leave light and frivolous 
 sweets to lighter, more frivolous moments, 
 when, hunger appeased, man may unbend to 
 trifles. 
 
 What the great Alexandre calls the grand con- 
 somme is the basis of all soup — and sauce mak- 
 ing. Study his very word with reverence; 
 carry out his every suggestion with devotion. 
 Among the ingredients of this consummate 
 bouillon his mighty mind runs riot. Not even 
 the adventures of the immortal Musketeers 
 stimulated his fancy to wilder flights. His 
 directions, large and lavish as himself, would 
 the economical housewife read with awe and 
 something of terror. Veal and beef and fowl 
 — a venerable cock will answer — and rabbit 
 and partridges of yester-year ; these be no more 
 than the foundation. Thrown into the marmite 
 in fair and fitting proportions, then must they 
 be watched, anxiously and intelligently, as 
 they boil ; spoonfuls of the common bouillon 
 should be poured upon them from time to time; 
 there must be added onions and carrots, and 
 
On Soup 85 
 
 ce,lery and parsley, and whatever aromatic 
 herbs may be handy, and oil, if you have it; 
 and after four hours of boiling slowly and de- 
 murely over a gentle fire, and, next, straining 
 through coarse linen, you may really begin to 
 prepare your soup. 
 
 If to these heights the ordinary man — or wo- 
 man — may not soar, then will the good, sub- 
 stantial, everyday bouillon, or pot-au-feu — made 
 of beef alone, but ever flavoured with vege- 
 tables — fulfil the same purpose, not so deli- 
 ciously, but still fairly well. In households 
 where soup is, as it should be, a daily necessity, 
 stock may be made and kept for convenience. 
 But if you would have your pot-au-feu in perfec- 
 tion, let the saucepan, or marmitt — the English 
 word is commonplace, the French term charms 
 — be not of iron, but of earthenware: rich 
 tawny brown or golden green in colour, as you 
 see it in many a French market-place, if the 
 least feeling for artistic fitness dwells within 
 your soul. Seven hours are needed paw f aire 
 sourire le pot-au-feu — the expression is not to be 
 translated. Where soups are concerned the 
 English language is poor, and cold, and halt- 
 
86 On Soup 
 
 ing; the speech of France alone can honour 
 them aright. 
 
 With good bouillon there is naught the genius 
 may not do. Into it the French chef puts a few 
 small slices of bread, and, as you eat, you won- 
 der if terrapin or turtle ever tasted better. 
 With the addition of neatly-chopped carrots 
 and onions, and turnips and celery, you have 
 Julienne ; or, with dainty asparagus tops, sweet 
 fresh peas, tiny stinging radishes, delicate 
 young onions, printanier, with its suggestions of 
 spring and blossoms in every mouthful. This 
 ' last, surely, is the lyric among soups. Decide 
 upon cheese instead, and you will set a Daudet 
 singing you a poem in prose: ^^ Oh! la bonne 
 odeur de soupe aufromage!" Pdtes d' Italie, vermi- 
 celli, macaroni, each will prove a separate ecstasy, 
 if you but remember the grated Parmesan that 
 must be sprinkled over it without stint — as in 
 Italy. Days there be when nothing seems so 
 in keeping as rice : others, when cabbage hath 
 charm, that is, if first in your simmering bouil- 
 lon a piece of ham — whether of York, of Stras- 
 bourg, or of Virginia — be left for three hours 
 or more; again, to thicken the golden liquid 
 
On Soup 87 
 
 with tapioca may seem of all devices the most 
 adorable. And so may you ring the changes 
 day after day, week after week, month after 
 month. 
 
 If of these lighter soups you tire, then turn 
 with new hope and longing to the stimulating 
 list oi purees and crimes. Let tomatoes, or peas, 
 or beans, or lentils, as you will, be the key- 
 note, always you may count upon a harmony 
 inspiriting and divine ; a rapture tenfold greater 
 if it be enjoyed in some favourite corner at 
 Marguery's or Voisin's, where the masterpiece 
 awaits the chosen few. Or if, when London 
 fogs are heavy and life proves burdensome, 
 comfort is in the very name of broth, then put 
 it to the test in its mutton, Scotch, chicken, or 
 dozen and more varieties, and may it give you 
 new courage to face the worst! 
 
 But if for pleasure solely you eat your soup, 
 as you should, unless illness or the blue devils 
 have you firm in their grasp, a few varieties 
 there be which to all the rest are even as is the 
 rose to lesser flowers, as is the onion to vege- 
 tables of more prosaic virtue. Clams are a joy 
 if you add to them but salt and pepper — cay- 
 
88 On Soup 
 
 enne by preference — and a dash of lemon juice; 
 as a chowder, they are a substantial dream to 
 linger over; but made into soup they reach 
 the very topmost bent of their being: it is the 
 end for which they were created. Of oysters 
 this is no less true. Veal stock or mutton broth 
 may pass as prosaic basis of the delicacy ; but 
 better depend upon milk and cream, and of the 
 latter be not sparing. Mace, in discreet meas- 
 ure, left flowing in the liquid will give the 
 finishing, the indispensable touch. Oh, the 
 inexhaustible resources of the sea ! With these 
 delights rank bisque, that priceless purde, made 
 of crayfish — in this case a pinch of allspice 
 instead of mace — and if in its fullest glory you 
 would know it, go eat it at the Laperouse on 
 the Qugi des Grands Augustins ; eat it, as from 
 the window of the low room in the entresol, you 
 look over toward the towers of Notre Dame. 
 
 Be a good Catholic on Fridays, that, with 
 potages maigres — their name, too, is legion — 
 your soups may be increased and multiplied, 
 and thus infinity become your portion. 
 
THE SIMPLE SOLE 
 
 Have you ever considered the sole: the sim- 
 ple, unassuming sole, in Quaker-like garb, 
 striking a quiet grey note in every fishmonger's 
 window, a constant rebuke to the mackerel that 
 makes such vain parade of its green audacity, 
 of the lobster that flaunts its scarlet boldness 
 in the face of the passer-b)' ? By its own merits 
 the sole appeals; upon no meretricious charm 
 does it base its claim for notice. Flat and elu- 
 sive, it seems to seek retirement, to beg to be 
 forgotten. And yet, year by year, it goes on, 
 unostentatiously and surely increasing in price ; 
 year by year, it establishes, with firm hold, its 
 preeminence upon the menu of every well-regu- 
 lated table d'hSte. 
 
 But here pause a moment, and reflect. For 
 it is this very table d'hdte which bids fair to be 
 the sole's undoing. If it has been maligned 
 and misunderstood, it is because, swaddled in 
 bread-crumbs, fried in indifferent butter, it has 
 
go The Simple Sole 
 
 come to be the symbol of hotel or pension din- 
 ner, until the frivolous and heedlesss begin to 
 believe that it cannot exist otherwise, that in 
 its irrepressible bread-crumbs it must swim 
 through the silent sea. 
 
 The conscientious gourmand knows better, 
 however. He knows that bread-crumbs and 
 frying-pan are but mere child's play compared 
 to its diviner devices. It has been said that 
 the number and various shapes of fishes are not 
 "'more strange or more fit for contemplation 
 than their different natures, inclinations, and 
 actions." But fitter subject still for the con- 
 templative, and still more strange, is their 
 marvellous, well-nigh limitless, culinary am- 
 bition. Triumph after triumph the most mod- 
 est of them all yearns to achieve, and if this 
 sublime yearning be ever and always sup- 
 pressed and thwarted and misdoubted, the fault 
 lies with dull, plodding, unenterprising hu- 
 mans. Not one yearns to such infinite purpose 
 as the sole; not one is so snubbed and enslaved. 
 A very Nora among fish, how often must it long 
 to escape and to live its own life — or, to be 
 more accurate, to die its own death ! 
 
The Simple Sole 91 
 
 Not that bread-crumbs and £r3'ing-pan are 
 not all very well in their way. Given a dis- 
 creet cook, pure virginal butter, a swift fire, 
 and a slice of fresh juicy lemon, something not 
 far short of perfection may be reached. But 
 other ways there are, more suggestive, more 
 inspiring, more godlike. Turn to the French 
 chef and learn wisdom from him. 
 
 First and foremost in this glorious repertory 
 comes sole a la Normande, which, under another 
 name, is the special distinction and pride of the 
 Restaurant Marguery. Take your sole — from 
 the waters of Dieppe would you have the best 
 — and place it, with endearing, lover-like ca- 
 ress, in a pretty earthenware dish, with butter 
 for only companion. At the, same time, in 
 sympathetic saucepan, lay mussels to the num- 
 ber of two dozen, opened and well cleaned, as 
 a matter of course ; and let each rejoice in the 
 society of a stimulating mushroom; when al- 
 most done, but not quite, make of them a gar- 
 land round the expectant sole ; cover their too 
 seductive beauty with a rich white sauce ; re- 
 kindle their passion in the oven for a few min- 
 utes; and serve immediately and hot. Joy is 
 
92 The Simple Sole 
 
 the result ; pure, uncontaminated joy. If this 
 be too"simple for your taste, then court elabora- 
 tion and more complex sensation after this 
 fashion : from the first, unite the sole to two of 
 its most devoted admirers, the oyster and the 
 mussel — twelve, say, of each — and let thyme 
 and fragrant herbs and onion and white wirie 
 and truffles be close witnesses of their union. 
 Seize the sole when it is yet but half cooked ; 
 stretch it out gently in another dish, to which 
 oysters and mussels must follow in hot, precip- 
 itate flight. And now the veiling sauce, again 
 white, must have calf's kidney and salt pork 
 for foundation, and the first gravy of the fish 
 for fragrance and seasoning. Mushrooms and 
 lemon in slices may be added to the garniture. 
 And if at the first mouthful you do not thrill 
 with rapture, the Thames will prove scarce 
 deep and muddy enough to hide your shame. 
 
 Put to severest test, the love of the sole for 
 the oyster is never betrayed. Would you be 
 convinced — and it is worth the trouble — experi- 
 ment with sole farcie aux huitres, a dish so per- 
 fect that surelj', like manna, it must have come 
 
 strnitrht frnm T-Tpaven Tn nrnsaio nrnrHpnl 
 
The Simple Sole 93 
 
 language, it is thus composed: you stuff your 
 sole with forcemeat of oysters and truffles, you 
 season with salt and carrot and lemon, you 
 steep it in white wine — not sweet, or the sole 
 is dishonoured — you cook it in the oven, and 
 you serve the happy fish on a rich ragoit of the 
 oysters and truffles. Or, another tender con- 
 ceit that you may make yours to your own 
 great profit and enlightenment, is sole far cie aux 
 crevettes. In this case it is wise to fillet the sole 
 and wrap each fillet about the shrimps, which 
 have been well mixed and pounded with butter. 
 A rich Bechamel sauce and garniture of lemons 
 complete a composition so masterly that, before 
 it, as before a fine Velasquez, criticism is si- 
 lenced. 
 
 Sole au gratin, though simpler, is none the 
 less desirable. Let your first care be the sauce, 
 elegantly fashioned of butter and mushrooms 
 and shallots and parsley; pour a little — on 
 your own judgment you have best rely for ex- 
 act quantity — into a baking-dish ; lay the sole 
 upon this liquid couch; deluge it with the re- 
 mainder of the sauce, exhilarating white wine, 
 and lemon juice ; bury it under bread-crumbs, 
 
94 The Simple Sole 
 
 and bake it until it rivals a Rembrandt in rich- 
 ness and splendour. 
 
 In antiquarian moments, fricasey soals white, 
 and admit that your foremothers were more 
 accomplished artists than you. What folly to 
 boast of modern progress when, at table, the 
 Englishman of to-day is but a brute savage 
 compared with his ancestors of a hundred years 
 and more ago! But take heart: be humble, 
 read this golden book, and the day of emanci- 
 pation cannot be very far distant. Make your 
 fricasey as a step in the right direction. Ac- 
 cording to the infallible book, "skin, wash, 
 and gut your soals very clean, cut off their 
 heads, dry them in a cloth, then with your 
 knife very carefully cut the flesh from the 
 bones and fins on both sides. Cut the flesh 
 long ways, and then across, so that each soal 
 will be in eight pieces; take the heads and 
 bones, then put them into a saucepan with a 
 pint of water, a bundle of sweet herbs, an 
 onion, a little whole pepper, two or three blades 
 of mace, a little salt, a very little piece of 
 lemon peel, and a little crust of bread. Cover 
 it close, let it boil till half is wasted, then 
 
The Simple Sole 95 
 
 strain it through a fine sieve, put it into a stew- 
 pan, put in the soals and half a pint of white 
 wine, a little parsley chopped fine, a few mush- 
 rooms cut small, a piece of butter as big as an 
 hen's egg, rolled in flour, grate a little nutmeg, 
 set all together on the fire, but keep shaking 
 the pan all the while till the fish is done 
 enough. Then dish it up, and garnish with 
 lemon." And now, what thinij you of that? 
 
 If for variety you would present a brown 
 fricasey, an arrangement in browns as startling 
 as a poster by Lautrec or Anquetin, add anchovy 
 to your seasoning, exchange white wine for red, 
 and introduce into the mixture truffles and mo- 
 rels, and mushrooms, and a spoonful of catchup. 
 The beauty of the colour none can deny; the 
 subtlety of the flavour none can resist. 
 
 Another step in the right direction, which is 
 the old, will lead you to sole pie, a dish of 
 parts. Eels must be used, as is the steak in a 
 pigeon's pie for instance; and nutmeg and 
 parsley and anchovies must serve for seasoning. 
 It is a pleasant fancy, redolent of the days 
 gone by. 
 
"BOUILLABAISSE"; 
 
 A Symphony in Gold 
 
 Hear Wagner in Baireuth (though illusions 
 may fly like dust before a March wind); see 
 Velasquez in Madrid ; eat Bouillabaisse in Mar- 
 seilles. And eat, moreover, with no fear of 
 disenchantment; the saffron's gold has richer 
 tone, the ail's aroma sweeter savour, under hot 
 blue southern skies than in the cold sunless 
 north. 
 
 How much Thackeray is swallowed with 
 y oven Bouillabaisse? asks the cynical American, 
 vowed to all eternity to his baked shad and 
 soft-shelled crab ; how much Thackeray ? echoes 
 the orthodox Englishman, whose salmon, cu- 
 cumberless, smacks of heresy, and whose whit- 
 ing, if it held not its tail decorously in its 
 bread-crumbed mouth, would be cast for ever 
 into outer darkness. Sentiment there may be : 
 not born, however, of Thackeray's verse, but 
 7 97 
 
98 " Bouillabaisse" ; 
 
 of days spent in Provengal sunshine, of ban- 
 quets eaten at Provengal tables. Call for Bouil- 
 labaisse in the Paris restaurant, at the Lap^rouse 
 or Marguery's (you might call for it for a year 
 and a day in London restaurants and always in 
 vain) ; and if the dish brought back something 
 of the true flavour, over it is cast the glamour 
 and romance of its far southern home, of the 
 land of troubadours and of Tartarin. But order 
 it in Marseilles, and the flavour will all be 
 there, and the sunshine and the gaiety, and the 
 song'as well; fact outstrips the imagination of 
 even the meridional; the present defies mem- 
 ory to outdo its charm. 
 
 And it must be in the Marseilles that glitters 
 under midsummer's sun and grows radiant in 
 its light. Those who have not seen Marseilles 
 at this season know it not. The peevish finder 
 of fault raves of drainage and dynamite, of dirt 
 and anarchy. But turn a deaf ear and go to 
 Marseilles gaily and without dread. Walk out 
 in the early morning on the quays; the sum- 
 mer sky is cloudless ; the sea as blue as in the 
 painter's bluest dream ; the hills but warm 
 purple shadows resting upon its waters. The 
 
A Symphony in Gold 99 
 
 air is hot, perhaps, but soft and dry, and the 
 breeze blows fresh from over the Mediterra- 
 nean. Already, on every side, signs there are 
 of the day's coming sacrifice. In sunlight and 
 in shadow are piled high the sea's sweetest, 
 choicest fruits: mussels in their sombre purple 
 shells; lobsters, rich and brown; fish, scarlet 
 and gold and green. Lemons, freshly plucked 
 from near gardens, are scattered among the 
 fragrant pile, and here and there trail long 
 sprays of salt, pungent seaweed. The faint 
 smell of a// comes to you gently from unseen 
 kitchens, the feeling of Bouillabaisse is every- 
 where, and tender anticipation illumines the 
 faces of the passers-by. Great is the pretence 
 of activity in the harbour and in the streets; at 
 a glance, mere paltry traffic might seem the 
 city's one and only end. But Marseilles' true 
 mission, the sole reason for its existence, is 
 that man may know how goodly a thing it is to 
 eat Bouillabaisse at noon on a warm summer day. 
 But when the hour comes, turn from the 
 hotel, however excellent; turn from the Pro- 
 vengal version of the Parisian Duval, however 
 cheap and nasty; choose rather the native 
 
lOO '^Bouillabaisse'; 
 
 headquarters of the immortal dish. Under 
 pleasant awning sit out on the pavement, be- 
 hind the friendly trees in tubs that suggest 
 privacy, and yet hide nothing of the view be- 
 yond. For half the joy in the steaming, golden 
 masterpiece is in the background found for it; 
 in the sunlit harbour and forest of masts; in 
 the classic shores where has disembarked so 
 many a hero, from ancient Phenician or Greek, 
 down to valiant Tartarin, with the brave camel 
 that saw him shoot all his lions! A coup de vin, 
 and, as you eat, as you watch, with eyes half 
 blinded, the glittering, glowing picture, you 
 begin to understand the meaning of the south- 
 ern galejado. Your heart softens, the endless 
 beggars no longer beg from you in vain, while 
 only the slenderness of your purse keeps you 
 from buying out every boy with fans or matches, 
 every stray Moor with silly slippers and sillier 
 antimacassars; your imagination is kindled, so 
 that later, at the gay caf^, where still you sit in 
 the open street, as you look at the Turks and 
 sailors, at the Arabs and Lascars, at the East- 
 ern women in trousers and niggers in rags, in 
 a word, at Marseilles' "Congress oi Nations," 
 
A Symphony in Gold 10 1 
 
 that even Barntim in his most ambitious mo- 
 ments never approached, far less surpassed, 
 you, too, believe that had Paris but its Cane- 
 bi^re, it might be transformed into a little 
 Marseilles on the banks of the Seine. So po- 
 tent is the influence of blessed Bouillabaisse ! 
 
 Or, some burning Sundaj', you may rise 
 with the dawn and take early morning train for 
 Martigues, lying, a white and shining barrier, 
 between the Etangs de Berre and Caronte. 
 And there, on its bridges and canal banks, idly 
 watching the fishing-boats, or wandering up 
 and down its olive-clad hill-sides, the morning 
 hours may be gently loafed away, until the 
 Angelus rings a joyful summons to M. Ber- 
 nard's hotel in the shady Place. Dark and cool 
 is the spacious dining-room ; eager and atten- 
 tive the bewildered Desir6e. Be not a minute 
 late, for M. Bernard's Bouillabaisse is justly 
 famed, and not only all Marseilles, but all the 
 country near hastens thither to eat it on Sun- 
 days, when it is served in its Edition de luxe. 
 Pretty Arl6siennes in dainty fichus, cyclists in 
 knickerbockers, rich Marseillais, painters from 
 Paris join in praise and thanksgiving. And 
 
I02 "Bouillabaisse"; 
 
 from one end of the world to the other, you 
 might journey in vain in search of an emotion 
 so sweet as that aroused by the first fragrant 
 fumes of the dish set before you, the first rap- 
 turous taste of the sauce-steeped bread, of the 
 strange fish so strangely seasoned. 
 
 But why, in any case, remain content with 
 salmon alone when Bouillabaisse can be made, 
 even in dark and sunless England? Quite the 
 same it can never be as in the land of sunburnt 
 mirth and jollity. The light and the brilliancy 
 and the gaiety of its background must be ever 
 missing in the home of fog and spleen. The 
 gay little fish of the Mediterranean never swim 
 in the drear, unresponsive waters that break on 
 the white cliffs of England and the stern rocks 
 of the Hebrides. But other fish there be, in 
 great plenty, that, in the absence of the origi- 
 nal, may answer as praiseworthy copies. 
 
 After all, to cut turbot and whiting and soles 
 and trout in small pieces, to cook them all to- 
 gether, instead of each separately, is not the 
 unpardonable sin, however the British house- 
 wife may protest to the contrary. And as to 
 
A Symphony in Gold 103 
 
 in bottles in many a London shop ? Are sweet 
 herbs and garlic unknown in Covent Garden ? 
 Are there no French and Italian grocers in 
 Soho, with whom saffron is no less a necessity 
 than mustard or pepper ? And bread ? who 
 would dare aver that England has no bakers? 
 
 It is not a difficult dish to prepare. Its cooks 
 may not boast of secrets known only to them- 
 selves, like the maker of process blocks or 
 patent pills. Their methods they disclose with- 
 out reservation, though alas! their genius they 
 may not so easily impart. First of all, then, 
 see to your sauce: oil, pure and sweet, is its 
 foundation ; upon ail and herbs of the most aro- 
 matic it depends for its seasoning. In this, 
 place your fish selected and mixed as fancy 
 prompts; a whiting, a sole — filleted of course — 
 a small proportion of turbot, and as much sal- 
 mon, if solely for the touch of colour it gives — 
 the artist never forgets to appeal to the eye as 
 to the palate. Boil thoroughly, Sprinkling at 
 the last moment sympathetic saffron on the 
 sweet-smelling offering. Have ready thick 
 slices of bread daintily arranged in a conven- 
 ient dish ; just before serving pour over them 
 
104 ^^Bouillabaisse'' 
 
 the greater part of the unrivalled sauce, now 
 gold and glorious with its saffron tint; pour 
 the rest, with the fish, into another dish — a 
 bowl, would you be quite correct — and let as 
 few seconds as possible elapse between dishing 
 this perfect work of art and eating it. Upon 
 its smell alone man might live and thrive. Its 
 colour is an inspiration to the painter, the sub- 
 tlety of its flavour a text to the poet. Monte- 
 nard and Dauphin may go on, year after year, 
 painting olive-lined roads and ports of Toulon : 
 the true Provengal artist will be he who fills 
 his canvas with the radiance and richness of 
 Bouillabaisse. 
 
 Would you emulate M. Bernard and make a 
 Bouillabaisse de luxe it may prove a tax upon 
 your purse, but not upon your powers. For 
 when thus lavishly inclined, you but add lob- 
 ster or crab or crayfish and the needed luxury is 
 secured. It is a small difference in the telling, 
 but in the eating, how much, how unspeakable is 
 this little more! Easily satisfied indeed must 
 be the prosaic mortal who, having once revelled 
 in Bouillabaisse de luxe, would ever again still 
 his cravings with the simpler arrangement. 
 
THE MOST EXCELLENT 
 OYSTER 
 
 If, in cruel December, the vegetable fails us, 
 in another direction we may look for and find 
 — if we be wise and liberal — novelty without 
 stint. Prom the oyster, when it is understood 
 aright, spring perpetual joy and rapturous sur- 
 prises. But, sad to tell, in England men have 
 slighted it and misdoubted its greatness. Eng- 
 lishmen eat it and declare it good ; but, as with 
 salad, they know not how to prepare it. Be- 
 cause it is excellent in its rawness, they can 
 imagine no further use for it, unless, perhaps, 
 to furnish a rich motive for sauce, or sometimes 
 for soup. Even raw — again like salad — they 
 are apt to brutalise it. To drown it in vinegar 
 is the height of their ambition; an imperial 
 pint was the quantity needed by Mr. Weller's 
 friend to destroy the delicacy of its flavour, the 
 salt sweetness of its aroma. The Greeks knew 
 105 
 
io6 The Most Excellent Oyster 
 
 better: according to Athenseus, boiled and fried 
 they served their oysters, finding them, how- 
 ever, best of all when roasted in the coals till 
 the shells opened. As early as the seventeenth 
 century, the French, preparing them en ^tuv^e 
 and en fricassee, included them in their Z'//«Vm de 
 la campagne. The American to-day exhausts his 
 genius for invention in devising rare and cun- 
 ning methods by which to extract their full 
 strength and savour. Why should Englishmen 
 tarry behind the other peoples on the earth in 
 paying the oyster the tribute of sympathetic 
 appreciation ? 
 
 Its merit when raw, no man of sensibility 
 and wisdom will deny. Base-minded, indeed, 
 must be he who thinks to enhance its value by 
 converting it into a defence against influenza 
 or any other human ill. The ancients held it 
 indigestible unless cooked ; but to talk of it as 
 if it were a drug for our healing, a poison for 
 our discomforting, is to dishonour, without 
 rhyme or reason, the noblest of all shell-fish. 
 Who would not risk an indigestion, or worse, 
 for the pleasure raw oysters have it in their 
 power to give? Was there one, among the 
 
The Most Excellent Oyster 107 
 
 wedding guests at the "Marriage of Hebe," 
 who feared the course of " oysters with closed 
 shells, which are very difficult to open but very 
 easy to eat" ? 
 
 Easy to eat, yes; but first you must decide 
 which, of the many varieties of oyster the sea 
 offers, you had best order for your own delight. 
 There are some men who, with Thackeray, 
 rank the "dear little juicy green oysters of 
 France" above the " great white flaccid natives 
 in England, that look as if they had been fed 
 on pork." To many, the coppery taste of this 
 English native passes for a charm — poor de- 
 luded Creatures! To others it seems the very 
 abomination of desolation. But the true epi- 
 cure, who may not have them, as had oyster- 
 loving Greeks of old, from Abydus or Chalce- 
 don, will revel most of all in the American 
 species: the dainty little Blue-Point, or its 
 long, sweet, plump brother of the north — to 
 swallow it was like swallowing a baby, Thack- 
 eray thought. 
 
 Once your oysters are on the half shell, let 
 not the vinegar bottle tempt you ; as far as it is 
 concerned, be not only temperate, but a total 
 
io8 The Most Excellent Oyster 
 
 abstainer. A sprinkling of salt, a touch of 
 Cayenne, a dash of lemon juice, and then eat, 
 and know how good it is for man to live in a 
 world of oysters. For a light lunch or the per- 
 fect midnight supper, for an inspiring hors 
 d'muvre, without rival is this king of shell-fish. 
 If for the midnight meal you reserve it, you 
 may be kindled into ecstasy by the simple ad- 
 dition of a glass of fine old Chablis or Sauterne 
 — be not led astray by vulgar praise of stout or 
 porter— and brown bread and butter cut in 
 slices of ethereal thinness. Linger over this 
 banquet, exquisite in its simplicity, long and 
 lovingly, that later you may sleep with easy 
 conscience and mind at rest. 
 
 With raw oysters alone it were folly to re- 
 main content. If you would spread a more 
 sumptuous feast, fry the largest, plumpest 
 grown in sea or river, and the gates of earthly 
 paradise will be thrown wide open in the fry- 
 ing. No more familiar cry is there in Ameri- 
 can restaurants than that for "an oyster fry!" 
 Dark little oyster cellars, reached by precipi- 
 tous steps, there are, and friendl)' seedy little 
 oyster shops in back streets, where the frying 
 
The Most Excellent Oyster 109 
 
 of oysters has been exalted into a holy cult. 
 And if you will, in paper boxes, the long, beau- 
 tiful, golden-brown masterpieces you may carry 
 away with you, to eat with gayer garnishing 
 and in more sympathetic surroundings. And 
 in winter, scarce a beer saloon but, at luncheon 
 time, will set upon the counter a steaming dish 
 of fried oysters; and with every glass of no 
 matter what, "crackers" at discretion and one 
 fried oyster on long generous fork will be 
 handed by the white-robed guardian. But 
 mind you take but one: else comes the 
 chucker-out. Thus, only the very thirsty, in 
 the course of a morning, may gain a free lunch. 
 But, in England, what is known of the fried 
 oyster ? 
 
 It requires no great elaboration, though much 
 rare skill in the cooking. For this purpose the 
 largest oysters must be selected: the fattest 
 and most juicy. In the half-shell they may be 
 fried, after seventeenth-century fashion, a touch 
 of butter aijd pepper on each ; verjuice or vine- 
 gar, and grated nutmeg added once they are 
 served. Or el^e, taken from the shell, they 
 may be dipped into a marvellous preparation 
 
no The Most Excellent Oyster 
 
 of vinegar, parsley, laurel leaves, onion, chives, 
 cloves, basil, and in the result the mighty im- 
 agination of the great Alexandre would rejoice. 
 Or, again, in simpler American fashion, envel- 
 oped in unpretentious batter of eggs and bread 
 crumbs, fry them until they turn to an unriv- 
 alled, indescribable golden-brown, and in the 
 eating thereof the gods might envy you. 
 
 If a new sensation you court, grill or broil 
 your oyster, and you will have cause to exult 
 in a loud triumphant magnificat. No bread 
 crumbs are needed, neither laurel nor sweet 
 spice. With but a bit of butter for encourage- 
 ment, it will brown gently in the grilling, and 
 become a delicious morsel to be eaten with 
 reverence and remembered with tenderness. 
 
 Or, stew them and be happy. But of rich 
 milk, and cream, and sweet fresh butter, as 
 Dumas would put it, must your stew be made: 
 thickened, but scarce perceptibly, with flour, 
 while bits of mace float in golden sympathy on 
 the liquid's surface. It is the dish for lunch- 
 eon, or for the pleasant, old-fashioned "high 
 tea" — no such abomination as " meat tea" known 
 then, if you please — of Philadelphia's pleasant, 
 
The Most Excellent Oyster 1 1 1 
 
 old-fashioned citizens. And a worse accom- 
 paniment you might have than waffles, light as 
 a feather, or beaten biscuits, the pride of Mary- 
 land's black cooks. Men and women from the 
 Quaker city, when in cruel exile, will be moved 
 to sad tears at the very mention of Jones's 
 "oyster stews" in Eleventh-street! 
 
 But the glory of Penn's town is the oyster 
 croquette — from Augustine's by preference. A 
 symphony in golden brown and soft fawn grey, 
 it should be crisp without, within of such deli- 
 cate consistency that it will melt in the mouth 
 like a dream. Pyramidal in shape, it is of 
 itself so decorative that only with the rarest 
 blue and white china, or the most fairy-like 
 Limoges, will it seem in perfect harmony. It 
 would be discourteous, indeed, to serve so 
 regal a creation on any stray dish or plate. 
 
 Exquisite pleasure lurks in scalloped oysters, 
 or oysters au gratin, whichever you may choose 
 to call this welcome variation of the oyster 
 motive. Layers of judiciously seasoned bread- 
 crumbs alternate with layers of the responsive 
 shell-fish, and the carefully-studied arrange- 
 ment is then browned until it enchants by col- 
 
112 The Most Excellent Oyster 
 
 our no less than by fragrance. And, if you 
 would seek further to please the , eye, let the 
 dish to hold so fine a work of art be a shell, 
 with a suggestion of the sea in its graceful 
 curves and tender tints. Or, if imagination 
 would be more daring, let the same shell hold 
 huttres farcies, cunningly contrived with eels 
 and oysters, and parsley and mushrooms, and 
 spices and cream, and egg and aromatic herbs. 
 So fantastic a contrivance as this touches upon 
 sublimity. 
 
 In more homely and convivial mood, roast 
 your oysters, as the Greeks loved them. But 
 to enjoy them to the utmost, roast them your- 
 self in the coals of your own fire, until the 
 ready shells open. A dash of salt and cayenne 
 upon the sweet morsel within, and you may eat 
 it at once, even as you take it from off the coals, 
 and drink its salt, savoury liquor from the shell. 
 A dish of anchovy toast will not seem amiss. 
 But let no other viands coarsen this ideal sup- 
 per. For supper it should be, and nothing 
 else. The curtains must be drawn close, while 
 the fire flames high; one or two congenial 
 friends — not more ; a dim religious light from 
 
The Most Excellent Oyster 1 1 3 
 
 well-shaded lamps and candles; a bottle of 
 good old Chablis, and others waiting in near 
 wine-cellar or sideboard; and thus may you 
 make your own such unspeakable happiness as 
 seldom falls to the lot of mortals. 
 
 Or if to the past your fancy wanders, prepare 
 your oysters, seventeenth century-fashion, en 
 dtvvde, boiled in their own liquor, flavoured 
 with ingredients so various as oranges and 
 chives, and served with bread-crumbs; or else, 
 en fricassee, cooked with onion and butter, 
 dipped in batter, and sprinkled with orange 
 juice. Or again, in sheer waywardness, curry 
 or devil them, though in this disguise no man 
 may know the delicacy he is eating. Another 
 day, bake them ; the next, put them in a pie or 
 a patty ; the third, let them give substance to a 
 vol-au-vent. Hesitate at no experiment; search 
 the cookery-books, old and new. Be sure that 
 the oyster, in its dictionary, "knows no such 
 word as fail. If in sheer recklessness you 
 were, like young Mr Grigg in the Cave of Har- 
 mony, to call for a "mashed oyster and scal- 
 loped 'taters," no doubt the "mashed" would 
 be forthcoming. 
 
1 14 The Most Excellent Oyster 
 
 As basis of soup or sauce, the oyster is with- 
 out rival. Who would not abstain on Fridays 
 all the year round, if every Friday brought 
 with it oyster soup to mortify the flesh ! But 
 alas! four months there be without an R, when 
 oysters by the wise must not be eaten. And is 
 not turbot, or boiled capon, or a tender loin- 
 steak but the excuse for oyster sauce ? in which, 
 if you have perfection for your end, let there be 
 no stint of oysters. Then, too, in the stuffing 
 of a fowl, oysters prove themselves the worthy 
 rival of mushrooms or of chestnuts. 
 
 It is a grave mistake, however, to rank the 
 oyster as the only shellfish of importance. The 
 French know better. So did the Greeks, if 
 Athenseus can be trusted. Mussels, oysters, 
 scallops, and cockles led the list, according to 
 Diodes, the Carystian. Thus are they enume- 
 rated by still another authority : — 
 
 A little polypus, or a small cuttle-fish, 
 A crab, a crawfish, oysters, cockles. 
 Limpets and solens, mussels and pinnas ; 
 Periwinkles, too, from Mitylene. 
 
 The mussel is still the delight of the French 
 table d'hdte breakfast. Charming to look at is 
 
The Most Excellent Oyster 1 1 5 
 
 the deep dish where, floating in parsley-strewn 
 sauce, the beautiful purple shells open gently 
 to show the golden-grey treasures within. Well 
 may the commercial in the provinces heap high 
 his plate with the food he loves, while about 
 him hungry men stare, wondering how much 
 will be left for their portion. But who in Eng- 
 land eats mussels? Only a little lower the 
 Greeks ranked periwinkles, which now, associ- 
 ated as they are with 'Arriet and her pin, the 
 fastidious affect to despise. It has been writ- 
 ten of late, by a novelist seeking to be witty, 
 that there is no poetry in periwinkles; but 
 ^schylus could stoop to mention them in his 
 great tragedies. The " degradation of the 
 lower classes" the same weak wit attributes to 
 overindulgence in winkles. With as much 
 reason might the art and philosophy of Greece 
 be traced to "periwinkles from Mitylene." 
 Cooked in the good sauce of France, the hum- 
 ble winkle might take rank with the Whitstable 
 native at three-and-six the dozen, and thus 
 would the lowly be exalted. The snail, like- 
 wise, we might cultivate to our own immeasur- 
 able advantage. 
 
THE PARTRIDGE 
 
 With September, the gourmana's fancy gaily 
 turns to thoughts of partridges. For his pleas- 
 ure sportsmen, afar in autumn's cool country, 
 work diligently from morn to eve; or, it may 
 be, he himself plays the sportsman by day that 
 he may prove the worthier gourmand by night. 
 And the bird is deserving of his affections. It 
 has been honoured alike in history and romance. 
 
 Among moderns, a Daudet is found to study 
 and consider its emotions under fire; among 
 ancients, few neglected it, from Aristophanes 
 to Aristotle, who declared it "a very ill-dis- 
 posed and cunning animal; much devoted, 
 moreover, to amatory enjoyment." With such 
 a character, its two hearts count for little ; far 
 gone, indeed, must be the sentimentalist of our 
 moral age who would stay its slayer's hand. 
 What if it be true, as Chamaeleon of Pontus 
 said of old, that from listening to its singing in 
 
 desert places man arrived at the art of music? 
 117 
 
1 1 8 The Partridge 
 
 Alive it may have an aesthetic value; but if it 
 be without morals should it not perish? In 
 eating it, therefore, does not man perform a 
 solemn duty? Nay, should not the New Wo- 
 man exult in flaunting its sober feathers in her 
 masculine hat ? 
 
 So might reason the apostle of social purity. 
 But the gourmand questions nothing save the 
 daintiness of the bird's flesh, the merit of its 
 flavour. And the practical answer to this ques- 
 tioning silences all doubts. Clearly the par- 
 tridge was created that he might eat it and 
 find it good. 
 
 It is because of the rare excellence of the 
 pretty bird, in autumn making a feathered 
 frieze in every poulterer's window, that too 
 much consideration cannot be given to its treat- 
 ment in the kitchen. Its virtues can be easily 
 marred by the indifferent, or unsympathetic 
 chef. Left hanging too short a time, left cook- 
 ing too long, and it will sink into common- 
 place, so that all might wonder wherefore its 
 praises have been ever loudly sung. Hang it 
 in a cool place, and leave it there until the last 
 moment possible — you understand ? Now that 
 
The Partridge 1 1 9 
 
 winds are cold, and a feeling of frost is in the 
 air, to banish it a fortnight would not be unwise. 
 To roast a partridge may seem a sadly simple 
 device when so many more ingenious schemes 
 are at your disposal. But for all that, none 
 can be recommended with enthusiasm more 
 keenly felt. For in the roasting none of its 
 sweet savour is lost, none of its natural tender- 
 ness sacrificed on the one hand, exaggerated on 
 the other. The process requires less intelli- 
 gence than an artistic touch. Truss your birds 
 in seemly fashion, when, as if in birdlike emu- 
 lation of Hedda Gabler, they cry for vine leaves 
 on their breast. Over the vine leaves tie less 
 romantic, but more succulent, bacon, cut in 
 slices of the thinnest. Then, in front of a 
 quick, clear fire baste prodigally with butter. 
 A little flour, judiciously sprinkled, will add 
 richness to the nut-brown colour the susceptible 
 birds develop in the roasting. Now they are 
 ready to serve, remember that "partridges 
 should have gravy in the dish, and bread-sauce 
 in a cup" — it is Mrs Glasse who has said it. It 
 would be no crime to add watercress, or pars- 
 ley, as garniture, or toast as a soft bed for the 
 
I20 The Partridge 
 
 ■happy victims. And to eat with them, prepare 
 a crisp lettuce salad, to which the merest sus- 
 picion of tarragon leaves, well chopped, has 
 been added. And the gods themselves might 
 envy you your joy and gladness in the eating. 
 
 A word as to the carving, or " dissection of 
 the partridge," as it was called in days when 
 England understood and gloried in the arts of 
 the kitchen. Thus was the Grand' Escuyer Tran- 
 chant — the Great Master carver, that is — in- 
 structed: "A partridge is for the most part 
 carved and served whole, like a pigeon; but 
 yet he may be served in pieces ; but when you 
 will carve him to serve whole, you must only 
 cut the joints and lay them abroad ; but if you 
 serve him by pieces, you must begin to serve 
 with a wing." Why not carve and serve ac- 
 cording to tradition, and so lend new dignity to 
 your feasting ? 
 
 If of roast partridge you weary, and from 
 France would take a hint, seek novelty and 
 happiness in Perdrix aux choux. For this, birds 
 of an older generation will answer as well as 
 their more tender young, since for two hours, 
 in a wrapping of bacon and buttered paper, 
 
The Partridge 1 2 i 
 
 they must simmer gently on their couch of cab- 
 bage. To evolve the required flavour, into the 
 same pot must go a saveloy, and perhaps salt 
 pork in slices, a "bunch of fragrant herbs, onions 
 and carrots and cloves and salt and butter a dis- 
 cretion. The birds must be drained before they 
 pass from the pot to the dish ; around them the 
 cabbage, likewise drained, must be set as a 
 garland, and the saveloy, in pretty pieces, may 
 be placed here and there. Behold another of 
 the many good gifts France has presented to 
 us. 
 
 Perdrix a F Espagnole may again vary anew 
 the delicious monotony. In this variety the 
 partridges are boiled, covered with a rich 
 gravy, and plentifully adorned with green pep- 
 pers. It was in a moment of divine inspiration 
 the Spaniard invented so piquant an arrange- 
 ment. But the resources of boiled partridges, 
 apt to be forgotten or overlooked, are well-nigh 
 limitless, and as charming as they are many. 
 Very important is it that the birds be well 
 boiled, quickly, in much water. The rest de- 
 pends upon the sauce. This may be of cream 
 and butter alone; or else of celery and cream, 
 
122 The Partridge 
 
 seasoned with mace and pepper. Or else of 
 mushrooms and cream, or of the livers and 
 parsley and butter; or of white wine; or of any 
 and every good thing that goes to the making 
 of superlative sauce. What a chance, too, to 
 exercise your imagination, to reveal your in- 
 genuity! Five long months are before you; 
 see that you make the most of them. 
 
 If your soul delight in the fantastic, let few 
 days pass before you have tested the quaint 
 joys of Partridge Mettenes. The recipe shall be 
 printed word for word as written by the Master 
 Cook, Giles: "Take Partridges and roast them, 
 then take Cream" — these with capitals, observe 
 — "and Grapes, with Bread, scorched against 
 the Fire, and beat all this together; but first 
 steep your Bread in Broth or Claret-Wine ; then 
 strain all this through a strainer with Spice, 
 Cinnamon, and a little Mustard; set all a-boyl- 
 ing with a pretty deal of Sugar, but take heed 
 that it doth not burn too, and when you would 
 serve away your Partridge, put them into a 
 Dish, and your Sauce under them, and gar- 
 nish your Dish with Sweetmeats and Sugar- 
 plumbs." 
 
The Partridge 123 
 
 Here is another device, fantastic chiefly in 
 name: "Partridges a I'eau bdniste or Holy 
 Water." It has the virtue of simplicity. 
 " Take partridges and rost them, and when 
 they are rosted, cut them into little pieces, and 
 put them into a Dish with a little fair Water 
 and Salt, and make them boyl a little, and so 
 serve them away." Or else, O pleasant alter- 
 native! "you may make a Sauce with Rose- 
 water and Wine, the Juice of Apples and 
 Oranges, but there must be three times as 
 much Rose-water as Wine." 
 
 Reading this, who will dare deny that Mas- 
 ter Cook Giles is an authority to be respected, 
 of whose recipes the poor prosaic -modern 
 kitchen may not receive too many? Space, 
 therefore, must be yielded to at least one more : 
 "Partridges a la Tonnelette." "Take a par- 
 tridge and rost it, then put it into a Pot ; this 
 done, take white Bread and scortch or toste it 
 very brown, but not burn it, and put it a-steep- 
 ing in good Claret-wine, and when it is -well 
 steep'd strain it through a strainer with some 
 good Broth, and a few Onions fryed in Lard, 
 with a little Cinnamon, Cloves, and Nutmegs, 
 
124 The Partridge 
 
 and other small Spices, and a little Sugar, and 
 put into it a handful of Currants, and make 
 that which you have strained out boyl all to- 
 gether, and when it is time to serve your Par- 
 tridges, put your Sauces into a Dish, and lay 
 your Partridges upon it, and so serve it." 
 
 Such pretty fancies, it were a shame to fol- 
 low with bald prose. Yet, bear in mind that 
 partridges may be braised with mushrooms or 
 truffles; that they may be broiled or baked; 
 that they disgrace neither pie nor pudding; 
 and that they offer welcome basis for a saimi 
 and purde. Lay this to heart. 
 
THE ARCHANGELIC BIRD 
 
 Michaelmas is a season of sad associations. 
 The quarter's rent is due, alas! The quarter's 
 gas, alas! and, alas a hundred times! the half- 
 yearly rates. Bank accounts dwindle; spirits 
 sink ; life seems but a blank and dreary desert. 
 Into the gloom, settling down thicker and 
 more throttling than November's fog, there 
 flutters and waddles a big white bird, a saviour 
 of men. It is the noble goose, the goose, 
 ridiculed and misunderstood, that comes chival- 
 rously and fearlessly to the rescue; the goose 
 that once saved Rome's Capitol, the goose still 
 honoured as most alert of sentinels within Bar- 
 celona's cathedral precincts, the goose that, 
 followed by a goose-girl, is the beloved of ar- 
 tists. Because of its nobility of character, its 
 devotion, wherein it rivals benevolent mastiff 
 and kindly terrier, its courage, its strength, St 
 Michael, glorious and effulgent archangel, took 
 it for his own bird of birds, to be so intimately 
 125 
 
126 The Archangelic Bird 
 
 connected with him that now to show respect 
 to the Saint is to eat the goose. The Feast of 
 Michaelmas, to the right-minded and the ortho- 
 dox, means roast goose and apple sauce. Soul- 
 less authorities, burrowing in mouldy records, 
 can find no better reason for this close relation- 
 ship than that, at September's close, great is 
 the number of geese cackling in homely barn- 
 yard, great their perfection. Numerous gen- 
 erations since England's fourth Edward sat 
 upon the throne (and who can say how many 
 before his time?), have held the cooking of the 
 goose for dinner as no less sacred a ceremony 
 on the Angel's feast day than the morning's 
 service in church. And this, would the pug- 
 nacious Michael have permitted for such gross 
 material considerations? Never; let it be said 
 once and for all : never. He knew the goose 
 for the bird that lays the golden egg; he knew 
 full well its dignity and might that make it still 
 a terror to be met on lonely common b)' them 
 who use its name as symbol of silliness; he 
 knew that strong as well as faint hearted hesi- 
 tate to say " Bo" disourteously to any goose, 
 whether it be a wanderer in French pastures or 
 
The Archangelic Bird 127 
 
 one of the dust-raising flock, in the twilight, 
 cackling homeward over Transylvanian high- 
 ways. In a word, Michael knew his bird ; and 
 our duty it is to believe in it a dish for Michael- 
 mas with the blind, unquestioning allegiance of 
 perfect faith. Coarse its flesh may be in 
 comparison with the dainty duck and tender 
 chicken ; commonplace in comparison with the 
 glorious grouse and proud partridge. The 
 modest, respectable bourgeois it may seem among 
 poultry. And yet, if the Archangel has chosen 
 it for his own, who shall say him nay? Study 
 rather to disguise its native coarseness, to en- 
 liven its excellent dulness. 
 
 To roast it is the simplest form the Michael- 
 mas celebration allows. See first that your fire 
 be very good ; take care to singe the sacrificial 
 goose with a piece of white paper, and baste it 
 with a piece of butter; drudge it (the word is 
 Mrs Glasse's) with a little flour, and when the 
 smoke begins to draw to the fire, and it looks 
 plump, baste it again and drudge it with a lit- 
 tle flour, and take it up. In sober mood, stuff 
 it with sage and onion; in more flamboyant 
 moments, let your choice rest upon chestnuts. 
 
128 The Archangelic Bird 
 
 Tradition insists upon a little good gravy in a 
 basin by itself, and some apple-sauce in an- 
 other; but sauce of gooseberries, not to be had 
 fresh, however, for Michaelmas, is the gourmet' i 
 choice. 
 
 A hint as to carving. How many a beauti- 
 ful bird, or majestic joint, has been shamelessly 
 insulted by ill-trained carver! Of old the mas- 
 ter of the household accepted the " dissection of 
 a goose" after the High Dutch fashion and the 
 Italian both, his own predilections leaning 
 rather toward the High Dutch, "for they cut 
 the breast into more pieces, and so by conse- 
 quence fill more Plates" — good thrifty burghers 
 that they were. Learn then, and master " the 
 order how they carve and how they send it 
 away; as (i), on the first Plate a thigh; (2), 
 another thigh; (3), a side of the rump, with a 
 piece of the breast; (4), the other side of the 
 rump, with another piece of the breast ; (5) , a 
 wing; (6), the other wing; (7), the rest of the 
 stomach, upon which, if there be little of the 
 brawn left, you may joyn the two small forked 
 bones; to the eighth, the merry-thought, with 
 the rest of the rump, and any else, at your dis- 
 
The Archangelic Bird 129 
 
 cretion. If you will, you may join some of the 
 breast with the best piece which you always 
 present to the most considerable person at the 
 table first, and take notice too, by the bye, 
 the brawn of the breast ought to be for the 
 most part served out first." Give heed unto 
 these directions, and far wrong you may not 
 
 go- 
 Days are when simple expression of faith is 
 all too inadequate. The devout yearns for 
 something more ornate, something more elabo- 
 rate. Let the outcome of this yearning be oie 
 a la chipolata, and Michael in Paradise will smell 
 the sweet savour and smile. It is difficult, but 
 delicious. Cover the bottom of your stew-pan 
 with lard ; place upon it two or three slices of 
 beef and ham, a bouquet of parslej' and chives, 
 three carrots and two or three onions, a touch 
 of garlic, a few cloves, thyme, laurel leaves, 
 basil, and salt, and thus you will have pre- 
 pared a sweet, soft bed for your goose. Imme- 
 diately disturb the bird's slumbers by pouring 
 over it a glass of good Madeira, a bottle of 
 white wine, a glass of cognac, and two or three 
 spoonfuls of strong bouillon made of fowls. 
 9 
 
130 The Archangelic Bird 
 
 Now put your pan on the fire, stew your goose 
 for an hour, lift it out, arrange it on a fair 
 dish, and envelop it in the very richest chipolata 
 it is in your power to make. And what is a 
 chipolata? An Italian creation half sauce, half 
 ragout J fashioned of carrots and turnips, and 
 chestnuts and onions, and sausage and mush- 
 rooms, and artichokes and celery, and strong 
 veal gravy. 
 
 Archangelic smiles must broaden into silent 
 laughter at the mere mention of " a Potage of 
 Green Geese." It is a conceit redolent of the 
 olden time, when gaiety was still ranked among 
 the cardinal virtues, and men ate their fill with 
 no fear of a dyspeptic to-morrow. Since it is 
 an ancient masterpiece, in the ancient words 
 must it be explained, or else it will be dishon- 
 oured in the telling. " Take your Green-geese 
 and boyl them the usual way, and when they 
 are boyled take them up and fry them whole in 
 a frying-pan to colour them, either with the fat 
 of bacon or hog's-lard, called nowadays matitge 
 de pork; then take ginger, long pepper, and 
 cloves; beat all this together, and season them 
 with this spice ; a little parsley and sage, and 
 
The Archangelic Bird 131 
 
 put them into a little of the same broth that 
 they were boyled in, and sprinkle a little grated 
 cheese over them, and let them have a little 
 stew, and then dish them up with sipets under 
 them." A brave disguise, truly, for humblest 
 goose. 
 
 In a pie likewise — unless the fashioning 
 thereof be entrusted to the indiscreet cook — it 
 presents a brave appearance. Walls of crust 
 line a spacious dish ; a pickled dried tongue is 
 boiled ; a fowl and a goose are boned ; season- 
 ing is wrought of mace, beaten pepper, and 
 salt; and then. Oh the marvel of it! fowl is 
 lain in the goose, tongue in the fowl, goose in 
 the dish. A half a pound of butter separates 
 bird from pastry cover. And, hot or cold, 
 pleasure may be had in the eating. Not the 
 highest pleasure, perhaps, but still pleasure 
 not to be scorned. 
 
 If you would boil a goose, see, as you respect 
 your stomach, that it be first salted for a week. 
 With onion sauce it may be becomingly adorned, 
 or again, with simple cabbage, boiled, chopped 
 small, and stewed in butter. Or, plunge gaily 
 into the rococo style, and decorate it ci V Arle- 
 
132 The Archangelic Bird 
 
 siennej stuffed with onions and chestnuts, boiled 
 in company with carrots and celery and onions 
 and parsley and cloves, floated in tomato sauce, 
 it is as chock full of playful surprises as the 
 Cartuja of Granada. Another device to be 
 recommended is the grilling of the legs and 
 the serving them with laitues /antes — and Mi- 
 chael will laugh outright; or d la Prmiencale, 
 and words fail ; or aux tomates, the love-apples 
 that not the hardest heart can resist. Of the 
 great and good Careme these are the sugges- 
 tions; treasure them up, therefore, where mem- 
 ory may not rust or aspiration decay, for the 
 dinner may come when you will be glad to 
 have them 'at hand. 
 
 Of the giblets and liver of the goose is there 
 not a long, exultant chapter yet to be written ? 
 In far Strasburg geese, in perpetual darkness 
 and torture, fatten with strange morbid fat, 
 that the sensitive, who shrink from a bull fight 
 and cry out against the cruelty of the cockpit, 
 may revel in pdt^ de foie gras. So long as the 
 world lives, may there still be this delectable 
 pdt^ io delight. But why not be honest: admit 
 that between the torture of the bull that we 
 
The Ar change lie Bird 133 
 
 may see, and the torture of the goose that we 
 may eat, difference there is none ? Give sensi- 
 tiveness full play, and sordid vegetarianism is 
 the logical result. 
 
SPRING CHICKEN 
 
 Gluttony, it has been written — and with 
 wisdom — deserves nothing but praise and en- 
 couragement. For two reasons. " Physically, 
 it is the result and proof of the digestive organs 
 being perfect. Morally, it shows implicit res- 
 ignation to the commands of nature, who, in 
 ordering man to eat that he may live, gives 
 him appetite to invite, flavour to encourage, 
 and pleasure to reward." But there is a third 
 reason, too often overlooked even by the pro- 
 fessional glutton: love of good eating is an 
 incentive to thought, a stimulus to the imagi- 
 nation. The man of the most active mind and 
 liveliest fancy is he who eats well and conscien- 
 tiously considers each dish as it is set before 
 him. 
 
 The test seldom fails. Run through the list 
 
 of poets and painters of your acquaintance; do 
 
 not they who eat best write the finest verse and 
 
 paint the strongest pictures ? Those who pre- 
 
 135 
 
136 spring Chicken 
 
 tend indifference and live on unspeakable 
 messes are betrayed in the foolish affectation 
 and tedious eccentricity of their work; those 
 ■who feel indifference are already beyond hope 
 and had better far be selling tape across coun- 
 ters or adding up figures in loathsome ledgers. 
 Memory, borrowing from her store-house of 
 treasures, lingers with tender appreciation and 
 regret upon one unrivalled breakfast, exqui- 
 sitely cooked, exquisitely served, and exqui- 
 sitely eaten, when lilacs were sweet and horse- 
 chestnuts blossoming in the boulevards and 
 avenues of Paris. And he upon whose table 
 the banquet was spread is an artist who towers 
 head and shoulders above the pigmies of his 
 generation. It were rash, indeed, to maintain 
 that because he eats daintily therefore he paints 
 like the master he is; but who, on the other 
 hand, would dare aver that because he paints 
 supremely well therefore is he the prince of 
 gourmets ? Here cause and efEect are not to be 
 defined by cold logic, not to be labelled by 
 barren philosophy. One thing alone is certain ; 
 if love of good eating will not create genius it 
 can but develop it. 
 
spring Chicken 137 
 
 Consequently, it would be impossible to 
 think too much of what you are eating to-day 
 and purpose to eat to-morrow. It is your duty 
 above all things to see that your food is in har- 
 mony with place and season. The question 
 now is, what beast or bird is fitting holocaust 
 for the first warm months of spring ? Beef is 
 too heating, too substantial ; mutton too monot- 
 onous, veal too prosaic. Lamb hath charm, 
 but a charm that by constant usage may be 
 speedily exhausted. Does not mint sauce pall 
 at times? Place, then, your trust in the poul- 
 try-yard that your pleasure may be long in the 
 spring. 
 
 To begin with, poultry pleases because of 
 its idyllic and pastoral associations. The 
 plucked birds, from shop windows, flaunting 
 their nakedness in the face of the world, recall 
 the old red-roofed farmhouse among the elms, 
 and the pretty farmer's daughter in neat, fresh 
 gingham, scattering, grain in the midst of her 
 feathered favourites ; they suggest the first cool 
 light of dawn and the irrepressible cock crow- 
 ing the glad approach of day ; in a word, they 
 are reminders of the country's simple joys — 
 
138 spring Chicken 
 
 unendurable at the time, dear and sacred when 
 remembered in town. 
 
 The gentle little spring chicken is sweet and 
 adorable above all its kindred poultry. It is 
 innocent and guileless as Bellini's angels, 
 dream-like and strange as Botticelli's. It is the 
 very concentration of spring; as your teeth 
 meet in its tender, yielding flesh, you think, 
 whether you will or no, of violets and prim- 
 roses, and hedgerows white with may; you feel 
 the balmy breath of the south wind ; the world 
 is scented for you with lilac and narcissus ; and, 
 for the time being, life is a perfect poem. But 
 — why is there always a but ? — your cook has it 
 in her power to ruin the rhythm, to make of 
 melodious lyric the most discordant prose. No 
 less depends upon the being who cooks the 
 chicken than upon the hen who laid the egg. 
 If hitherto you have offended through heedless- 
 ness, see now that you approach the subject 
 with a determination to profit. 
 
 Of all ways of cooking a spring chicken, fry- 
 ing is first to be commended; and of all ways 
 of frying the American is most sympathetic. 
 Fried chicken ! To write the word is to be car- 
 
spring Chicken 139 
 
 ried back to the sunny South; to see, in the 
 mind's eye, the old, black, fat, smiling mam- 
 mie, in gorgeous bandana turban, and the little 
 black piccaninnies bringing in relays of hot 
 muffins. Oh, the happy days of the long ago! 
 It is easy to give the recipe, but what can it 
 avail unless the mammie goes with it ? Another 
 admirable device is in broiling. One fashion 
 is to divide your chicken down the back and 
 flatten it, seeing, as you have a heart within 
 you, that no bones be broken. Set it lovingly 
 on a trivet placed for the purpose in a bak- 
 ing-tin into which water, to the depth of an 
 inch, has been poured. Cover your tin; bake 
 the sweet offering for ten minutes or so ; take 
 it from the oven ; touch it delicately with the 
 purest of pure olive oil, and for another ten 
 minutes broil it over a good brisk fire. And 
 if in the result you do not taste heaven, hasten 
 to the hermit's cell in the desert, and, for the 
 remainder of your days, grow thin on lentils 
 and dates. 
 
 Or, if you would broil your chicken after the 
 fashion of infallible Mrs Glasse, slit it as before, 
 season it with pepper and salt, lay it on a clear 
 
140 spring Chicken 
 
 fire at a great distance, broil first the inside, 
 then the out, cover it with delicate bread- 
 crumbs, and let it be of a fine brown, but not 
 burnt. And keep this note carefully in your 
 mind: "You may make just what sauce you 
 fancy." 
 
 To roast a spring chicken will do no harm, 
 but let it not be overdone. Twenty minutes 
 suffice for the ceremony. Bacon, in thinnest 
 of thin slices, gracefully rolled, is not unworthy 
 to be served with it. In boiling, something of 
 its virginal flavour may be sacrificed, but still 
 there is compensating gain; it may be eaten 
 with white mushroom sauce, made of mush- 
 rooms and cream, and seasoned with nutmeg 
 and mace. Here is a poem, sweeter far than 
 all songs of immortal choirs or the weak pip- 
 ings of our minor singers. 
 
 As the chicken outgrows the childish state, 
 you may go to Monte Carlo in search of one 
 hint at least, for its disposal. There j'ou will 
 learn to cut it into quarters, to stew it in wine 
 and shallots, to add, at the psychological mo- 
 ment, tomatoes in slices, and to serve a dish 
 
spring Chicken 141 
 
 to Spain, and find that country's kitchen slan- 
 dered when you eat poulet au ris a l' Espagnole, 
 chicken cooked in a mannite with rice, arti- 
 chokes, green and red chillies, and salad oil, and 
 served, where the artist dwells, in the blesssed 
 marmite itself — in unimaginative London, even, 
 you may buy one, green or brown, whichever 
 you will, at a delightful shop in Shaftsbury- 
 avenue. Again, you may wander to Holland — 
 it is a short journey, and not disagreeable by 
 way of Harwich — and be ready to swear that 
 no fashion can surpass the Dutch of boiling 
 chickens with rice or vermicelli, spicing them 
 with pepper and cloves, and, at table, substitut- 
 ing for sauce sugar and cinnamon. But to omit 
 these last two garnishments will not mean a 
 mortal sin upon your conscience. In more 
 festive mood hasten at once to France, and 
 there you will be no less certain that the way 
 of ways is to begin to broil your chicken, al- 
 ready quartered, but, when half done, to put it 
 in a stew-pan with gravy, and white wine, salt 
 and pepper, fried veal balls, onions, and shal- 
 lots, and, according to season, gooseberries or 
 grapes. Do you not grow hungry as you read ? 
 
142 spring Chicken 
 
 But wait: this is not all. As the beautiful 
 mixture is stewing — on a charcoal fire if possi- 
 ble — thicken the liquor with yolks of eggs and 
 the juice of lemon, and for ever after bless Mrs 
 Glasse for having initiated you into these noble 
 and ennobling mysteries. 
 
 Braise your chicken, fricassee it, make it into 
 mince, croquettes, krameskies; eat it cold; 
 convert it into galantine; bury it in aspic; do 
 what you will with it, so long as you do it well, 
 it can bring you but happiness and peace. 
 
THE MAGNIFICENT MUSH- 
 ROOM 
 
 From remote ages dates the triumph of the 
 mushroom — the majestic, magnificent mush- 
 room. Glorious Greeks feasted on it and were 
 glad. What say Poliochus and Antiphanes? 
 What Athenseus ? In verse only, could be duly 
 praised those fragrant mushrooms of old, which 
 were roasted for dinner and eaten with delicate 
 snails caught in the dewy morning, and olives 
 tenderly pounded; washed down with wine, 
 good if not over strong or of famous vintage. 
 O the simple, happy days of long ago! 
 
 There are times when the classic .simplicity 
 and dignity of the Greek you may emulate, and 
 your amusement find in mushrooms dressed 
 with vinegar, or honey and vinegar, or honey, 
 or salt. But then, all other courses must be in 
 keeping. The snails and olives must not be 
 omitted. Maize there must be, well winnowed 
 143 
 
144 The Magnificent Mushroom 
 
 from the chaff, and rich, ripe purple figs. And, 
 who knows ? the full flavour thereof might not 
 be yielded to the most earnest adventurer were 
 couches not substituted for stiff, ungainly 
 chairs. By many a lesser trifle has digestion 
 been, if not ruined, influenced for ill. 
 
 But the classic experiment, if repeated too 
 often, might seem very odious. The modern 
 gourmand, or artist, is a romanticist, whether he 
 will or no. No screaming red waistcoat marks 
 the romantic movement in the kitchen, and yet 
 there it has been stronger even than in art and 
 literature. The picturesque must be had at 
 any cost. Simplicty is not spurned, far from 
 it; but it must be seasoned with becoming 
 sprinkling of romance. What could be simpler 
 than the common mushroom grilled, so self- 
 sufficient in its chaste severity that it allows 
 but salt and pepper and butter to approach it, 
 as it lies, fragrant and delicious, on its grid- 
 iron, calling, like another St Lawrence, to be 
 turned when one side is fairly done. And yet 
 when, ready to be served, its rich brown beauty 
 is spread upon the paler brown of the toast, and 
 above rests butter's brilliant gold, have you not 
 
The Magnificent Mushroom 145 
 
 an arrangement as romantic in conception as 
 the " Ernani" of the master, or the pastoral of 
 Corot? Paltry meats and undesirable vege- 
 tables should not be allowed to dispute suprem- 
 acy with it. Serve it alone, as you respect 
 yourself. Do not make your breakfast or din- 
 ner table as preposterous a blunder as the mod- 
 ern picture gallery. 
 
 Should simplicity pall upon you — and mo- 
 ments there are when it cannot fail to pall — en- 
 rich your grilled' mushrooms with a sauce of 
 melted butter and onions and parsley, and a 
 single note of garlic, and the result will be 
 enchanting mushrooms a la bourdelaise. If au 
 beurre you would eat them, to accord with your 
 passing mood of suave serenity, stew them 
 gently and considerately in daintiest stewpan 
 your kitchen can provide, and let cayenne and 
 powdered mace exult, as the romantic ele- 
 ments of the stirring poem. 
 
 A still more poetic fancy may be met and 
 sweely satisfied by ragout of mushrooms. Lis- 
 ten reverently, for it is food fit to be set before 
 the angels. Over the mushrooms, first boiled 
 on a quick fire, pour a gill of pure red wine — 
 
146 The Magnificent Mushroom 
 
 and the best Burgundy thus used will not be 
 wasted ; then scatter spices, mace, and nutmeg, 
 with a discreet hand; boil once more; pour the 
 marvellous mixture upon five or six — or more, 
 if wanted — yolks of eggs, hard-boiled; garnish 
 the dish with grilled mushrooms, and bless the 
 day that you were born, predestined, as you 
 were, from all eternity for this one interval of 
 rapture. 
 
 Possibility of rapture there is likewise in a 
 white/«Vaw/(? of mushrooms, which, if you have 
 your own happiness at heart, you cannot afford 
 to despise. Secure then, without delay — for 
 who would play fast and loose with happiness? 
 — a quart of fresh mushrooms. Clean them 
 with hands as tender as if bathing a new-born 
 babe. In three spoonfuls of water, and three of 
 milk, let them boil up three times. See that 
 temptation leads you not to violate the sanctity 
 of this thrice-three. Nutmeg, mace, butter, a 
 pint of rich thick cream alone, at this juncture, 
 will appease the saucepan's longings. Shake 
 well; and all the time, mind you. Be careful 
 there is no curdling, or else — damnation. The 
 masterpiece once triumphantly achieved and 
 
The Magnificent Mushroom 147 
 
 set upon a table covered with a fair white cloth, 
 great will be the rejoicing in the Earthly Para- 
 dise of your dining-ropm. 
 
 h nother sensation, another thrill awaits you 
 in mushrooms au gratin. Here, indeed, is ro- 
 manticism gone mad. Grated bacon, shallots, 
 a bouquet garni, mace, pepper and salt, eggs and 
 butter share the baking-dish with the mush- 
 rooms ; breadcrumbs complete the strange, sub- 
 tle combination, upon which you may break 
 your fast, dine, sup and sleep, as Valentine 
 upon the very naked name of love. A sorry 
 plight were yours if love, fickle and fading, 
 could be preferred to a dish of mushrooms fash- 
 ioned so fantastically. 
 
 " And oh ! what lovely, beautiful eating there 
 is in this world!" It is Heine who said it — 
 Heine who, for a good dinner, would have 
 given twice the three hundred years of eternal 
 fame offered by Voltaire for a good digestion. 
 But lovely and beautiful are but feeble words 
 when it is a question of the mess of mushrooms, 
 foj which who would not sacrifice eternal fame 
 for ever, in all cheerfulness and glee ? 
 
 The reigning sultana in the mushroom's 
 
148 The Magnificent Mushroom 
 
 harem is the brilliant golden egg. Sweet sym- 
 phonies in brown and gold are the dishes their 
 union yields. CEufs brouilUs aicx champignons — 
 has not the very name a pretty sound ? It is a 
 delight best suited to the midday breakfast; 
 a joyous course to follow the anchovy salad, the 
 eel well smoked, or whatever dainty hors d'amre 
 may stimulate to further appetite. The eggs, 
 scrambled and rivalling the buttercup's rich 
 gold, are laid delicately on crisp toast, and pre- 
 sent a couch, soft as down, for a layer of mush- 
 rooms. Let Ruskin rave of Turner's sunsets, 
 let the glor)' of the Venetians be a delight 
 among art critics; but when did Turner or Ti- 
 tian or Tintoret invent a finer scheme of colour 
 than egg and mushroom thus combined for the 
 greater happiness of the few ? A silver dish or 
 one of rarest porcelain should be frame for a 
 picture so perfect. 
 
 Borrow a hint from the Hungarians, and vary 
 the arrangement to your own profit. Make a 
 purie of the mushrooms, as rich as cream per- 
 mits, and offer it as foundation for eggs poached 
 deftly and swiftly: a harm6ny in soft dove-like 
 greys and pale yellow, the result. It is an ad- 
 
The Magnificent Mushroom 149 
 
 mirable contrivance, a credit to Szomorodni- 
 drinking Magyars. And there is no known rea- 
 son why it should not be eaten on Thames side 
 as on the banks of the Danube. Szoraorodni, 
 in its native splendour, alas ! is not to be had in 
 London town. But, without sacrilege, Chablis 
 or Graves, or Sauterne may take its place. To 
 drink red wine would be to strike a false note 
 in the harmony. 
 
 Another day, another dish, which you cannot 
 do better than make omelette aux champignons. 
 And if you will, you may eat it even as it was 
 prepared for Royal Stuarts by Master Cook 
 Rose, who wrote almost as prettily as he 
 cooked. Thus: — " Stove your champignons be- 
 tween two dishes, season them with salt, pep- 
 per, and nutmeg, then make an omelette with 
 a dozen of eggs, and when he is ready cover 
 him over with your champignons, and fold 
 him up, triangle-wise, and serve him with the 
 juice of lemons over him." A royal dish, 
 indeed. 
 
 Creatures of infinite resources, eggs and 
 mushrooms meet in cases to produce a new and 
 distinct joy. The mushrooms, stewed in milk 
 
150 The Magnificent Mushroom 
 
 thickened with the yolks of raw eggs and bread- 
 crumbs, line the little fluted china cases ; into 
 each a fresh egg is broken ; then more mush- 
 rooms and breadcrumbs are spread gently 
 above; a shallow pan, its bottom just covered 
 with hot water, receives the cases, and ten min- 
 utes in the oven will complete a triumph which, 
 once tasted, you may well remember all the 
 days of your life. 
 
 The kidney is loved by the mushroom scarce 
 less tenderly than the egg. Rognons aux chavi- 
 pignons, fragrant rich, ravishing, may also be 
 claimed by the happy midday hour. And like 
 so many a noble dish, it lavishes upon you the 
 pleasures of anticipation. For the kidneys, cut 
 in slices and laid in thickened gravy, must stew 
 slowly, slowly — ^never boiling, unless you would 
 have them vie with leather in consistency. At 
 an early stage the mushrooms, also in pieces, 
 may be added, and pepper and salt according to 
 inclination. And slowly, slowly let the stew- 
 ing continue. At the last supreme moment 
 pour in a glass of generous red wine, or if it 
 please you more, Marsala, and serve without 
 delay. Chambertin, or Nuits, at peace in its 
 
Tlie Magnificent Mushroom 151 
 
 cradle, is surely the wine decreed by fate to 
 drink with so sublime a creation. 
 
 With the tender filet, mushrooms prove irre- 
 sistible ; with the graceful cutlet they seem so 
 ravishing that even sauce Soubise, the once in- 
 separable, may for the moment be easily for- 
 gotten. And veal is no less susceptible to its 
 charms: let noisettes de veau aux champignons be 
 the entrde of to-morrow's dinner, and you will 
 return thanks to your deliverer from the roast! 
 
 As sauce, mushroom is the chosen one of fowl 
 and fish alike. Join your mushroomsJ:o Be'cha- 
 mel, one of the great mother sauces, and you will 
 have the wonder that Careme, its creator, served 
 first to the Princesse de B. How resist so aristo- 
 cratic a precedent? Grasse, or maigre, you can 
 make it, as the season demands. Or to a like 
 end you may devote that other marvel, purde de 
 champignons d la Laguipierre, whose patron was 
 the great Louis de Rohan, and into whose mys- 
 teries Careme was initiated by the "Grand 
 M. Dunan." Ham, tomato, nutmeg, pepper, 
 lemon juice, are the chief ingredients that enter 
 into its composition. Who, after testing it, will 
 dare find naught but vexation and vanity in the 
 
152 The Magnificent Mushroom 
 
 reign of the Sixteenth Louis? Subtle variation 
 may be had by substituting as foundation, sauce 
 h. la rdgence or sauce d. la princesse for sauce Becha- 
 mel; while a sensation apart springs from the 
 lofty alliance between oysters and mushrooms. 
 
 How natural that for masterpieces in mush- 
 rooms royalty so often has stood sponsor ! Upon 
 the Prince of Wurtemberg rests the glorious re- 
 sponsibility of Seine shad a lapur^e de champi- 
 gnons. If history records not his name, a prince 
 — in spirit at least — must also have been the 
 first happy man to eat red mullets aux champi- 
 gnons, or eels aux huttres et aux champignons; show 
 yourself as princely before you are a week older. 
 While a king was he who first smiled upon 
 that kingly ragoUt of mushrooms, mussels, and 
 shrimps. Be you a king in your turn — there 
 are few pleasures equal to it. 
 
 "For white fowls of all sort," Mrs Glasse re- 
 commends her mushroom sauce, thus giving 
 loose reins to the artist's fancy. The fowl may 
 be boiled, and then rich with cream must be 
 the sauce that redeems it from insipidity. It 
 may be roasted, and then let the mushrooms be 
 somewhat more in evidence. Or it may be 
 
The Magnificent Mushroom 153 
 
 broiled, and then mayhap it would be wise to 
 grill the mushrooms whole, instead of convert- 
 ing them into sauce. Or — ^here is another sug- 
 gestion, and be thankful for it — mince your 
 chicken, which toast will receive gladly as a 
 covering and set upon it, as already upon ceufs 
 brouilles, the mushrooms grilled in butter. Long 
 might you live, far might you wander, before 
 chancing upon another delicacy so worthy. 
 Though, truth to tell — and where gastronomy 
 is the subject it is always best to be honest — 
 croquettes de poulet aux champignons^ seem well-nigh 
 worthier. If you would decide for yourself, try 
 both, and joy go with you in the trying. 
 
 An afterthought : dress livers with mushroom 
 sauce, and this is the manner in which it should 
 be done. " Take some pickled or fresh mush- 
 rooms, cut small — both if you have them— and 
 let the livers be bruised fine, with a good deal 
 of parsley chopped small, a. spoonful or two of 
 catchup, a glass of white wine, and as much 
 good gravy as will make sauce enough ; thicken 
 it with a piece of butter rolled in flour. This 
 does for either roast or boiled." 
 
 For the rest, how count the innumerable 
 
154 The Magnificent Mushroom 
 
 ways in which the mushroom adds to the gaiety 
 of the gourmand ? What would the vol-au-veni 
 be without it? What the "Fine Pye," made 
 otherwise of carps and artichokes and cray- 
 fishes' feet and lobster claws and nutmeg and 
 cloves alone ? What, according to the " Com- 
 plete Court Cook," so proper for the second 
 course as the patty all of mushrooms? What 
 garniture fairer for "ragoo" ox fricassee, accord- 
 ing to the same authority, than mushroom far- 
 cisl But, however they may be served and 
 eaten, mushrooms you must make yours at any 
 cost. To say that, you do not like them is con- 
 fession of your own philistinism. Learn to like 
 them ; will to like them, or else your sojourn on 
 this earth will be a wretched waste. You will 
 have lived your life in vain if, at its close, you 
 have missed one of its finest emotions. 
 
THE INCOMPARABLE ONION 
 
 Too often the poet sees but the tears that live 
 in an onion; not the smiles. And yet the 
 smiles are there, broad and genial, or subtle 
 and tender. "Rose among roots," its very 
 name revives memories of pleasant feasting; its 
 fragrance is rich forecast of delights to come. 
 Without it, there would be no gastronomic art. 
 Banish it from the kitchen, and all pleasure of 
 eating flies with it. Its presence lends colour 
 and enchantment to the most modest dish ; its 
 absence reduces the rarest dainty to hopeless 
 insipidity, and the diner to despair. 
 
 The secret of good cooking lies in the dis- 
 creet and sympathetic treatment of the onion. 
 For what culinary masterpiece is there that 
 may not be improved by it ? It gives vivacity 
 to soup, life to sauce ; it is the " poetic soul" of 
 the salad bowl; the touch of romance in the 
 well-cooked vegetable. To it, sturdiest joint 
 and lightest stew, crisp rissole and stimulating 
 
156 The Incomparable Onion 
 
 stuffing look for inspiration and charm — and 
 never are they disappointed! But woe betide 
 the unwary woman who would approach it for 
 sacrilegious ends. If life holds nothing better 
 than the onion in the right hand, it offers noth- 
 ing sadder and more degrading than the onion 
 brutalised. Wide is the gulf fixed between the 
 delicate sauce of a Prince de Soubise, and the 
 coarse, unsavoury sausage and onion mess of 
 the Strand. Let the perfection of the first be 
 your ideal ; the horrid coarseness of the latter 
 shun as you would the devil. 
 
 The fragrance of this "wine-scented" escu- 
 lent not only whets the appetite; it abounds in 
 associations glad and picturesque. All Italy 
 is in the fine, penetrating smell; and all Pro- 
 vence; and all Spain. An onion or garlic- 
 scented atmosphere hovers alike over the nar- 
 row calli of Venice, the cool courts of Cordova, 
 and the thronged amphitheatre of Aries. It is 
 only the atmosphere breathed by the Latin peo- 
 ples of the South, so that ever must it suggest 
 blue skies and endless sunshine, cypress groves 
 and olive orchards. For the traveller it is in- 
 terwoven with memories of the golden canvases 
 
The Incomparable Onion 157 
 
 of Titian, the song of Dante, the music of Mas- 
 cagni. The violet may not work a sweeter 
 spell, nor the carnation yield a more intoxicat- 
 ing perfume. 
 
 And some men there have been in the past to 
 rank the onion as a root sacred to Aphrodite: 
 food for lovers. To the poetry of it none but 
 the dull and brutal can long remain indifferent. 
 
 Needless, then, to dwell upon its more prosaic 
 side : upon its power as a tonic, its value as a 
 medicine. Medicinal properties it has, as the 
 drunkard knows full well. But why consider 
 the drunkard ? Leave him to the tender mer- 
 cies of the doctor. Gourmandise, or the love of 
 good eating, here the one and only concern, is 
 opposed to excess. " Every man who eats to 
 indigestion, or makes himself drunk, runs 
 the risk of being erased from the list of its 
 votaries. " 
 
 The onion is but the name for a large family, 
 of which shallots, garlic, and chives are chief 
 and most honoured varieties. Moreover, 
 country and climate work upon it changes many 
 and strange. In the south it beomes larger and 
 more opulent, like the women. And yet, as it 
 
iS8 The Incomparable Onion 
 
 increases in size, it loses in strength — who shall 
 say why ? And the loss truly is an improve- 
 ment. Our own onion often is strong even 
 unto rankness. Therefore, as all good house- 
 wives understand, the Spanish species for most 
 purposes may be used instead, and great will be 
 the gain thereby. Still further south, still 
 further east, you will journey but to find the 
 onion fainter in flavour, until in India it seems 
 but a pale parody of its English prototype. 
 And again, at different seasons, very different 
 are its most salient qualities. In great glad- 
 ness of heart everyone must look forward to the 
 dainy little spring onion : adorable as vegetable 
 cooked in good white sauce, inscrutable as 
 guardian spirit of fresh green salad, irreproach- 
 able as pickle in vinegar and mustard. 
 
 Garlic is one of the most gracious gifts of the 
 gods to men — a gift, alas! too frequently 
 abused. In the vegetable world, it has some^ 
 thing of the value of scarlet among colours, of 
 the clarionet's call in music. Brazen, and 
 crude, and screaming, when dragged into un- 
 due prominence, it may yet be made to har- 
 monise divinely with fish and fowl, with meat, 
 
The Incomparable Onion 159 
 
 and other greens. Thrown wholesale into a 
 salad, it is odious and insupportable ; but used 
 to rub the salad bowl, and then cast aside, its 
 virtue may not be exaggerated. For it, as for 
 lovers, the season of seasons is the happy spring 
 time. Its true home is Provence. What would 
 be the land of the troubadour and the F^libre 
 without the ail that festoons every greengro- 
 cer's shop, that adorns evei-y dish at every ban- 
 quet of rich and poor alike ? As well rid bouil- 
 labaisse of its saffron as of its ail; as well forget 
 the pomme d' amour in the sauce for macaroni, or 
 the rosemary and the thyme on the spit with 
 the little birds. The verse of Roumanille and 
 Mistral smells sweet of ail; Tartarin and Numa 
 Roumestan are heroes nourished upon it. It is 
 the very essence of farandoles and ferrades, of 
 bull-fights and water tournaments. A pinch 
 of ail, a coup de vin, and then — 
 
 Viva la joia, 
 Fidon la tristessa ! 
 
 And all the while we, in the cold, gloomy north, 
 eat garlic and are hated for it by friends and 
 foes. Only in the hot south can life a/7-inspired 
 pass for a galejado or jest. 
 
i6o The Incomparable Onion 
 
 To the onion, the shallot is as the sketch to 
 the finished picture; slighter, it may be; but 
 often subtler and more suggestive. Unrivalled 
 in salads and sauces,^ it is without compare in 
 the sumptuous seasoning of the most fantastic 
 viands. It does not assert itself with the fury 
 and pertinacity of garlic ; it does not announce 
 its presence with the self-consciousness of the 
 onion. It appeals by more refined devices, by 
 gentler means, and is to be prized accordingly. 
 Small and brown, it is pleasant to look upon as 
 the humble wild rose by the side of the Gloire 
 de Dijon. And, though it never attain to the 
 imtempered voluptuousness of the onion, it 
 develops its sweetness and strength under 
 the hottest suns of summer: in July, August, 
 and September, does it mature; then do 
 its charms ripen ; then may it be enjoyed in 
 full perfection, and satisfy the most riotous 
 gluttony. 
 
 Shallots for summer by preference, but chives 
 for spring: the delicate chives, the long, slim 
 leaves, fair to look upon, sweet to smell, 
 sweeter still to eat in crisp green salad. The 
 name is a little poem ; the thing itself falls not 
 
The Incomparable Onion i6i 
 
 far short of the divine. Other varieties there 
 be, other offshoots of the great onion — mother 
 of all; none, however, of greater repute, of 
 wider possibilities than these. To know them 
 well is to master the fundamental principles of 
 the art of cookery. But this is knowledge 
 given unto the few; the many, no doubt, will 
 remain for ever in the outer darkness, where 
 the onion is condemned to everlasting compan- 
 ionship with the sausage — not altogether their 
 fault, perhaps. In cookery, as in all else, too 
 often the blind do lead the blind. But a few 
 years since and a "delicate diner," an authority 
 unto himself at least, produced upon the art of 
 dining a book, not without reputation. But to 
 turn to its index is to find not one reference to 
 the onion : all the poetry gone ; little but prose 
 left ! And this from an authority ! 
 
 The onion, as a dish, is excellent; as season- 
 ing it has still more pleasant and commodious 
 merits. The modern chef Vi&&^ it chiefly to sea- 
 son ; the ancient cordon bleu set his wits to work 
 to discover spices and aromatic ingredients 
 wherewith to season it. Thus, according to 
 Philemon, — ■ 
 
1 62 The Incomparable Onion 
 
 If you waut an onion, just consider 
 
 What great expense it takes to make it good ; 
 
 You must have cheese, and honey, and sesame, 
 
 Oil, leeks, and vinegar, and assafcetida. 
 
 To dress it up with ; for by itself the onion 
 
 Is bitter and unpleasant to the taste. 
 
 A pretty mess, indeed ; and who is there brave 
 enough to-day to test it? Honey and onion! it 
 suggests the ingenious contrivances of the med- 
 iaeval kitchen. The most daring experiment 
 now would be a dash of wine, red or white, a 
 suspicion of mustard, a touch of tomato in the 
 sauce for onions, stewed or boiled, baked or 
 stuffed. To venture upon further flights of 
 fancy the average cook would consider indis- 
 creet, though to the genius all things are pos- 
 sible. However, its talents for giving savour 
 and character to other dishes is inexhaustible. 
 There is no desire more natural than that of 
 knowledge ; there is no knowledge nobler than 
 that of the "gullet-science." "The discovery 
 of a new dish does more for the happiness of 
 the human race than the discovery of a planet I" 
 What would be Talleyrand's record but for that 
 moment of inspiration when, into the mysteries 
 
The Incomparable Onion 163 
 
 of Parmesan with soup, he initiated his coun- 
 trymen ? To what purpose the Crusades, had 
 Crusaders not seen and and loved the garlic on 
 the plains of Askalon, and brought it home 
 with them, their one glorious trophy. To a 
 pudding Richelieu gave his name; the Prince 
 de Soubise lent his to a sauce, and thereby won 
 for it immortality. 
 
 A benefactor to his race indeed he was: 
 worthy of a shrine in the Temple of Humanity. 
 For, plucking the soul from the onion, he laid 
 bare its hidden and sweetest treasure to the 
 elect. Scarce a sauce is served that owes not 
 fragrance and flavour to the wine-scented root; 
 to it, Btarnaise, Mattre d' Hbtel, Espagnole, Ita- 
 lienne. Bechamel, Proven^ale, and who shall say 
 how many more? look for the last supreme 
 touch that redeems them from insipid common- 
 place. But Sauce Soubise is the very idealisa- 
 tion of the onion, its very essence; at once deli- 
 cate and strong ; at once as simple and as per- 
 fect as all great works of art. 
 
 The plodding painter looks upon a nocturne 
 by Whistler, and thinks how easy, how prepos- 
 terously easy ! A touch here, a stroke there, and 
 
164 The Incomparable Onion 
 
 the thing is done. But let him try ! And so 
 with Sauce Soubise. Turn to the first cookery 
 book at hand, and read the recipe. " Peel four 
 large onions and cut them into thin slices; 
 sprinkle a little pepper and salt upon them, 
 together with a small quantity of nutmeg; put 
 them into a saucepan with a slice of fresh but- 
 ter, and steam gently"— let them smile, the true 
 artist would say — " till they are soft. " But why 
 go on with elaborate directions ? Why describe 
 the exact quantity of flour, the size of the pota- 
 to, the proportions of milk and cream to be 
 added? Why explain in detail the process of 
 rubbing through a sieve? In telling or the 
 reading these matters seem' not above the intel- 
 ligence of a little child. But in the actual 
 making, only the artist understands the secret 
 of perfection, and his understanding is born 
 within him, not borrowed from dry statistics 
 and formal tables. He may safely be left to 
 vary his methods; he may add sugar, he may 
 omit nutmeg; he may fry the onions instead of 
 boiling, for love of the tinge of bro\?n, rich 
 and sombre, thus obtained. But, whatever he 
 does, always with a wooden spoon will he stir 
 
The Incomparable Onion 165 
 
 his savoury mixture; always, as result, produce 
 a godlike sauce which the mutton cutlets of 
 Paradise, vying with Heine's roast goose, will 
 offer of their own accord at celestial banquets. 
 What wonder that a certain famous French 
 count despised the prosaic politician who had 
 never heard of cutlets a la Soubise ? 
 
 However, not alone in sauce can the conde- 
 scending onion come to the aid of dull, substan- 
 tial flesh and fowl. Its virtue, when joined to 
 sage in stuffing, who will gainsay ? Even chest- 
 nuts, destined to stuff to repletion the yawning 
 turkey, cannot, afford to ignore the insinuating 
 shallot or bolder garlic; while no meat comes 
 into the market that will not prove the better 
 and the sweeter for at least a suspicion of onion 
 or of ail. A barbarian truly is the cook -who 
 flings a mass of fried onions upon the tender 
 steak, and then thinks to offer you a rare and 
 dainty dish. Not with such wholesale brutal- 
 ity can the ideal be attained. The French chef 
 has more tact. He will take his gigot and sym- 
 pathetically prick it here and there with gaylic 
 or with chives, even as it is roasting; and who- 
 ever has never tasted mutton thus prepared 
 
1 66 The Incomparable Onion 
 
 knows not the sublimest heights of human hap- 
 piness. Or else he will make a bouquet garni o£ 
 his own, entirely of these aromatic roots and 
 leaves, and fasten it in dainty fashion to the 
 joint; pleasure is doubled when he forgets to 
 remove it, and the meat is placed upon the 
 table, still bearing its delicious decoration. 
 Moods there be that call for stronger effects: 
 moods when the blazing poppy field of a Monet 
 pleases more than the quiet moonlight of a 
 Cazin; when Tennyson is put aside for Swin- 
 burne. At such times, call for a shoulder of 
 mutton, well stuffed with onions, and still fur- 
 ther satiate your keen, vigorous appetite with 
 a bottle of Beaune or Pomard. But here, a 
 warning : eat and drink with at least a pretence 
 of moderation. Remember that, but for an ex- 
 cess of shoulder of mutton and onions, Napo- 
 leon might not have been defeated at Leipzig. 
 But at all times, and in all places, onions 
 clamour for moderation. A salad of tomatoes 
 buried under thick layers of this powerful es- 
 culent must disgust; gently sprinkled with 
 chopped-up chives or shallots, it enraptures. 
 Potatoes h la Lyonnaise, curried eggs, Irish stew, 
 
The Incomparable Onion 167 
 
 Gutyas, ragout, alike demand restraint in their 
 preparation, a sweet reasonableness in the 
 hand that distributes the onion. 
 
 For the delicate diner, as for the drunkard, 
 onion soup has charm. It is of the nature of 
 sauce Soubise, and what mightier recommend- 
 ation could be given it? Thus Dumas, the 
 high priest of the kitchen, made it: a dozen 
 onions — Spanish by preference — minced wi-th 
 discretion, fried in freshest of fresh butter until 
 turned to a fair golden yellow, he boiled in 
 three pints or so of water, adequately seasoned 
 with salt and pepper; and then, at the end oi 
 twenty full minutes, he mixed with this prep- 
 aration the yolks of two or three eggs, and 
 poured the exquisite liquid upon bread, cut and 
 ready. At the thought alone the mouth waters, 
 the eye brightens. The adventurous, now and 
 again, add ham or rice, vegetables or a bouquet 
 garni. But this as you will, according to the 
 passing hour's leisure. Only of one thing 
 make sure — in Dumas confidence is ever to be 
 placed without doubt or hesitation. 
 
 Dumas' soup for dinner ; but for breakfast the 
 unrivalled omelette of Brillat-Savarin. It is 
 
1 68 ' The Incomparable Onion 
 
 made after this fashion : the roes of two carp, 
 a piece of fresh tunny, and shallots, well hashed 
 and mixed, are thrown into a saucepan with a 
 lump of butter beyond reproach, and whipped 
 up till the butter is melted, which, says the 
 great one, "constitutes the speciality of the 
 omelette;" in the meantime, let some one pre- 
 pare, upon an oval dish, a mixture of butter and 
 parsley, lemon juice, and chives — not shallots 
 here, let the careless note — the plate to be left 
 waiting over hot embers; next beat up twelve 
 eggs, pour in the roes and tunny, stir with the 
 zeal and sympathy of an artist, spread upon the. 
 plate that waits so patiently, serve at once ; and 
 words fail to describe the ecstasy that follows. 
 Especially, to quote again so eminent an author- 
 ity, let the omelette " be washed down with 
 some good old wine, and you will see wonders," 
 undreamed of by haschish or opium eater. 
 
 When the little delicate spring onion is smelt 
 in the land, a shame, indeed, it would be to 
 waste its tender virginal freshness upon sauce 
 and soup. Rather refrain from touching it 
 with sharp knife or cruel chopper, but in its 
 gracefuf maiden form boil it, smother it in rich 
 
The Incomparable Onion 169 
 
 pure cream, and serve it on toast, to the un- 
 speakable delectation of the devout. Life 
 yields few more precious moments. Until 
 spring comes, however, you may do worse than 
 apply the same treatment to the older onion. 
 In this case, as pleasure's crown of pleasure, 
 adorn the surface with grated Gruyere, and, 
 like the ancient hero, you will wish your throat 
 as long as a crane's neck, that so you might 
 the longer and more leisurely taste what you 
 swallow. 
 
 Onions farcis are beloved by the epicure. A 
 nobler dish could scarce be devised. You may 
 make your forcemeats of what you will, beef or 
 mutton, fowl or game; you may, an' you please, 
 add truffles, mushrooms, olives, and capers. 
 But know one thing; tasteless it will prove, 
 and lifeless, unless bacon lurk unseen some- 
 where within its depths. Ham will answer in 
 a way, but never so well as humbler bacon. 
 The onion that lends itself most kindly to this 
 device is the Spanish. 
 
 One word more. As the ite missa est of the 
 discourse let this truth — a blessing in itself — be 
 spoken. As with meat, so with vegetables, few 
 
170 The Incomparable Onion 
 
 are not the better for the friendly companion- 
 ship of the onion, or one of its many offshoots. 
 Peas, beans, tomatoes, egg-plant are not indif- 
 ferent to its blandishments. If honour be paid 
 to the first pig that uprooted a truffle, what of 
 the first man who boiled an onion ? And what 
 of the still mightier genius who first used it as 
 seasoning for his daily fare? Every gourmet 
 should rise up and call him blessed. 
 
THE TRIUMPHANT TOMATO 
 
 The triumph of the tomato has given hungry 
 men and women a new lease of pleasure. Sad 
 and drear were the days when the gourmet 
 thought to feast, and the beautiful scarlet fruit 
 had no place upon his table. The ancient chef 
 knew it not, nor the mediaeval artist who, even 
 without it, could create marvellous works the 
 modern may not hope to rival. Like so many 
 good things, it first saw the light in that happy 
 Western Contiiient where the canvas-back duck 
 makes its home and shad swim in fertile rivers. 
 What, indeed, was life, what the gift of eating, 
 before the Coltlrhbus of the kitchen had dis- 
 covered the tomato, the turkey, and the yellow 
 Indian corn ? Reflect upon it, and be grateful 
 that you, at le§st, were, not born in the Dark 
 Age of cookery ! 
 
 Poor, stupid man! a treasure was presented 
 to him freely and generously, and he thrust it 
 
 from him. The tomato offered itself a willing 
 171 
 
172 The Triumphant Tomato 
 
 sacrifice, and he scorned it, mistaking gold for 
 dross. The American — and long years in pur- 
 gatory will not redeem his fault — looked upon 
 it with suspicion. To-day, it is true, he hon- 
 ours it aright: in the summer-time he bows 
 down before its gay freshness ; in the winter he 
 cherishes it in tins. It has become as indispen- 
 sable to him as salt or butter. He values it at 
 its true worth. But still, half a century has 
 not passed since he doubted it, heaping insults 
 upon its trusting sweetness. He fancied poison 
 lurked within it. Othe cruel fancy! There it 
 was, perfect and most desirable, and he, blind 
 fool, would not touch it until endless hours of 
 stewing had lessened, if not utterly destroyed, 
 its fresh young charms. And the Englishman 
 was no wiser. Within the last decade only has 
 he welcomed the stranger at his gates, and at 
 the best his welcome has been but halting and 
 half-hearted. The many' continue obstinately 
 to despise it; the few have pledged their alle- 
 giance with reservations. The Latin, and even 
 the wild Hun, were converted without a fear of 
 misgiving while the Anglo-Saxon faltered and 
 was weak. Many and beautiful are the strange 
 
The Triumphant Tomato 173 
 
 dishes the tomato adorns in Magyarland. Was 
 there ever a menu in sunny Italy that did not 
 include this meat or that vegetable al pomodoro ? 
 The very Spaniard, whom rumour weds irrevo- 
 cably to garlic, nourishes a tender passion for 
 the voluptuous red fruit, and wins rapture from 
 it. And deep and true is the Provengal's love 
 for his pomme d'amourj is not the name a meas- 
 ure of his affection ? The Love Apple ! Were 
 there, after all, tomatoes in Judea, and were 
 these the apples that comforted the love-sick 
 Shulamite? 
 
 Now that the tomato has 'forced universal 
 recognition ; now that in England it lends glory 
 of colour to the greengrocer's display; now that 
 the hothouse defeats the cruel siege of the seas- 
 ons, and mild May, as well as mellow Septem- 
 ber, yields apples of love, pause a moment, 
 turn from the trivial cares of life, to meditate 
 upon its manifold virtues. 
 
 The tomato as a vegetable should be the 
 first point of the meditation. Let us reflect. 
 Stewed, though not as in America of old, until 
 all flavour is lost, it has the merit of simplicity 
 by no means to be underestimated : drained of 
 
174 The Triumphant Tomato 
 
 the greater part of its juice, thickened slightly 
 with flour, it cannot disappoint. Au graiin, it 
 aspires to more delirious joys: the pleasure 
 yielded develops in proportion to the pains 
 taken to produce it. Into a baking dish olive 
 oil is poured in moderation; a sprinkling of 
 salt and pepper and fragrant herbs well pow- 
 dered, together with bread-crumbs duly grated, 
 follows ; next the tomatoes, eager and blushing, 
 whole or in dainty halves, as the impulse of 
 the moment may prompt; more breadcrumbs 
 and pepper and salt and herbs must cover them 
 gently, more oil be poured upon the stirring 
 harmony; and an hour in the oven will turn 
 you out as pretty a side-dish as was ever de- 
 vised by ingenious Mrs Glasse, who— O the 
 pity of it — lived too soon for fond dalliance 
 with love's crowning vegetable. 
 
 Farcies tomatoes may not easily be surpassed. 
 Upon your whim or choice it will depend whe- 
 ther you stuff them whole, or cut them in half 
 for so ineffable a purpose. And upon your 
 whim likewise depends the special forcemeat 
 used. Chopped mushrooms, parsley and shal- 
 lot, seasoned with discretion, leave little to ask 
 
The Triumphant Tomato 175 
 
 for. Prepare, instead, sausage meat, garlic, 
 parsley, tarragon, and chives, and the tomatoes 
 so stuffed you may without pedantry call h la 
 Grimod de la Reynilre. But whatever you call 
 them, count upon happiness in the eating. 
 
 Second point of the meditation : the tomato 
 as an auxiliary. If you have learned the trick 
 of association, at once you see before you a 
 steaming harmony in pale yellow and scarlet, 
 the long soft tubes of macaroni or spaghetti en- 
 compassed round about by a deep stream of 
 tomatoes stewed and seasoned; at once you 
 feast upon macaroni al pomodoro and Chianti, and 
 Italy lies, like a map, before your mind's eye, 
 its towns and villages marked by this dish of 
 dishes. With rice, tomatoes are no less in 
 pleasant, peaceful unity ; in stuffed paprika, or 
 pepper, they find their true affinity. Grilled, 
 they make a sympathetic garniture iox filet piqu^ 
 a la Richelieu ; stuffed, they are the proper ac- 
 companiment of tournedos A la Leslie; neatly 
 halved, they serve as a foundation to soles A la 
 Loie Fuller. Chickens clamour for them as ally, 
 and so does the saltest of salt cod. In a word, 
 a new combination they might with ease pro- 
 
176 The Triumphant Tomato 
 
 vide for every day in the year. Enough will 
 have been said if this one truth is established : 
 there is scarce a fish or fowl, scarce any meat 
 or vegetable, that is not the better and the 
 nobler for the temporary union with the tomato. 
 And now, the third point of the meditation, 
 which, too often, escapes the prosaic, unmedita- 
 tive islander: the tomato as a dish for break- 
 fast. Only recently it was thus that two of 
 rare beauty and sweet savour fulfilled their des- 
 tiny : on a plate f asioned by barbarous potters 
 on the banks of the Danube, where the love- 
 apple grows in gay profusion, stretched a thin, 
 crisp slice of bacon decoratively streaked with 
 fat and grilled to a turn ; it bore, as twin flow- 
 ers, the two tomatoes, also grilled, fragrant, 
 tender, delectable. Surely here was a poetic 
 prelude to the day's toil. To Belgium all 
 praise be given for teaching that, stewed and 
 encircling buttered or scrambled eggs, tomatoes 
 may again enliven the breakfast table, that bit- 
 ter test of conjugal devotion; to France, the 
 credit of spreading tiiem at the bottom of plate 
 or dish as a bed for eggs artistically poached or 
 fried. History records the names of generals 
 
The Triumphant Tomato lyy 
 
 and Hates of battles, but what chronicler has 
 immortalised the genius who first enclosed to- 
 matoes in an omelet? This is a brutal, un- 
 grateful world we live in. 
 
 And now pass on to the fourth heading, and 
 new ecstasies : the tomato as salad. Remember 
 that the tomatoes must be deftly sliced in their 
 skins or else the juice escapes ; that a touch of 
 onion or garlic is indispensable ; that the dress- 
 ing must be of oil and vinegar, pepper and salt; 
 unless, of course, a mayonnaise be made. An- 
 other weird salad there is with qualities to 
 endear it to the morbid and neurotic. Let it 
 be explained briefly, that lurid description may 
 not be thought to exaggerate lurid attraction : 
 drop your tomatoes, brilliantly red as the ab- 
 horred Scarlet Woman, into hot water in order 
 to free them of their skins; place them whole, 
 and in passionate proximity, in a dish of silver 
 or delicate porcelain ; smother them under a 
 thick layer of whipped cream. For the sake of 
 decoration and the unexpected, stick in here 
 and there a pistachio nut, and thank the gods 
 for the new sensation. 
 
 In soup, thin or clear, the tomato knows no 
 
1/8 The Triumphant Tomato 
 
 rival; in sauce, it stands supreme, ranking 
 worthily with the four classical sauces of the 
 French cuisine. And here, a suggestion to be 
 received with loud, jubilant Alleluias! Follow 
 the example of Attila's heirs, and, as last touch, 
 pour cream upon your tomato sauce. He who 
 has known and eaten and loved paprika gefullte 
 in the wilds of Transylvania, will bear willing 
 witness to the admirable nature of this expe- 
 dient. 
 
 The more devout, the professed worshipper, 
 will eat his love-apple without artificial device 
 of cookery or dressing, with only salt for sa- 
 vour. For this excess of devotion, however, 
 unqualified commendation would not be just. 
 Unadorned the tomato is not adorned the most. 
 
 But cook or serve it as you will, see that it 
 be eaten by you and yours — that is the main 
 thing. The tomatoes that make glad the heart 
 of the loiterer in Covent Garden are fresh as 
 the sweet breath of May. 
 
A DISH OF SUNSHINE 
 
 "The weather is regarded as the very nadir 
 and scoff of conversational topics." How can 
 the ingenious housewife talk of aught else in 
 the Winter season ? Not because, as Mr Steven- 
 son argues, "the dramatic element in scenery 
 is far more tractable in language, and far more 
 human both in import and suggestion, than the 
 stable features of the landscape," but because 
 upon it she is dependent for ease and success in 
 making her every luncheon and dinner a culi- 
 nary triumph. 
 
 Of what avail the morning's conference with 
 the greengrocer's boy, or even the conscientious 
 visit to the greengrocer's shop or the ramble 
 through the market — unless, perhaps, and hap- 
 pily, her pockets be lined with gold, when hot- 
 house vegetables, and out-of-season delicacies, 
 must be paid for with the alacrity of a Croesus ? 
 Otherwise, dark, hopeless despair seizes upon 
 her ? Must she not brood in abject melancholy 
 
 I7Q 
 
i8o A Disk of Sunshine 
 
 when the hideous truth is revealed to her that 
 earth's resources are limited to turnip-tops and 
 Brussels sprouts, with, it may be, a few Jeru- 
 salem artichokes thrown in ? Celery, the 
 lordly, is frozen. Cauliflower, the fragrant, 
 frost-bitten irretrievably, will not yield to the 
 most urgent inducements of hot water. Let- 
 tuce is a thing of the past and of the future. 
 Sad and drear indeed is the immediate pros- 
 pect. For surely turnip-tops are a delusion, 
 and against the monotony of sprouts the aspir- 
 ing soul rebels. 
 
 It is at this crisis that hope flames right in a 
 strangely neglected corner. Italian sunshine 
 and blue skies, concentrated in flour paste, 
 wrought into tubes and ribbons, squares and 
 loeenges, come to gladden the sinking heart 
 and cheer the drooping spirits. Why despair 
 Avhen macaroni is always to be had, inestimable 
 as a vegetable, unrivalled as an enMe, a perfect 
 meal, if you choose, in itself? 
 
 Upon the imagination of those to whom food 
 is something besides a mere satisfaction to car- 
 nal appetite, macaroni works a strange, subtle 
 spell. The very name conjures up sweet poetic 
 
A Dish of Sunshine i8l 
 
 visions ; it is the magic crystal or beryl stone, 
 in which may be seen known things, dear to 
 the memory : smiling valleys where the vines 
 are festooned, not as Virgil saw them, from 
 elm to elm, but from mulberry to mulberry; 
 and where the beautiful, broad-horned, white 
 oxen drag, in solemn dignity, the crawling 
 plough; olive-clad slopes and lonely stone 
 palms; the gleam of sunlit rivers winding with 
 the reeds and the tall, slim poplars; the friendly 
 wayside trattoria and th*e pleasant refrain of the 
 beaming cameriere, " Subito Signora ; ecco!" — a 
 refrain ceaseless as the buzzing of bees among 
 the clover. In a dish of macaroni lies all Italy 
 for the woman with eyes to see or a heart to 
 feel. 
 
 Or visions more personal, more intimate, she 
 may summon for her own delight ; the midday 
 halt and lunch in Castiglione del Lago on its 
 gentle hill-top, the blue of Thrasymene's lake 
 shining between the olives', and all fair to be- 
 hold, save the padrone with his conscienceless 
 charges for the bowl of macaroni that had been 
 so good in the eating. Or else, perhaps, the 
 evening meal in the long refectory at Monte 
 
1 82 A Dish of Sunshine 
 
 Oliveto, with the white-robed brothers; or, 
 again, the unforgetable breakfast at Pompeii's 
 Albergo del Sole, the good wine ranged upon the 
 old tree trunk that serves as central column, 
 the peacock, tail outspread, strutting about 
 among the chairs and tables, the overpowering 
 sweetness of the flowering bean stealing, from 
 near fields, through open doors and windows. 
 Or, still again, the thought of Pompeii sends 
 one off upon the journey from its ruined streets 
 to Naples — on one side the Bay, on the other 
 the uninterrupted line of villages, every low 
 white house adorned with garlands of macaroni 
 drying peacefully and swiftly in the hot sun. 
 And a few pence only will it cost to dream such 
 dreams of beauty and of gladness. 
 
 Many as are the devices for preparing this 
 stuff that dreams are made of, none can excel 
 .the simplest of all.- Eat it the way the Italian 
 loves it, and for yourself you open up new vis- 
 tas of pleasure. And what could be easier? 
 In water well salted — upon the salt much de- 
 pends — the macaroni, preferably in the large 
 generous tubes, is boiled for twenty minutes, 
 or half an hour, until it is as soft as soft may 
 
A Dish of Sunshine 183 
 
 be without breaking. A capacious bowl, its 
 sides well buttered and sprinkled with grated 
 Parmesan cheese, must wait in readiness. Into 
 it put the macaroni, well drained of the water, 
 into its midst drop a large piece of sweet, fresh 
 butter, and sprinkle, without stint, more of the 
 indispensable Parmesan ; mix wisely and with 
 discrimination; and then eat to your soul's, or 
 stomach's, content. To further your joy, have 
 at your side a flash of Chianti, pure and strong, 
 standing in no need of baptism. The gods 
 never fared better. But, one word of advice: 
 if this dish you serve for luncheon, defy 
 convention, and make it the first and last 
 and only course. It niay seem meagre in 
 the telling. But to treat it with due respect 
 and justice much must be eaten, and this 
 much makes more impossible even to the 
 hopeful. 
 
 Another word of advice : never break or cut 
 the macaroni into small pieces; the cook who 
 dares to disobey in this particular deserves in- 
 stant and peremptory dismissal. Where is the 
 poetry, where the art, if it can be eaten with as 
 little trouble and planning as an everyday 
 
184 A Dish of Sunshine 
 
 potato, or a mess of greens? Who, that has 
 seen, can forget the skilful Italian winding the 
 long steaming tubes around and around his 
 fork, his whole soul and intelligence concen- 
 trated upon the pretty feat of transposing these 
 tubes from his fork to his mouth. It is difficult ; 
 ■ yes, especially for the foreigner; but where is 
 the pleasure without pain ? As well tear your 
 Troyon or your Diaz into shreds, and enjoy it 
 in bits, as violate the virginal lengths of your 
 macaroni. 
 
 In more lavish mood, prepare it al sugo, and 
 no cause need you fear for regret. It is well- 
 nigh as simple; the macaroni, or better still 
 spaghetti, the smaller, daintier variety, once 
 boiled, is taken from the water only to be 
 plunged in rich gravy, its quantity varying 
 according to the quantity of spaghetti used; let 
 it boil anew, or rather simmer, until each long 
 tube is well saturated; then, add the cheese 
 and butter, and say your Benedicite with a full 
 heart. 
 
 Or, would you have it richer still, and so 
 tempt Providence? Make tomato the founda- 
 tion of the gravy, spice it with cloves, bring 
 
A Disk of Sunshine 185 
 
 out the sweet bouquet garni, serve with butter 
 and Parmesan cheese as before, and call the 
 result Macaroni d, la Napolitaine. Spaghetti, here 
 again, will answer the purpose as well, nor 
 will the pretty, flat, wavy ribbon species come 
 amiss. To court perfection, rely upon mush- 
 rooms for one of the chief elements in this 
 adorable concoction, and the whole world over 
 you may travel without finding a dish worthy 
 to compete with it. Macaroni can yield noth- 
 ing more exquisite, though not yet are its re- 
 sources exhausted. 
 
 Au gratin it is also to be commended. The 
 preliminary boiling may now, as always, be 
 taken for granted. With its chosen and well- 
 tried accompaniments of butter and Parmesan 
 cheese, and steeped in a good white sauce, it 
 may simmer gently over the fire until the sym- 
 pathetic butter be absorbed ; then in a decently 
 prepared dish, and covered with bread-crumbs, 
 it should bake until it is warmed into a golden- 
 brown harmony that enraptures the eye. Or 
 with stronger seasoning, with onion and pepper 
 and cayenne, you may create a savoury beyond 
 compare. Or combined with the same ingredi- 
 
1 86 A Disk of Sunshine 
 
 ents you may stew your macaroni in milk, and 
 revel in macaroni sauU ; worse a hundred times, 
 truly, might you fare. 
 
 But, if you would be wholly reckless, why, 
 then try Macaroni a la Fontife, and know that 
 human ambition may scarce pretend to nobler 
 achievements. For a mould of goodly propor- 
 tions you fill with macaroni and forcemeat of 
 fowl and larks and bits of bacon and mush- 
 rooms and game filleted; and this inefEable 
 arrangement you moisten with gravy and allow 
 to simmer slowly, as befits its importance, for 
 an hour ; eat it, and at last you too, with Faust, 
 may hail the fleeting moment, and bid it stay, 
 because it is so fair! 
 
 In puddings and pies macaroni is most excel- 
 lent. But if you be not lost beyond redemp- 
 tion, never sweeten either one or the other ; the 
 suggestion of such sacrilege alone is horrid. 
 Into little croquettes it may by cunning hands 
 be modelled ; en timbale, in well-shaped mould, 
 it reveals new and welcome possibilities. With 
 fish it assimilates admirably; in soup it is 
 above criticism. It Will strengthen the flavour 
 of chestnuts, nor will it disdain the stimulating 
 
A Dish of Sunshine 187 
 
 influence of wine, white or red. And in the 
 guise of nouilles, or nudels, it may be stuffed 
 with forcemeat of fowl or beef, and so clamour 
 for the rich tomato saure. 
 
ON SALADS 
 
 To speak of salads in aught but the most 
 reverential spirit were sacrilege. To be hon- 
 oured aright, they should be eaten only in the 
 company of the devout or in complete soli- 
 tude — and perhaps this latter is the wiser plan. 
 Who, but the outer barbarian, will not with a 
 good salad, 
 
 A book, a taper, and a cup 
 Of country wine, divinely sup? 
 
 Over your hot meats you cannot linger; if 
 alone with them, and read you must, a com- 
 mon newspaper, opened at the day's despatches, 
 best serves your purpose; else, your gravies 
 and sauces congeal into a horrid white mess 
 upon your plate, and tepid is every unsavoury 
 morsel your fork carries to your mouth. But 
 over any one of the "salad clan" — lettuce or 
 tomato, beans or potato, as fancy prompts — you 
 can revel at leisure in your Balzac, your Heine, 
 189 
 
I go On Salads. 
 
 your Montaigne, which, surely, it would be 
 desecration to spread open by the side of the 
 steaming roast or the prosaic bacon and eggs. 
 There has always seemed one thing lacking in 
 Omar's Paradise: a salad, he should have bar- 
 gained for with his Book of Verses, his Jug of 
 Wine, and Loaf of Bread "underneath the 
 Bough." 
 
 Far behind has the Continent left Great 
 Britain in the matter of salads. To eat them 
 in perfection you must cross the Channel — as, 
 indeed, you must in the pursuit of all the daint- 
 iest dishes — and travel still farther than France. 
 The French will give you for breakfast a bowl 
 of Soissons, for dinner a Homaine, which long 
 survive as tender memories; even the humble 
 dandelion they have enlisted in the good cause. 
 With the Italian you will fare no less well ; bet- 
 ter it may be, for, with the poetic feeling that 
 has disappeared for ever from their art and 
 architecture, they fill the salad bowl at times 
 with such delicate conceits as tender young 
 violet leaves, so that you may smell the spring 
 in the blossoms at your throat, while you de- 
 vour it in the greens set before you. But in 
 
On Salads. 191 
 
 Germany, though there may be less play of 
 fancy in the choice of materials, there is far 
 greater poetry in the mixing of them. As an 
 atonement for that offence against civilisation, 
 the midday dinner, the Germans have invented 
 a late supper that defies the critic: the very 
 meanest Speise-Saal is transfigured when the 
 gaslight falls softly on the delicious potato or 
 cucumber or herring salads of the country, 
 flanked by the tall slim glasses of amber Rhe- 
 nish wine. But, excelling Germany, even as 
 Germany excels France, Hungary is the true 
 home of the salad. It would take a book to 
 exhaust the praise it there inspires. To die 
 eating salad on the banks of the Danube to 
 the wail of the Czardas — that would be the 
 true death! What, however, save the ideals 
 realised, is to be effected in a land where 
 tomatoes are as plentiful as are potatoes in 
 Ireland ? 
 
 The Briton, it must be admitted, has of late 
 progressed. Gone is the time when his favour- 
 ite salad was a horror unspeakable: an onion 
 and a lettuce served whole, chopped up by 
 himself, smothered in salt and pepper, and 
 
192 On Salads 
 
 fairly sluiced with vinegar. To understand 
 the full iniquity of it, you must remember what 
 an excess of vinegar the stalwart Briton was 
 equal to in those days, now happily past. An 
 imperial pint, Mr Weller's friend, the coach- 
 man with the hoarse voice, took with his oys- 
 ters without betraying the least emotion. As 
 benighted, smacking no less of the Dark Ages, 
 is the custom of serving with cheese a lettuce 
 (of the long crisp species known as cos in the 
 cookery books), cut ruthlessly in halves. You 
 are supposed to dip the leaves into salt, and 
 afterwards return thanks with a grateful heart. 
 Many there are who will still eat lettuce in this 
 fashion with their tea ; the curious student of 
 evolution can point to it as a survival of the 
 old barbarism ; to the mustard and cress or cu- 
 cumber sandwiches which have replaced it, as 
 a higher phase of development. 
 
 But, though these sorry customs still survive 
 here and there, even as superstitions linger 
 among ignorant peasants, British eyes are open- 
 ing to the truth. The coming of the salad in 
 England marks the passing of the Englishman 
 from barbarous depth to civilised heights. Has 
 
On Salads 193 
 
 he not exchanged his old-love Frith for Whist- 
 ler, and has he not risen from G. P. R. James 
 to George Meredith? Not a whit less impor- 
 tant in the history of his civilisation is his 
 emancipation from that vile, vinegar-drenched 
 abomination to the succulent tomato, the un- 
 rivalled potato, well "fatigued" in the "capa- 
 cious salad-bowl." 
 
 Of every woman worthy of the name, it is the 
 duty to master the secret of the perfect salad, 
 and to prepare it for her own — and man's — 
 greater comfort and joy in this life, and — who 
 knows ? — salvation in the next. This secret is 
 all in the dressing. It is easy enough to buy 
 in the market, or order at the greengrocer's a 
 lettuce, or a cucumber, or a pound of tomatoes. 
 But to make of them a masterpiece, there's the 
 rub. Upon the dressing and "fatiguing" suc- 
 cess depends. The mission of the lettuce, the 
 resources of the bean were undreamed of until 
 the first woman — it must have been a woman ! 
 — divined the virtue that lies in the harmonious 
 combination of oil and vinegar.. Vinegar alone 
 and undiluted is for the vulgar ; mixed with oil 
 it as much surpasses nectar and ambrosia as 
 13 
 
194 On Salads 
 
 these hitherto have been reckoned superior to 
 the liquors of mere human brewing. Of mayon- 
 naise nothing need as yet be said ; it ranks rather 
 with sauceis, irreproachable vvhen poured upon 
 salmon, or chicken, or lobster — upon the sim- 
 pler and more delicate salads it seems well- 
 nigh too strong and coarse. The one legiti- 
 mate dressing in these cases is made of vinegar 
 and oil, pepper and salt, and, on certain rare 
 occasions, mustard. 
 
 As, with sauces, it is simple to put down in 
 blapk and y/hite the several ingredients of the 
 good dressing. But what of the proportions? 
 What of the methods of mixing? In the large 
 towns of the United States where men and 
 women delight in the pleasures of the table, 
 are specialists who spend their afternoons going 
 from house to house, preparing th$ salads for 
 the day's coming great event. And perhaps, 
 in the end, all mankind may see advantages in 
 this division of labour. For only the, genius 
 born can mix a salad dressing, as it should be 
 mixed. Quantities of pepper and salt, of oil 
 and vinegar for him (or, her) are not measured 
 by rule or recipe, but by inspiration. You 
 
On Salads 195 
 
 may generalise and insist upon one spoonful of 
 oil for every guest and one for the bowl — some- 
 what in the manner of tea-making — and then 
 one-third the quantity of vinegar. But out of 
 these proportions the Philistine will evolve for 
 you a nauseating concoction; the initiated, a 
 dressing of transcendental merit. 
 
 As much depends upon the mixing as upon 
 the proportions. The foolish pour in first their 
 oil, then their vinegar, and leave the rest to 
 chance, with results one shudders to remember. 
 The two must be mixed together even as they 
 are poured over the salad, and here the task but 
 begins. For next, they must be mixed with 
 the salad. To " fatigue" it the French call this 
 special part of the process, and indeed, to cre- 
 ate a work of art, you must mix and mix and 
 mix until you are fatigued yourself, and your 
 tomatoes or potatoes reduced to one-half their 
 original bulk. Then will the dressing have 
 soaked through and through them, then will 
 every mouthful be a special plea for gluttony, 
 an eloquent argument for the one vice that 
 need not pall with years. 
 . One other . ingredient must not be omitted 
 
Ig6 On Salads 
 
 here, since it is as essential as the oil itself. 
 This is the onion — 
 
 Rose among roots, the maiden fair. 
 Wine-scented and poetic soul 
 
 of every salad. You may rub with it the bowl, 
 you may chop it up fine and sprinkle with it 
 the lettuce, as you might sprinkle an omelet 
 with herbs. But there, in one form or another, 
 it must be. The French have a tendency to 
 abuse it; they will cut it in great slices to 
 spread between layers of tomatoes or cucum- 
 bers. But there is a touch of grossness in this 
 device. It is just the soupfon you crave, just the 
 .subtle flavour it alone can impart. You do not 
 want your salad, when it comes on the table, to 
 suggest nothing so much as the stewed steak 
 and onions shops in the Strand! The fates 
 forbid. 
 
 "What diversities soever there be in herbs, 
 all are shuffled up together under the name of 
 sallade." And Montaigne wrote in sadness, 
 knowing well that there could be no error more 
 fatal. Have you ever asked for a salad at the 
 greengrocer's, and been offered a collection of 
 
On Salads igy 
 
 weeds befitting nothing so much as. Betsy 
 Prig's capacious pocket? Have you ever, at 
 the table of the indifferent, been served with 
 the same collection plentifully drenched with 
 " salad cream" ? But these are painful memo- 
 ries, speedily to be put aside and banished for 
 evermore. Some combinations there are of 
 herbs or greens or vegetables unspeakably de- 
 licious, even in the thought thereof. But it is 
 not at haphazard, by an unsympathetic green- 
 grocer, they can be made; not in haste, from 
 bottles of atrocities, they can be dressed. 
 They are the result of conscientious study, of 
 consummate art. 
 
 Besides, some varieties there be of flavour 
 too delicate to be tampered with : for instance, 
 the cabbage lettuce, as the vulgar call it, which 
 comes in about Easter time, but which, at the 
 cost of a little trouble, can be had all the year 
 round. For some reason unknown, your hard- 
 hearted greengrocer, half the time, objects to 
 it seriously, declares it not to be found from 
 end to end of Covent Garden. But let him 
 understand that upon his providing it depends 
 your custom, and he fetches it — the unprinci- 
 
198 On Salads 
 
 pled one — fast enough. The ragged outer- 
 leaves pulled away, crisp and fresh is the heart, 
 a cool green and white harmony not to be 
 touched by brutal knife. The leaves must be 
 torn apart, gently and lovingly, as the painter 
 plays with the colours on his palette. Then, 
 thrown into the bowl which already has been 
 well rubbed with onion, and slices of hard- 
 boiled egg laid upon the top for adornment and 
 flavouring alike, at once may the dressing of 
 oil and vinegar and salt and pepper be poured 
 on, and the process of " fatiguing" begin. You 
 need add nothing more, to know, as you eat, 
 that life, so long as salads are left to us, isTvell 
 worth the living. 
 
 To say this is to differ in a measure from the 
 great Alexandre, a misfortune surely to be 
 avoided.. To this lettuce he would add herbs 
 of every kind; nay, even oysters, or tortoise 
 eggs, or anchovies, or olives — in fact, the sub- 
 ject is one which has sent his ever delightful 
 imagination to work most riotously. But, in 
 all humility, must it still be urged that the 
 cabbage lettuce is best ungarnished, save, it 
 may be, by a touch, of the unrivalled celery or 
 
On Salads 199 
 
 slices of the adorable tomato — never, if yours 
 be the heart of an artist, by the smallest frag- 
 ment of the coarse, crude, stupid beetroot. 
 
 The romaine, or cos, however, is none the 
 worse for Dumas' suggestions; indeed, it is 
 much the better. Its long stiff leaves, as they 
 are, may not be "fatigued" with anything ap- 
 proaching ease or success. It is to be said — 
 with hesitation perhaps, and yet to be said — 
 that they make the better salad for being cut 
 before they are put into the bowl. As if to 
 atone for this unavoidable liberty^ dainty ad- 
 ditions may not come amiss: the tender little 
 boneless anchovies, fish of almost any and every 
 kind — most admirably, salmon and a bit of red 
 herring in conjunction — cucumbers, celery, to- 
 matoes, radishes — all will blend well and har- 
 moniously. Be bold in your experiments, and 
 fear nothing. Many failures are a paltry price 
 to pay for one perfect dish. 
 
 Of other green salads the name is legion: 
 endive, dandelion leaves, chicory, chervil, mus- 
 tard and cress, and a hundred and more besides 
 before the resources of France — more especially 
 the Midi — and Italy be exhausted. And none 
 
200 On Salads 
 
 may be eaten becomingly without the oil and 
 vinegar dressing; all are the pleasanter for the 
 soupfon of onion, and the egg, hard-boiled; a 
 few gain by more variegated garniture. 
 
 But these minor salads — as they might be 
 classed — pale before the glories of the tomato: 
 the pomodoro of the Italian, the pomtne d' amour of 
 the Provengal — sweet, musical names, that lin- 
 ger tenderly on the lips. And, indeed, if the 
 tomato were veritably the " love apple" of the 
 Scriptures, and, in Adam's proprietorship, the 
 olives already yielded oil, the vines vinegar, 
 then the tragedy in the Garden of Eden may be 
 explained without the aid of commentary. 
 Many a man— Esau notably — has sold his birth- 
 right for less than a good tomato salad. 
 
 Dante's Inferno were too good for the de- 
 praved who prepare it, as if it were a paltry 
 pickle, with a dosing of vinegar. It must first 
 receive the stimulus of the onion; then its 
 dressing must be fortified by the least suspicion 
 of mustard — English, French, or German, it 
 matters not which — ^and if the pleasure that 
 follows does not reconcile you to Paradise lost, 
 as well might you live on dry bread and cold 
 
On Salads 201 
 
 water for the rest of your natural days. The 
 joys of the epicure, clearly, are not for you. It 
 seems base and sordid to offer for so exquisite 
 a delicacy hygienic references. But the world 
 is still full of misguided men who prize " die- 
 tetic principles" above the delights of gluttony ; 
 once assured that from the eating of the tomato 
 will come none of the evils " to which flesh is 
 erroneously supposed to be heir," they might be 
 induced to put tomato salad, made in right 
 fashion, to the test. Then must they be con- 
 firmed faddists indeed, if they do not learn that 
 one eats not merely to digest. 
 
 To the mystical German, the potato first re- 
 vealed virtues undreamed of by the blind who 
 had thought it but a cheap article of food to 
 satisfy hunger, even by the French who had 
 carried it to such sublime heights in their pu- 
 rees and souffles, their Parisiennes and Lyonnaises. 
 Not until it has been allowed to cool, been cut 
 in thin slices, been dressed as a salad, were its 
 subtlest charms suspected. To the German — 
 to that outer barbarian of the mid-day dinner — 
 we owe at least this one great debt of gratitude. 
 Like none other, does the potato-salad lend 
 
202 On Salads 
 
 itself to the most fantastic play of fancy. It 
 stimulates imagination, it awakens ambition. 
 A thousand and one ways there be of preparing 
 it, each better than the last. "With celery, with 
 carrots, with tomatoes, with radishes, with 
 parsley, with cucumber, with every green thing 
 that grows — in greatest perfection with okras, 
 the vegetable dear to Hungarian and Ameri- 
 can, unknown to poor Britons — it combines 
 graciously and deliciously, each combination a 
 new ecstasy. And, moreover, it is capable of 
 endless decoration ; any woman with a grain of 
 ingenuity can make of it a thing of beauty, to 
 look upon which is to sharpen the dullest appe- 
 tite. So decorative are its possibilities, that at 
 times it is a struggle to decide between its 
 merits as an ornament and its qualities as a 
 delicacy. For truth is, it becomes all the more 
 palatable if dressed and " fatigued" an hour or 
 so before it is eaten, and the oil and vinegar 
 given time to soak through every slice and 
 fragment. The wise will disdain, for the pur- 
 pose, the ordinary potato, but procure instead 
 the little, hard "salad potato," which never 
 crumbles; it comes usually from Hamburg, 
 
On Salads 203 
 
 and is to be bought for a trifle in the German 
 delicatessen shops of London. 
 
 Poetic in the early spring is the salad of 
 "superb asparagus"— pity it should ever be 
 eaten hot with drawn butter! — or of artichoke, 
 or of cucumber — the latter never fail to sprinkle 
 with parsley, touch with onion, and " fatigue" 
 a good half hour before serving. Later, the 
 French bean, or the scarlet runner should be 
 the lyrical element of the feast. And in win- 
 ter, when curtains are drawn and lamps lit, 
 and fires burn bright, the substantial Sotssons, 
 for all its memories of French commercials, is 
 not to be despised. But, if your soul aspires to 
 more ethereal flights, then create a vegetable 
 salad — cauliflower, and peas, and potatoes, and 
 beans, and carrots in rhythmical proportions 
 and harmonious blending of hues. 
 
THE SALADS OF SPAIN 
 
 They are still many and delicious as when 
 Beckford ate them and was glad, a hundred 
 and more years ago. The treasures of the 
 Incas have dwindled and disappeared ; the Al- 
 hambra has decayed and been restored on its 
 high hill-top; the masterpieces of Valasquez 
 have been torn from palace walls, to hang in 
 convenient rows in public museums ; the great- 
 ness of Spain has long been waning. But the 
 Spaniard still mixes his salads with the art and 
 distinction that have been his for centuries. 
 Herein, at least, his genius has not been 
 dimmed, nor his success grown less. And so 
 long as this remains true, so long will there be 
 hope of a new Renaissance in the Iberian pen- 
 insula. By a nation's salads may you judge of 
 its degree of civilisation ; thus tested, Spain is 
 in the van, not the rear, of all European coun- 
 tries. 
 
 It is no small achievement to give distinctive 
 205 
 
2o6 The Salads of Spain 
 
 character to national salads, to-day that the 
 virtue of vinegar and oil and the infallibility 
 of incomparable onion are universally acknowl- 
 edged and respected. And yet Spain, in no 
 idle spirit of self-puffery, can boast of this 
 achievement. She has brought to her imalada 
 a new element, not wholly unknown elsewhere 
 — in Hungary, for instance — but one which 
 only by the Spaniard has been fully appre- 
 ciated, constantly introduced, and turned to 
 purest profit. This element — ^need it be said? 
 — is the pepper, now red, now green. The 
 basis of the Spanish salad may be — nay, is — ■ 
 the same as in other lands: tomato, cucumber, 
 lettuce, beans, potatoes. But to these is added 
 pepper — not miserably dried and powdered, but 
 fresh and whole, or in generous slices — and be- 
 hold I a new combination is created, a new fla- 
 vour evolved. And it is a flavour so strong^ 
 yet subtle withal, so aromatic and spicy, so 
 bizarre and picturesque — dream-inspiring as the 
 aroma of green Chartreuse, stimulating as Cog- 
 nac of ripe years — that the wonder is its praises 
 hitherto have not been more loudly sung, its 
 delights more widely cultivated. The trum- 
 
The Salads of Spain 207 
 
 pet-note struck by the glowing scarlet is fitting 
 herald of the rapturous thrills that follow in 
 the eating. Not more voluptuous than the 
 salad thus adorned were the beauties of the 
 harem, who doubtless feasted upon it under the 
 cypresses and myrtles of Andalusia. 
 
 The tendency of the Spaniard is ever to har- 
 mony, intricate and infinite. Is not his dish of 
 dishes his olla cocida ? Is not his favourite course 
 of vegetables the fisto? And so likewise with 
 his salads: now he may give you tomato just 
 touched with pepper, cucumber just enlivened 
 by the same stirring presence. But more often 
 he.'will present }'bu an arrangement which, in 
 its elabbration, may well baffle the first inves- 
 tigation of the student. Peppers, as like as not 
 of both species, tomatoes, cucumber, onion, 
 garlic cut fine as if for a mince of greens— 
 "pepper hashj" the American crudely calls an 
 arrangement closely akin in motive — ^are min- 
 gled together so deftly,, are steeped in vinegar 
 ajid oil so. effectually, ;as.,tb seem, not many^in 
 or!e,^cbUt #e'.,ohe in many,, the crowning .glory 
 of thfe. :glorioiis vegetable world of the South. 
 Nxjfclring .in .comnion ;has this delectable- salad' 
 
2o8 The Salads of Spam 
 
 with the macddoiru, which the Spaniard also 
 makes. Peas and carrots, potatoes and toma- 
 toes, beans and cauliflowers meet to new pur- 
 pose, when peppers, red and ardent, wander 
 hither and thither in their midst waging war 
 upon insipidity, destroying, as if by fire, the 
 tame and the commonplace. Again, lettuce 
 untainted by garlic, resisting the slightest sus- 
 picion of complexity, may answer for the fool- 
 ish foreigner who knows no better. But in 
 lettuce prepared for himself the Spaniard spares 
 not the fragrant garlic; neither does he omit 
 his beloved peppers, while he never rebels, re- 
 joicing rather, if occasional slices of cucumber 
 and tomatoes lie hid between the cool green 
 leaves. 
 
 But fish furnishes him with text for still more 
 eloquent flights, still loftier compositions. A 
 mayonnaise he can make such as never yet was 
 eaten under milder suns and duller skies ; and 
 a mayonnaise far from exhausts his all but un- 
 limited resources. Sardines he will take, or 
 tunny, or any fish that swims, and that, already 
 cooked, has been either shut up long weeks in 
 protecting tins or left but a few hours to cool. 
 
The Salads of Spain 209 
 
 Whatever the fish chosen, he places it neatly 
 and confidently at the bottom of his dish ; above 
 it he lays lettuce leaves and garlic and long 
 brilliant slices of scarlet pepper; round about 
 it he weaves a garniture of olives and hard- 
 boiled eggs that reveal their hearts of gold. 
 The unrivalled, if cosmopolitan, sauce of vine- 
 gar and oil is poured upon the whole and made 
 doubly welcome. But details are varied in 
 every fish salad served in Spain; only in its 
 perfection does it prove unalterable. 
 
 These, and their hundred offshoots were con- 
 ceived in serious moments. But once, in sheer 
 levity of spirit and indolence, the gay Andalu- 
 sian determined to invent a salad that, to the 
 world beyond his snowy Sierras, would seem 
 wildest jest, but to himself would answer for 
 food and drink, and, because of its simplicity 
 and therefore cheapness, save him many a use- 
 less hour of gaining his dinner at the sweat of 
 his brow. And so, to the strumming of guitars 
 and click of castanets, now never heard save in 
 books of travel through Andalusia, gaspacho ap- 
 peared ; destined to be for ever after the target 
 for every travel-writer's wit, the daily fare of» 
 14 
 
2IO The Salads of Spain 
 
 its inventor and his descendants. To the An- 
 dalusian gaspacho is as macaroni to the Neapoli- 
 tan, bouillabaisse to the Provencal, chops and 
 steaks to the Englishman. In hotels, gro- 
 tesquely French or pretentiously English 
 where butter comes out of tins, and salad is 
 garlicless, gaspacho may be but surreptitiously 
 concocted for the secret benefit of the house- 
 hold. But go to the genuine Andalusian /^^ai/a 
 or house, travel in Andalusian boat, or break- 
 fast at Andalusian buffet, and ten to one gas- 
 pacho figures on the menu. 
 
 To describe it, Gautier must be borrowed 
 from. What would you? When the master 
 has pronounced upon any given subject, why 
 add an inefficient postscript? When a ready- 
 made definition, admirably rendered, is at your 
 command, why be at the pains of making a new 
 one for yourself? Never be guilty of any work 
 when others may do it for you, is surely the one 
 and only golden rule of life. Listen, then, to 
 the considerate Gautier: "Gaspacho deserves a 
 description to itself, and so we shall give here 
 the recipe which would have made the late 
 Brillat-Savarin's hair stand on end. You pour 
 
The Salads of Spain 211 
 
 water into a soup tureen, to this water you add 
 vinegar" (why omit the oil, you brilliant but 
 not always reliable poet?), "shreds of garlic, 
 onions cut in quarters, slices of cucumber, some 
 pieces of pepper, a pinch of salt ; then you add 
 bits of bread, which are left to soak in this 
 agreeable mess, and you serve cold." It should 
 be further explained that, in the season, toma- 
 toes are almost invariably introduced, that they 
 and all the greens are chopped up very fine, 
 and that the whole has the consistency of a 
 julienne supplied with an unusually lavish quan- 
 tity of vegetables. It is eaten with a spoon 
 from a soup plate, though on the menu it appears 
 as a course just before the sweets. This ex- 
 planation made, listen again to Gautier, who 
 writes in frivolous mood. " With us, dogs but 
 tolerably well bred would refuse to compromise 
 their noses in such a mixture. It is the favour- 
 ite dish of the Andalusians, and the prettiest 
 women, without fear, swallow at evening great 
 spoonfuls of this infernal soup. Gaspacho is 
 held to be most refreshing, an opinion which 
 to us seems a trifle daring, and yet, extraordi- 
 nary as it may be found at the first taste, you 
 
212 The Salads of Spain 
 
 finish by accustoming yourself to it, and even 
 liking it." 
 
 He was right. Gaspacho has its good points: 
 it is pleasant to the taste, piquant in its very 
 absurdity; it is refreshing, better than richly- 
 spiced sauces when the sun shines hot at mid- 
 day. Andalusians have not been labouring 
 under a delusion these many years. The pep- 
 per is a stimulant; vinegar, oil, and water 
 unite in a drink more cooling and thirst- 
 quenching than abominable red wine of Valde- 
 peSas. Would you be luxurious, would you 
 have your gaspacho differ somewhat from the 
 poor man's, drop in a lump of ice, and double 
 will be your pleasure in the eating. 
 
 Like all good things gaspacho has received 
 that sincerest form of flattery, imitation; and, 
 what is more gratifying, received it at home. 
 Lettuce, cut in tiny pieces, is set floating in a 
 large bowl of water, vinegar, and oil, well 
 seasoned with salt. Refreshing this also is 
 claimed to be ; though so strange a sight is it 
 to the uninitiated that a prim schoolma'am, 
 strayed from Miss Wilkins's stories into Anda- 
 lusia, has been seen to throw, up hands of won- 
 
The Salads of Spain 213 
 
 der, and heard to declare that that salad would 
 find a niche in her diary, to which, as a rule, 
 she confided nothing less precious than her 
 thoughts. Happy Spain, to have so conquered! 
 What is Granada to the possession of so chaste 
 a tribute? 
 
THE STIRRING SAVOURY 
 
 First impressions have their value: they may 
 not be dismissed in flippancy of spirit. But 
 for this reason must last impressions be held 
 things of nought, not worthy the considera- 
 tion of ambitious or intelligeht man? First 
 impressions at times are washed away by the 
 rich, fast stream of after-events, even as the 
 first on a slate disappear under the obliterating 
 sponge; last impressions remain to bear testi- 
 mony after the more tangible facts have passed 
 into the ewigkeit. Else, where the use of the 
 ballade's envoy, of the final sweet or stirring 
 scene as the curtain falls upon the play? 
 
 It is the same with all the arts — with love, 
 too, for that matter, were there but space to 
 prove it. Love, however, dwindles in impor- 
 tance when there is question of dinner or break- 
 fast. Life consists of eating and drinking, as 
 greater philosophers than Sir Andrew Ague- 
 cheek have learned to their infinite delight, 
 215 
 
2i6 The Stirring Savoury 
 
 have preached to the solace of others. There- 
 fore, so order your life that the last impres- 
 sions of your eating and drinking may be more 
 joyful, more beautiful than the first; then, and 
 only then, will you have solved that problem of 
 problems which, since the world began, has set 
 many a Galahad upon long and weary quest. 
 It behoves you to see that the feast, which 
 opened with ecstasy, does not close with plati- 
 tude, and thus cover you with shame and con- 
 fusion. A paltry amateur, a clumsy bungler, 
 is he who squanders all his talent upon the 
 soup, and leaves the savoury to take care of 
 itself. Be warned in time I 
 
 The patriotic claim the savoury as England's 
 invention. Their patriotism is pretty and 
 pleasing; moreover, it is not without a glim- 
 mering of truth. For to England belongs the 
 glorious discovery that the dinner which ends 
 with a savoury ends with rapture that passeth 
 human understanding! The thing itself has its 
 near of kin, its ancestors, as one might say. 
 Caviar, olives, lax, anchovies, herrings' roe, 
 sardines, and as many more of the large and 
 noble family — do not these appear as antipasti 
 
The Stirring Savoury 217 
 
 in Italy? In Russia and Scandinavia do they 
 not, spread symmetrically on side table, serve 
 the purpose of America's cocktail? And among 
 the palms, as among the pines, coldness is held 
 to be an essential quality in them. Hot from 
 the ardent oven, the Parisian welcomes their 
 presence between the soup and the fish, and 
 many are the enthusiasts who declare this to be 
 the one and only time for their discreet appear- 
 ance upon the menu. Reason is in the plea: 
 none but the narrow-minded would condemn it 
 untested and untried. He who prizes change, 
 who rebels even against the monotony of the 
 perfect, may now and again follow this fashion 
 so gaily applauded by gourmets of distinction. 
 But, remembering the much that depends upon 
 last impressions, the wise will reserve his sa- 
 voury to make therewith a fair, brave ending. 
 
 There still walk upon this brutal earth poor 
 heedless women who, in the innocence of their 
 hearts, believe that the one destiny of cheese is 
 to lie, cut up in little pieces, in a three-cornered 
 dish, which it shares with misplaced biscuits 
 and well-meaning rolls of butter, and, it may 
 be, chilling celery. But cheese, which in many 
 
2i8 The Stirring Savoury 
 
 ways has achieved such marvels, may be wrought 
 into savouries beyond compare. As souffli, either 
 au Gruyire or au Parmesan, it becomes light and 
 dainty as the poet's lyric, and surely should be 
 served only on porcelain of the finest. It is 
 simple to say how the miracle is worked: a 
 well-heated oven, a proper saucepan, butter, 
 water, pepper, salt and sugar in becoming pro- 
 portions, the yolks of eggs and grated Parme- 
 san, the whites of the eggs added, as if an 
 afterthought; and twenty-five minutes in the 
 expectant oven will do the rest. But was ever 
 lyric turned out by rule and measure? Even 
 the inspired artist has been known to fail with 
 his souffle. Here, indeed, is a miracle, best 
 entrusted td-none but the genius. 
 
 Canape au Parmesan has pretensions which the 
 result justifies. On the bread, fried as golden 
 as the haloes of Fra Angelico's angels, the 
 grated Parmesan, mingled with salt and pepper, 
 is spread. A Dutch oven yields temporary 
 asylum until the cheese be melted, when, 
 quicker than thought, the canapis are set upon a 
 pretty dish and served to happy mortals. Ram- 
 aquitis of cheese, in cases or out, can boast of 
 
The Stirring Savoury 2 1 9 
 
 charms the most seductive. Nor in gotigire or 
 beignet or bouchee will Parmesan betray confi- 
 dence. Again, in failles, or straws, on fire with 
 cayenne, and tied with fluttering rihbons into 
 enticing bunches, this happy child of the South 
 reveals new powers of seduction. So long as 
 there is cheese to command, the most fastidious 
 need not wander far in search of savouries. 
 
 The anchovy may be made a dangerous rival 
 to Parmesan. Whole, or in paste, it yields en- 
 chanting harmonies, burning and fervent as 
 lover's prayer. Let your choice fall upon the 
 boneless anchovies of France, if you would aim 
 at the maximum of pleasure and the minimum 
 of labour. True it is that labour in the kitchen 
 is ever a joy; but, expended upon one creation 
 when it might be divided among many, must 
 not sacrifice of variety in sensation be the price 
 paid? Fried after the fashion of whitebait, 
 sprinkled with paprika, and refreshed with 
 lemon juice, anchovies become quite irresist- 
 ible as Orlys cPanchois. Prepared in cases, like 
 Parmesan, they are proof against criticism as 
 tartelettes. Now figuring z.% petites boucMes, now 
 as rissolettes, they fail not to awaken new and 
 
220 The Stirring Savoury 
 
 delicious emotions. They simply clamour for 
 certain exquisite combinations, to-day with 
 hard-boiled &g% passed through a sieve, to- 
 morrow with olives from sunny Provence ; thin 
 brown bread and butter, or toast, the crisp 
 foundation. But rarely do they go masquerad- 
 ing so riotously as in the garb of croHtes d'an- 
 chois : first, the golden croMon, then a slice of 
 tomato, then a slice of cucumber, then a layer 
 of caviar, then a layer of anchovies scarlet with 
 paprika and garnished with leaves of chervil; 
 and behold! you have a pyramid more memo- 
 rable far than any raised on Egyptian sands — 
 a pyramid that you need not travel silly miles 
 to see : it is yours, any day and any hour, for 
 the ordering. 
 
 Lax laid lightly on toast is a pale rose tri- 
 umph. Olives farcies — ^caper and anchovy chief 
 ingredients of the farce — come like a flaming 
 ray of southern sunlight. Haddock is smoked 
 in the land across the border solely that it may 
 ravish the elect in its grandest phase as croustades 
 de merluche fumde. By the shores of the blue 
 Mediterranean, sardines are packed in tins that 
 the delicate diner of the far north may know 
 
The Stirring Savoury 221 
 
 pleasure's crown of pleasure in canape de sardines 
 diabUes. Caviar craves no more elaborate seas- 
 oning than lemon juice and. paprika can give; 
 herring roe sighs for devilled biscuit as friendly 
 resting-place. Shrimp and lobster vie with 
 one another for the honour either bouchee or 
 canape bestows. And ham and tongue pray 
 eagerly to be grated and transformed into be- 
 wildering croHtes. The ever-willing mushroom 
 refuses to be outsped in the blessed contest, but 
 murmurs audibly, " Au gratin I am adorable ;" 
 while the egg whispers, " Stuff me, and the 
 roses and raptures are yours!" 
 
 But what would the art of eating be without 
 the egg? In two strange and striking combina- 
 tions it carries the savoury to the topmost 
 rung in the ladder of gastronomy. Its union 
 with inexhaustible anchovy and Bombay duck 
 has for issue "Bombay toast," the very name 
 whereof has brought new hope to staid dons 
 and earnest scholars. Pledged to anchovies 
 once more and butter and cream — Mormon-like 
 in its choice of many mates — it offers as result 
 " Scotch woodcock," a challenge to fill high the 
 glass with Claret red and rare. 
 
222 The Stirring Savoury 
 
 Endless is the stimulating list. For cannot 
 the humble bloater be pressed into service, and 
 the modest cod? Do not many more vegetables 
 than spinach, that plays so strong a part in 
 'Raviole h la Genoese, answer promptly when 
 called upon for aid? And what of the gher- 
 kin? What of the almond — the almond min- 
 gled with caviar and cayenne? And what of 
 this, that, and the other, and ingenious com- 
 binations by the score? Be enterprising! Be 
 original ! And success awaits you. 
 
INDISPENSABLE CHEESE 
 
 With bread and cheese and kisses for daily 
 fare, life is held to be perfect by the poet. But 
 love may grow bitter before cheese loses its 
 savour., Therefore the wise, who value the 
 pleasures of the table above tender dalliance, 
 put their faith in strong Limburger or fragrant 
 Brie, rather than in empty kisses. If only this 
 lesson of wisdom could be mastered by all men 
 and women, how much less cruel life might be ! 
 Nor is cheese without its poetry to comfort 
 the hater of pure prose. Once the "glory of 
 fair Sicily," there must ever linger about it 
 sweet echoes of Sicilian song sung under the 
 wild olives and beneath the elms, where Theo- 
 critus "watched the visionary flocks." Did not 
 " a great white cream-cheese" buy that won- 
 drous bowl — the " miracle of varied work"-^for 
 which Thyrsis sang the pastoral song? Cheese- 
 fed were the shepherds who piped in the shadow 
 
 of the ilex tree, ,while( the calves were dancing 
 223 
 
224 Indispensable Cheese 
 
 in the soft green grass; cheese-scented was the 
 breath of the fair maidens and beautiful youths 
 they loved. Is there a woman with soul so 
 dead, who, when in a little country inn fresh 
 cheese is laid before her, cannot fancy that she 
 sees the goats and kids among the tamarisks of 
 the sun-kissed Sicilian.JiiUs, and hears the per- 
 fect voices of Daphnis and Menalcas, the two 
 herdsmen "skilled in song"? 
 
 Perhaps because cheese has been relegated 
 to the last course at midday breakfast, or at 
 dinner, has it lost much of its charm for the 
 heedless. But who, .indeed, playing with peach 
 or orange at dessert, knows the fruit's triie fla- 
 vour as well as he who plucks it fresh from the 
 tree while wandering 1:hrough the peach or- 
 chards of Delaware or the orange groves of 
 Florida? Take a long walk over the moors 
 and through the heather, or cycle for hours 
 along winding lanes, and then, at noon, eat a 
 lunch of bread and cheese, and — even without 
 the kisses — you will find in the frugal fare a 
 godlike banquet. Time was when bits cut 
 from the huge carcase of a well-battered Ched- 
 dar, washed down with foaming shandygaff, 
 
Indispensable Cheese 225 
 
 seemed more delicious far than the choicest 
 dishes at the Lap6rotise or Voisin's. Memory 
 journeys back with joy to the fragrant, tough, 
 little goat's cheese, with flask of Chianti, set 
 out upon the rough wooden table in front of 
 some wayside vine-trellised albergo, while travel- 
 ler and cycle rested at the hour when shade is 
 most pleasant to men. How many a tramp, 
 through the valleys and over the passes of Swit- 
 zerland, has been made the easier by the sub- 
 stantial slice of good Gruy^re and the cup of 
 wine well cooled in near snow-drifts! How 
 many rides awheel through the pleasant land 
 of France have been the swifter for the Ca- 
 membert and roll devoured by the way ! 
 
 Places and hours there are when cheese is 
 best. But seldom is it wholly unwelcome. 
 From dinner, whatever may then be its limita- 
 tions, some think it must never be omitted. 
 Remember, they say, as well a woman with but 
 one eye as a last course without cheese. But 
 see that you show sympathy and discretion in 
 selecting the variety most in harmony with 
 your menu, or else the epicure's labours will in- 
 deed be lost. It is not enough to visit the 
 15 
 
226 Indispensable Cheese 
 
 cheesemonger's, and to accept any and every 
 kind offered. The matter is one requiring time 
 and thought and long experience. You must 
 understand the possibilities of each cheese 
 chosen, you must bear in mind the special re- 
 quirements of each meal prepared. Preposter- 
 ous it would be truly to serve the mild- flavoured 
 plebeian species from Canada or America after 
 a carefully ordered dinner at Verrey's; waste- 
 ful, to use adorable Port Salut or aromatic 
 Rocquefort for a pudding or a Welsh rabbit. 
 
 Study gastronomic proprieties, cultivate your 
 imaginatiofa, and as the days follow each other 
 fewer will be your mistakes. Heavy Stilton 
 and nutritious Cheddar, you will know, belong 
 by right to undisguised joint and irrepressible 
 greens: to a "good old-fashioned English din- 
 ner" they prove becoming accompaniments. 
 Excellent they are, after their fashion, to be 
 honoured and respected ; but something of the 
 seriousness and the stolidity of their native 
 land has entered into them, and to gayer, more 
 frivolous moods they are as unsuited as a ser- 
 mon to a ballroom. If, however, to the joint 
 you cling with tenacity, and solemn Stilton be 
 
Indispensable Cheese 227 
 
 the cheese of your election, do not fail to ripen 
 it with port of the finest vintage or good old 
 ale gently poured into holes, here and there 
 scooped out for the purpose, and then filled 
 once more with the cheese itself. 
 
 Strength, fierce in perfume and flavour alike, 
 lies in Limburger, but it is strength which de- 
 mands not beef or mutton, but wurst and sauer- 
 kraut. Take it not home with you, unless you 
 would place a highly-scented barrier between 
 yourself and your friends; but, in deep thank- 
 fulness of heart, eat it after you have lunched 
 well and heartily in the Vienna Cafe, which 
 overlooks Leicester Square, or in that other 
 which commands Mudie's and Oxford Street. 
 And thanks will be deepened a hundredfold if, 
 while eating, you call for a long refreshing 
 draught of Munich beer. 
 
 Sweet, redolent of herbs, are gracious Gor- 
 gonzola, of which such ribald tales are told by 
 the irreverent, and royal Rocquefort, in its sil- 
 ver wrapping; eaten after "the perfect din- 
 ner," each has merit immeasurable — merit 
 heightened by a glass of Beaune or Chamber- 
 tin. Then, too, is the hour for Port Salut, 
 
2 28 Indispensable Cheese 
 
 with its soothing suggestion of monastic peace 
 and contentment, alone a safeguard against 
 indigestion and other unspeakable horrors; if 
 you respect your appetite, seek it nowhere save 
 in the German delicatessen shop, but there order 
 it with an easy conscience and confidence in 
 the white-coated, white-aproned ministering 
 spirit at the counter. Thither also turn for 
 good Camembert ; but, as you hope for pleasure 
 in the eating, be not too ready to accept the 
 first box offered: test the cheese within with 
 sensitive finger, and value it according to its 
 softness, for an unripe Camembert, that crum- 
 bles at touch of the knife, is deadlier far than 
 all the seven deadly sins. It should be soft 
 and flowing almost as languid Fromage de Brie, 
 indolent and melting on its couch of straw. 
 Beyond all cheese, Gruybre calls for study and 
 reflection, so many are the shams, by an un- 
 scrupulous market furnished, in its place. As 
 palely yellow as a Liberty scarf, as riddled 
 with holes as cellular cotton, it should be sweet 
 as Port Salut, and yet with a reserve of strength 
 that makes it the rival of Limburger. 
 But blessed among cheeses, a romance in 
 
Indispensable Cheese 229 
 
 itself, is the creamy, subtle little Suisse, delect- 
 able as Dumas calls it. Soft and sweet as the 
 breath of spring, it belongs to the season of 
 lilacs and love. Its name evokes a vision of 
 Paris, radiant in the Maytime, the long avenues 
 and boulevards all white and pink with blos- 
 soming horse-chestnuts, the air heavy laden 
 with the fragrance of flowers; a vision of the 
 accustomed corner in the old restaurant looking 
 out upon the Seine, and of the paternal waiter 
 bearing the fresh Suisse on dainty green leaf. 
 Life holds few such thrilling interludes! You 
 may eat it with salt, and think yourself old and 
 wise; but why not be true to the spirit of 
 spring? Why not let yourself go a little, and, 
 eating your Suisse with sugar, be young and 
 foolish and unreasonably happy again? 
 
 Authorities there be who rank the Broccio of 
 Corsica above the Suisse, and credit it with de- 
 licious freshness and Virgilian flavour. To 
 taste it among its wild hills, then, would be 
 well worth the long journey to the island in the 
 Medeiterranean. In the meantime, however, 
 none need quarrel with Suisse. Hardly a coun- 
 try or district in the world really that has not 
 
230 Indispensable Cheese 
 
 its own special cheese; he who would discover 
 them all and catalogue them must needs write 
 a treatise on geography. 
 
 But to eat cheese in its many varieties, with 
 butter or salt or sugar, as the case may be, and 
 to think its mission thus fulfilled, would be to 
 under-estimate its inexhaustible resources. In- 
 numerable are the masterpieces the culinary 
 artist will make of it. In an omelet you would 
 pronounce it unsurpassable, so long as kind 
 fate did not set before you the consummate 
 Fondue. As a pudding you would declare it 
 not to be approached, if sometimes crisp cheese 
 straws were not served with dinner's last course. 
 On an ocean voyage, Welsh-rabbit late at night 
 will seem to you the marvel of marvels; on a 
 railway journey a cheese sandwich at noon you 
 will think still more miraculous — but let the 
 sandwich be made of brown bread, and mix 
 butter and mustard and anchovies with the 
 cheese. The wonders that may be worked with 
 Parmesan alone — whether in conjunction with 
 macaroni, or soup, or cauliflower, or many a 
 dish beside — would be eloquent text for a new 
 chapter. 
 
A STUDY IN GREEN AND RED 
 
 You may search from end to end of the vast 
 Louvre; you may wander from room to room 
 in England's National Gallery; you may travel 
 to the Pitti, to the Ryks Museum, to the Prado ; 
 and no richer, more stirring arrangement of 
 colour will you find than in that corner of your 
 kitchen garden where, June's strawberries grow 
 ripe. From under the green of broad leaves 
 the red fruit looks out and up to the sun in 
 splendour unsurpassed by paint upon canvas. 
 And the country, with lavish prodigality born 
 of great plenty, takes pity upon the drear, drab 
 town, and, packing this glory of colour in bas- 
 kets and crates, despatches it to adorn green- 
 grocer's window and coster monger's cart. 
 " Strawberries all ripe, sixpence a pound," is 
 the itinerant sign which now sends a thrill 
 through Fleet Street and brings joy to the 
 Strand. 
 
 To modern weakling the strawberry is strong 
 i3i 
 
232 A Study in Green and Red 
 
 with the strength of classical approval. The 
 Greek loved it; the Latin vied with him in the 
 ardour of his affection. Poets sang its wonders 
 and immortalised its charms. Its perfume was 
 sweet in the nostrils of Virgil ; its flavour en- 
 raptured the palate of Ovid; and at banquets 
 under the shadow of the Acropolis and on sunny 
 Pincian Hill, the strawberry, cultivated and 
 wild, held place of honour among the dear 
 fruits of the earth. 
 
 Nor did it disappear before the barbarian's 
 inroads. Europe might be laid waste ; beauty 
 and learning and art might be aliens in the 
 land that was once their home; human enjoy- 
 ment might centre upon a millennium to come 
 rather than upon delights already warm within 
 men's grasp. But still the strawberry sur- 
 vived. Life grew ugly and rue and barren. 
 But from -under broad leaves the little red fruit 
 still looked out and np to the sun; and, by 
 loveliness of colour and form, of flavour and 
 scent, proved one of the chief factors in re- 
 claiming man from barbarism, in leading him 
 gently along the high road to civilisation and 
 the joy of life. 
 
A Study in Green and Red 233 
 
 Respect for its exquisite perfection was ever 
 deep and heartfelt. Gooseberries might be 
 turned to wine and figure as fools; raspberries 
 and currants might be imprisoned within stodgy 
 puddings. But the strawberry, giver of health, 
 creator of pleasure, seldom was submitted to 
 desecration by fire. As it ripened, thus was it 
 eaten: cool, scarlet, and adorable. At times 
 when, according to the shifting of the seasons, 
 its presence no longer made glad the hearts of 
 its lovers, desire invented a substitute. As the 
 deserted swain takes what cold comfort he can 
 from the portrait of his mistress, so the faithful 
 stayed themselves with the strawberry's coun- 
 terfeit. And thus was it made: "Take the 
 paste of Massepain, and roul it in your hands 
 in form of a Strawberry, then wet it in the 
 juice of Barberries or red Gooseberries, turn 
 them about in this juice pretty hard, then take 
 them out and put them into a dish and dry 
 them before a fire, then wet them again for 
 three or four times together in the same juice, 
 and they will seem like perfect Strawberries." 
 Master Cook Giles Rose is the authority, and 
 none knew better. 
 
2 34 -^ Study in Green and Red 
 
 If^ in moment of folly, in an effort to escape 
 monotony, however sweet, the strawberry was 
 robbed of its freshness, it was that it might be 
 enclosed in a tart. Then — how account for 
 man's inconsistency? — it was so disguised, so 
 modified by this, that, or the other companion 
 in misery, that it seemed less a strawberry 
 than ever Master Rose's ingenious counterfeit. 
 And, in witness thereof, read Robert May, the 
 Accomplished Cook, his recipe: "Wash the 
 strawberries and put them into the tart; season 
 them with cinnamon, ginger, and a little red 
 wine, then put on the sugar, bake it half an 
 hour, ice it, scrape on sugar, and serve it." A 
 pretty mess, in truth, and yet, for sentiment's 
 sake, worth repetition in this degenerate latter 
 day. Queen Anne preserved the tradition of her 
 Stuart forefathers, and in " The Queen's Royal 
 Cooker," a little book graced by the Royal por- 
 trait, Robert May's tart reappears, cinnamon, 
 ginger, and all. So it was handed down from 
 generation to generation, cropping up here and 
 there with mild persistency, and now at last, 
 after long career of unpopularity, receiving 
 distinction anew. 
 
A Study in Green and Red 235 
 
 One tart in a season, as tribute to the past, 
 will suffice. It were a shame to defile the deli- 
 cate fruit in more unstinted quantities. Re- 
 serve it rather for dessert, that in fragile 
 porcelain dish or frail glass bowl it may lose 
 nothing of the fragrance and crispness and 
 glow of colour that distinguished it as it lay 
 upon the brown earth under cool green shelter. 
 To let it retain unto the very last its little green 
 stem is to lend to dinner or breakfast table the 
 same stirring, splendid harmony that lit up, as 
 with a flame, the kitchen garden's memorable 
 corner. But if with cream the fruit is to be 
 eaten, then comfort and elegance insist upon 
 green stem's removal before ever the bowl be 
 filled or the dish receive its dainty burden. 
 
 At early " little breakfast" of coffee and rolls, 
 or tea and toast, as you will, what more deli- 
 cious, what fresher beginning to the day's heat 
 and struggles, then the plate of strawberries 
 newly picked from their bed? Banish cream 
 and sugar from this initiative meal. At the 
 dawn of daily duty and pleasure, food should 
 be light and airy and unsubstantial. Then the 
 stem, clinging fast to the fruit's luscious flesh, 
 
236 A Study in Green and Red 
 
 is surely in place. Half the delight is in pluck- 
 ing the berry from the plate as if from the bush. 
 
 After midday breakfast, after evening din- 
 ner, however, it is another matter. Cream 
 now is in order; cream, thick and sweet and 
 pure, covering the departing strawberry with a 
 white pall, as loving and tender as the snow 
 that protects desolate pastures and defenceless 
 slopes from winter's icy, inexorable fingers. 
 Sprinkle sugar with the cream, as flowers 
 might be strewn before the altars of Dionysius 
 and Demeter. 
 
 Cream may, for time being, seem wholly 
 without rivals as the strawberry's mate, the 
 two joined together by a bond that no man 
 would dare put asunder. But the strawberry 
 has been proven fickle in its loves — a very Cres- 
 sida among fruits. For to Kirsch it offers ec- 
 static welcome, while Champagne meets with 
 no less riotous greeting. To Cognac it will 
 dispense its favours with easy graciousness, 
 and from the hot embrace of Maraschino it 
 makes no endeavour to escape. Now, it may 
 seem as simple and guileless as Chloe, and 
 again as wily and well-versed as Egypt's far- 
 
A Study in Green and Red 237 
 
 famed Queen. But with the results of its sev- 
 eral unions who will dare find fault? In each 
 it reveals new, unsuspecting qualities, subtle 
 and ravishing. On pretty, white-draped tea- 
 table, rose-embowered, carnation-scented, the 
 strawberry figures to fairest advantage when 
 Champagne holds it in thrall; in this hour and 
 bower cream would savour of undue heaviness, 
 would reveal itself all too substantial and pal- 
 pable a lover. Again, when elaborate dinner 
 draws to an end, and dessert follows upon long 
 procession of soup and fish and entries and roasts 
 and vegetables and salads and poultry and 
 sweets and savouries, and who knows what — 
 then the strawberry becomes most irresistible 
 upon yielding itself, a willing victim, to the 
 bold demands of Kirsch. A macedoine of Kirsch- 
 drowned strawberries, iced to a point, is a dish 
 for which gods might languish without shame. 
 She who loves justice never fears to tell the 
 whole truth and nothing but the truth. To 
 cook the strawberry is to rob it of its sweetest 
 bloom and freshness. But there have been 
 others to think otherwise, as it must in fairness 
 be added. To the American, strawberry short- 
 
238 A Study in Green and Red 
 
 cake represents one of the summits of earthly 
 bliss. In ices, many will see the little fruit 
 buried without a pang of regret; and the de- 
 vice has its merits. As syrup, distended with 
 soda-water and ice-cream, the conservative Lon- 
 doner may now drink it at Fuller's. In the 
 flat, open, national tart, the Frenchman places 
 it, and congratulates himself upon the work of 
 art which is the outcome. Or, accepting Gouf]E6 
 as master, he will soar, one day, to the extra- 
 ordinary heights of coupe en tiougat garnie de 
 /raises, and find a flamboyant colour-print to 
 serve as guide ; the next he will descend to the 
 mere homeliness of biegnets de /raises j and, as 
 he waxes more adventurous, he will produce 
 bouMes de dame, ox pain ci la duchesse, madeleines en 
 surprise or pro/iteroles, each and all with the 
 strawberry for motive. The spirit of enter- 
 prise is to be commended, and not one of 
 Gouff^'s list but will repay the student in 
 wealth of experience gained. The lover, how- 
 ever, finds it not always easy to remember the 
 student within him, and if joy in the eating be 
 his chief ambition, he will be constant to the 
 fresh fruit ever. 
 
A MESSAGE FROM THE 
 SOUTH 
 
 What know we of the orange in our barbar- 
 ous North? To us it is an alien, a makeshift, 
 that answers well when, our own harvests over, 
 winter, sterile and gloomy, settles upon the 
 land. But in the joyous South all the year 
 round it ripens, its golden liquid a solace when 
 heat and dust parch the throat, as when winds 
 from the frozen North blow with unwonted 
 cold. The tree that bears it is as eager to pro- 
 duce as the mothers of Israel, and, in its haste 
 and impatience, often it whitens its branches 
 with blossoms while still they glow with fruit, 
 even as Beckford long since saw them in the 
 groves of Naples. 
 
 Bright, rich colour the costermonger's bar- 
 row, piled high with oranges from distant 
 Southern shores, gives to London's dingy 
 streets; and not a greengrocer's window but 
 239 
 
240 A Message from the South 
 
 takes on new beauty and resplendence when 
 decorated by the brilliant heaps. But mere- 
 tricious seems the loveliness of the orange here, 
 when once it has been seen hanging from 
 heavy-laden boughs, gleaming between cool 
 dark leaves in its own home, whether on Gua- 
 dalquivir's banks or Naples' bay, whether in 
 western Florida or eastern Jaffa. What has a 
 fruit that languishes in the garden of Lindajara 
 and basks in Amalfi's sunshine, to do with Lon- 
 don costermongers and fog-drenched shops? 
 
 Wearied and jaded by the long journey, dis- 
 heartened by the injustice done to it when 
 plucked in its young, green immaturity, it 
 grows sour and bitter by the way, until, when 
 it comes to the country of its exile, but a faint, 
 feeble suggestion of its original flavour re- 
 mains. With us, for instance, does not the 
 orange of Valencia mean a little, thin-skinned, 
 acid, miserable fruit, only endurable when 
 smothered in sugar or drowned in Cognac? 
 But eaten in Valencia, what is it then and 
 there> Large and ample are its seductive 
 proportions; its skin, deeply, gloriously gold- 
 en, forswears all meagreness, ihough never 
 
A Message from the South 241 
 
 too thick to shut out the mellowing sunshine; 
 its juice flows in splendid streams as if to vie 
 with the Sierra's quenchless springs; and the 
 fruit is soft and sweet as the sweet, soft South- 
 ern maidens whose white teeth meet and gleam 
 in its pulp of pure, uncontaminated gold. A 
 fruit this for romance — a fruit for the Houris 
 of Paradise ; not to be peddled about in brutal 
 barrows among feather-bearing 'Arriets. 
 
 In the South, it were a crime not to eat this 
 fruit, created for the immortals, just as God 
 made it. Sugar could be added but to its dis; 
 honour; the pots and pans of the sacrilegious 
 cook would be desecration unspeakable. Feast 
 then, upon its natural charms, and as the hot 
 Southern breeze brings to you the scent of 
 strange Southern blossoms, and the sky stretches 
 blindingly blue above, and <9«^ sits at your side 
 feasting in silent sympathy, fancy yourself, if 
 you will, the new Adam — or Eve — for whom 
 the flaming swords have been lowered, and the 
 long-closed gates of the Garden of Eden thrown 
 wide open. 
 
 But in the North, banish romance, banish 
 
 imagination ; bring to the study of the orange 
 16 
 
242 A Message from the South 
 
 the prose of necessity, and realism of the ear- 
 nest student. And sometimes, from prose — 
 who knows? — poetry may spring ; from realism 
 will be evolved wild dreaming. 
 
 If the orange be from Jaffa, or " hail" from 
 Florida, and care bestowed upon it during its 
 long voyaging, then will it need no Northern 
 artifice to enhance the pleasure in its power to 
 give. True that something — much, indeed — it 
 will have lost ; but something of its Southern, 
 spicy, subtle sweetness still survives — of the 
 Orient's glamour, of the mystery of the West- 
 ern wilderness of flower and fruit. Eat it, 
 therefore, as it is, unadorned, unspoiled. Tear 
 away tenderly the covering that cleaves to it so 
 closely; tear the fruit apart with intelligent 
 fingers ; to cut it is to sacrifice its cooling juice 
 to inanimate china, and to deprive yourself of 
 the first freshness of its charms. 
 
 When, however, as generally — to our sorrow, 
 be it said — the orange arrives a parody of itself, 
 it were better to join it to one of its several 
 dearest affinities. In well-selected company, it 
 may recover the shadow, and more, of the 
 splendour it elsewhere enjoys in solitary state. 
 
A Message from the South 243 
 
 Thus disguised, it may wander from dessert to 
 the course of sweets, and by so wandering save 
 the resourceless from the monotony of rice and 
 rizine, batter and bread-and-butter puddings, 
 whose fitting realm is the nursery, and from an 
 eternity of tarts which do not, like a good de- 
 sign, gain by repetition. In cocoanut, the 
 orange recognises a fellow exile, and the two, 
 coming together, yield a new flavour, a new 
 delight. For this purpose, the orange must be 
 cut that the juice may flow, and if in symmet- 
 rical rounds, the effect will be more satisfying 
 to the critical. Let the slices be laid at once 
 in the bowl destined to hold them at the mo- 
 ment of serving, that not a drop of juice may 
 escape, and arrange them so that over every 
 layer of orange reposes a layer of sugar. Then 
 taking the cocoanut that has been well drained, 
 grate it as fine as patience will allow ; under it 
 bury the orange until the gold is all concealed, 
 and the dish looks white and light and soft as 
 the driven snow. No harm will be done, but, 
 on the contrary, much good, by preparing some 
 hours before dinner. It is a pretty conceit; 
 half unwillingly the spoon disturbs this sum- 
 
244 -^ Message from the South 
 
 mery snow-field. But well that it does, for the 
 combination pleases the palate no less than the 
 eye. The orange summons forth the most ex- 
 cellent qualities of the cocoanut ; the cocoanut 
 suppresses the acidity and crudeness of the 
 expatriated orange. 
 
 With sugar alone, the orange — of this sec- 
 ondary order be it remembered— xomes not 
 amiss, when the soul yearns for placidness and 
 peace. If more stirring sensations be craved, 
 baste the cut-up oranges and sugar with Cog- 
 nac, and eat to your own edification. Again 
 prepare some hours before serving, and be not 
 stingy with the Cognac; keep basting con- 
 stantly; and be certain that if the result please 
 you not, the fault lies not with the fruit and 
 spirits, both exultant in the unexpected union. 
 
 The conservative, unused to such devices, 
 envelop oranges in soulless fritters and im- 
 prison them in stodgy puddings. Beware their 
 example ! One followed, there is no telling the 
 depths of plodding imbecility to which you may 
 be plunged. Not for the frying-pan or the 
 pudding-bowl was the golden fruit predestined. 
 Better eat no sweets whatever than thus de- 
 
A Message from the South 245 
 
 grade the orange and reveal our own short- 
 comings. 
 
 Who will deny that in the world's great 
 drinks the orange has played its part with 
 much distinction? In bitters it is supreme, if 
 gin in due proportions be added. And where 
 would mankind be by now, had the orange- 
 evolved liqueurs remained undiscovered? How 
 many happy after-dinner hours would never 
 have been ! How insipid the flavour of Claret 
 and Champagne-cup ! Even temperance drinks 
 may be endured when orange is their basis. 
 Go to Madrid or Granada, drink beb'.da helada de 
 naranja, and confess that in Spain the teetotal- 
 lers, if any such exist, have their compensa- 
 tion. K pur^e neigeuse, une esplce de glace liquide, 
 Gautier described it in a moment of expansion; 
 and, when art is in question, what Gautier has 
 praised who would revile? With the Spanish 
 bebida de naranja, the American orange water 
 ice may dispute the palm. 
 
 In humbler incarnation it appears as marma- 
 lade, without which the well-regulated house- 
 hold can do as little as without sapolio or 
 Reckitt's blue. Who throughout the British 
 
246 A Message from the South 
 
 Isles does not know the name of Keiller? 
 Bread and butter might better go than this 
 most British of British institutions, the coun- 
 try's stay and support in time of peace, its bul- 
 wark when war drives Tommy Atkins into 
 action. Thus has the North turned the South 
 to its own everyday uses, and the fruit of poets 
 passes into the food of millions. 
 
 In fruit salad, orange should be given a lead- 
 ing and conspicuous role, the aromatic little 
 Tangerine competing gaily and guilelessly with 
 the ordinary orange of commerce. There is 
 scarce another fruit that grows with which it 
 does not assimilate,- with which it does not 
 mingle, to the infinite advantage of the ardent 
 gourmet. This, none knows better than the 
 Spaniard, slandered sorel}' when reported a 
 barbarian at table. If some of his refinements 
 we could but imitate, artists truly we might be 
 considered. He it is who first thought to pour 
 upon his strawberries, not thick cream, but the 
 delicate juice of the orange freshly cut. Here 
 is a combination beyond compare ; and is there 
 not many another that might be tested as 
 profitably? Orange and apricot, orange and 
 
A Message from the South 247 
 
 plum, orange and peach. Experiment; for 
 even where failure follows, will not a new sen- 
 sation have been secured? The failure need 
 never be repeated. But to each new .success 
 will be awarded life eternal. 
 
ENCHANTING COFFEE 
 
 A PERFECTLY wisc man is he who is fully expert 
 and skilful in the true use of sensualities, as in 
 all other duties belonging to life. In the 
 household where wisdom rules, dinner, from 
 savoury hors d'muvre to aromatic coffee, will be 
 without reproach — or suspicion. The foolish 
 devote their powers to this course or that, and 
 in one supreme but ill-advised endeavour ex- 
 haust their every resource. Invention carries 
 them no further than the soul; even discreet 
 imitation cannot pilot them beyond the entrie. 
 With each succeeding dish their folly becomes 
 more obvious, until it culminates in the coffee, 
 which, instead of the divine elixir it should be, 
 proves but a vile, degrading concoction of chic- 
 ory. Here is the chief among gastronomic 
 tests ; the hostess who knows not how to pre- 
 pare a cup of coffee that will bring new light to 
 her guests' eyes, new gaiety to their talk, is 
 not worthy to receive them; the guest, who 
 249 
 
250 Enchanting Coffee 
 
 does not know good coffee when it is set before 
 him deserves to be cast into outer darkness and 
 fed for evermore upon brimstone and treacle. 
 Better far throw pearls before swine, than pour 
 good coffee into the cups of the indifferent. 
 
 The sympathies of the gourmand are all for 
 the mighty ones of old — for an Epicurus in 
 Greece, a Lucullus in Rome — to whom the gods 
 had not yet given the greatest of their gifts, 
 coffee. Sad indeed the banquet, dreamy the 
 evening uncheered, unblessed by fragrant 
 Mocha or mild Mysore. Poor mortals still 
 stood without the gates of Paradise, never once 
 foreseeing the exquisite joys to come, uncon- 
 scious of the penalty they paid for living so 
 much too soon. And while they thus dwelt in 
 sorrowful ignorance, shepherds, leading their 
 flocks through sweet pasture-land, paused in 
 their happy singing to note that the little kids 
 and lambs, an\i even staid goats and sheep, 
 waxed friskier and merrier, and frolicked with 
 all the more light-hearted abandonment after 
 they had browsed upon a certain berry-bearing 
 bush. Thyme and lavender, mint and mar- 
 joram, never thus got into their little legs, and 
 
Enchanting Coffee 251 
 
 sent them flying off on such jolly rambles and 
 led them into such unseemly antics. And the 
 shepherds, no doubt, plucked the berry and 
 tasted it, and found it good. And one day — ■ 
 who knows how? — by chance, they roasted it, 
 and the fragrance was as incense in their nos- 
 trils. And then, another time they pounded 
 it, and, it may be by merest accident, it fell 
 into the water boiling over the fire for their 
 midday meal. And thus, first, coffee was made. 
 
 To Abyssinia, otherwise an unknown factor 
 in the history of good living, belongs the credit 
 of producing the first coffee-drinkers. All hon- 
 our where honour is due. The debt of the 
 modern to Greece and Rome is smaller far than 
 to that remote country which not one man in 
 ten, to whom coffee is a daily necessity, could 
 point out upon the map. 
 
 Arabs, wandering hither and thither, came 
 to Abyssinia as they journeyed, and there drank 
 the good drink and rejoiced. Among them 
 were pious Moslems, who at times nodded over 
 prayers, and, yawning pitifully as texts were 
 murmured by lazy lips, knew that damnation 
 must be their doom unless sleep were banished 
 
252 Enchanting Coffee 
 
 from their heavy eyes at prayer time. And to 
 them as to the sheep and lambs, as to the goats 
 and kids, the wonder-working berry brought 
 wakefulness and gaiety. And into Arabia the 
 Happy, they carried it in triumph, and coffee 
 was drunk not for temporal pleasure but for 
 spiritual uses. It kept worshippers awake and 
 alert for the greater glory of Allah, and the 
 faithful accepted it with praise and thanks- 
 giving. 
 
 But, again, like the flocks in Abyssinian pas- 
 tures, it made them too alert, it seems. After 
 coffee, prayer grew frolicsome, and a faction 
 arose to call it an intoxicant, to declare the 
 drinking of it a sin against the Koran. Schisms 
 followed, and heresies, and evils dire and man- 
 ifold. But coffee fought a good fight against 
 its enemies and its detractors ; and from Arabia 
 it passed to Constantinople, from Turkey to 
 England, and so on from country to country, 
 until in the end there was not one in Europe, 
 or in the New World (which men had not then 
 so long discovered), but had welcomed the 
 berry that clears the clouded brain and stimu- 
 lates the jaded body. 
 
Enchanting Coffee 253 
 
 To all men its finest secrets have not been 
 revealed. Dishonoured by many it has been 
 and still is. Unspeakable liquids, some thick 
 and muddy, others thin and and pale, borrow 
 its name with an assurance and insolence that 
 fool the ignorant. Chicory arrogantly and un- 
 scrupulously pretends to compete with it, and 
 the thoughtless are deceived, and go their way 
 through life obdurate and unrepentant, deliber- 
 ately blinding themselves to the truth. Others 
 understand not the hour and the place, and 
 order it at strange moments and for stranger 
 functions. Americans there be who, from 
 thick, heavy, odious cups, drink it, plentifully 
 weakened with milk, as the one proper and fit 
 accompaniment for dinner; a spoonful of coffee 
 follows a spoonful of soup ; another is prelude 
 to the joint ; a second cup poisons the sweet. 
 On the other hand, be it admitted in fairness, 
 no coffee is purer and better than that of the 
 American who has not fallen into such mis- 
 taken courses. And he who doubts should, 
 without delay, drop in at Fuller's in Regent 
 Street, or the Strand, where to taste is to 
 believe. 
 
254 Enchanting Coffee 
 
 In the afternoon, plump German matrons and 
 maids gather about the coffee-pot, and fancy, 
 poor souls! that they, of all womankind, are 
 most discriminating in their choice of time and 
 opportunity. Gossip flows smoothly on ; house- 
 hold matters are placidly discussed; and the 
 one and only end of coffee remains for them, 
 now and always, unknown and unsuspected. 
 In their blameless innocence and guileless con- 
 fidence, may they have whatever happiness 
 belongs by right to the race of humble and un- 
 aspiring housewives. 
 
 In England the spurious is preferred to the 
 genuine; and rare, indeed, is the house or res- 
 taurant, the hotel or lodgings, where good 
 coffee is the portion of blundering humanity. 
 Over the barbarous depths into which the soul- 
 inspiriting berry has been dragged in unhappy 
 Albion, it is kinder to draw a veil. 
 
 But in the inscrutable East, the cradle of 
 mystici-sm, where no problem discourages ear- 
 nest seekers after truth, coffee may yet be had 
 in full perfection. In the West, France is not 
 without her children of light, and in the tall 
 glass of the cafi or the deep bowl of the auberge 
 
Enchanting Coffee 255 
 
 coffee sometimes is not unworthy of the name, 
 though chicory, the base, now threatens its 
 ruin. However, Austria, nearer to the mother- 
 country, makes the coffee of France seem but a 
 paltry imitation, so delicious is the beautiful 
 brown liquid, flowing in rich perennial streams 
 in every ca//, gilded or more modest. And yet 
 Austria, in her turn, is eclipsed, wholly and 
 completely, by the home of Attila and Kossuth. 
 Drink, if only once, coffee on the banks of the 
 Danube, while gipsies " play divinely into your 
 ear," and life will never more seem quite so 
 meaningless. 
 
 It is not easy to understand why the multi- 
 tude continue content with a bad substitute 
 when the thing itself, in all its strength and 
 sweetness, may be had for the asking. A little 
 knowledge, a trifle more experience, and good 
 coffee may be the solace and stimulus of the 
 honest Briton, as of the wily Turk, the wander- 
 ing Arab, and the fierce Magyar. 
 
 Know then, first, that your coffee berries 
 must be pure and unadulterated. Turn a deaf 
 ear to the tempter who urges economy and 
 promises additional flavour. Against chicory, 
 
256 Enchanting Coffee 
 
 protest cannot be too urgent or violent. It is 
 poison, rank and deadly. The liver it attacks, 
 the nerves it destroys, and the digestion it 
 disorganises hopelessly, disastrously. To the 
 well-trained palate it is coarse beyoiid redemp- 
 tion. The fictitious air of strength it lends to 
 the after-dinner cup delights the ignorant and 
 saddens the wise. But why waste too reck- 
 lessly good paper and type upon so degrading a 
 topic? Why not say once and for all that chic- 
 ory is impossible and revolting, an insult to the 
 epicure, a cruel trial to the sybarite, a crime to 
 the artist? Renounce it before it is too late, 
 and put your trust in the undrugged berries 
 from Arabia or Brazil, from Java or Porto 
 Rico. Mocha is irreproachable, though it loses 
 nothing when blended with Java or Mysore. 
 
 As the painter mixes his colours upon his 
 palette until the right tint springs into being, 
 so, if in befitting humility and patience, you 
 blend coffee with coffee, know that the day is 
 at hand when the perfect flavour will be born 
 of the perfect union. From venturing to rec- 
 commend one harmony above all others, the 
 most daring would refrain ; Mocha and Java 
 
Enchanting Coffee 257 
 
 might inspire hymns of praise in Paradise ; and 
 yet many gourmets would yearn for a keener, 
 stronger aroma, many sigh for a subtler. As 
 in matters of love, for yourself must you choose 
 and decide. 
 
 Sacrilegious indeed it were if, after infinite 
 trouble and tender care in your choice, you de- 
 livered the blend of your heart to the indiffer- 
 ent roasting pans, or cylinders, of any chance 
 grocer. Roast it yourself, so that the sweet 
 savour thereof fills your house with delicious 
 memories of the Eastern bazaar and the Italian 
 ptazza. Roast it in small quantities, no more 
 at a time than may be needed for the " little 
 breakfast," or the after-dinner cup. And roast 
 it fresh for each meal. Be not led astray by 
 the indolent and heedless who prize the saving 
 of labour above the pleasures of drink, and, 
 without a blush of shame, would send you to a 
 shop to buy your berries roasted. The elect 
 listen not to the tempting of the profane. In a 
 saucepan, with lid, may the all-important deed 
 be done. Or else a vessel shaped for the sol- 
 emn rite may be bought. But whichever be 
 used, let your undivided attention direct the 
 17 
 
258 Enchanting Coffee 
 
 process; else the berries will be burnt. A 
 small piece of pure, irreproachable butter in 
 the pan or "drum" will prove a friendly ally. 
 While still hot, place the brown berries — care- 
 fully separating those done to a turn from the 
 over-burnt, if any such there be — in the expec- 
 tant mill, and grind at once. 
 
 If much depend upon the roasting, no less is 
 the responsibility that rests with the grinding. 
 The working of the mill, soft and low as heard 
 from afar, makes most musical accompaniment 
 to dinner's later courses. It is guarantee of 
 excellence, certificate of merit. -Thus trusted 
 to the mill, when time presses, none of the 
 coffee's essence can escape, none of its aroma. 
 And there is art in the grinding: ground ex- 
 ceeding small it may answer for boiling, but 
 not for filtering or dripping ; and so be wary. 
 If picturesqueness of preparation have charms 
 for you, then discard the mill and, vying with 
 the Turks, crush the berries in a mortar with 
 a wooden crusher. The difference in results, 
 though counted vast by the pedant, in truth 
 exists not save in the imagination. 
 
 And now collect your thoughts in all serious- 
 
Enchanting Coffee 259 
 
 ness and reverence, for the supreme moment 
 has come. The berries are roasted and ground : 
 the coffee is to be made! And how? That's 
 the problem to the Englishwoman to whom 
 good coffee is a mystery as unfathomable as 
 original sin or papal infallibility. How? By 
 a process so ridiculously easy as to be laughed 
 to scorn by the complex modern. In all art it 
 is the same — simplicity, the fruit of knowledge 
 and experience, is a virtue beyond compare. 
 But poor blind humans, groping after would-be 
 ideals, seek the complicated, mistaking it to be 
 the artistic. Arguing then, from their own 
 foolish standpoint, they invent strange and 
 weird machines in which they hope to manu- 
 facture perfection; coffee-pots, globular in 
 shape, which must be turned suddenly, swiftly, 
 surely, at the critical instant, else will love's 
 labour all be lost; coffee-pots, with glass tubes 
 up which the brown liquid rushes, then falls 
 again, a Niagara in miniature; coffee-pots with 
 accommodating whistles blowing shrill warning 
 to the slothful ; coffee-pots that explode, bomb- 
 like, at the slightest provocation ; coffee-pots 
 that splutter, overflow, burst, get out of order, 
 
26p Enchanting Coffee 
 
 and, in a word, do everything that is dreadful 
 and unseemly. Of these, one and all, fight 
 shy. Coffee calls not for a practical engineer 
 to run the machine. 
 
 In three ways, so simple a child may under- 
 stand, so perfect a god might marvel, can the 
 delectable drinlc, that gives wakefulness and a 
 clear brain, be made. In the first place, in 
 ordinary pot, it may be boiled, allowing a 
 tablespoonful of the ground berries to a cup of 
 water, taking the pot off the fire, once the 
 beautiful, seductive brown froth is formed on 
 the top, pouring in a small teaspoonful of water 
 that the grounds may settle; serve without 
 delay, linger over it lovingly, and then go 
 forth gaily to conquer and rejoice. 
 
 In the second place — more to be commended 
 — use a cafitiire, or filter of tin or earthenware, 
 the latter by preference. Place the coffee, 
 ground not too fine, and in the same propor- 
 tions, in the upper compartment. Pour in 
 slowly water that is just at the boiling point, a 
 little only at a time, keeping the kettle always 
 on the fire that the all-important boiling point 
 may not be lost, and let the water filter or drip 
 
Enchanting Coffee 261 
 
 slowly through the grounds spread in a neat 
 layer. Some there be who stand the pot or 
 lower compartment in a pan of boiling water, 
 and they have reason with them. Others who, 
 when all the water has passed through to the 
 pot below, set it to filtering, or dripping, a sec- 
 ond time, and they are not wholly wrong. But 
 of all things, be careful that the coffee does not 
 cool in the process. Of life's many abomina- 
 tions, lukewarm coffee is the most abominable. 
 The third of the three ways yields Turkish 
 coffee. The special pots for the purpose, with 
 their open tops and long handles, are to be 
 found in one or more large Regent-street and 
 Oxford-street shops. Get the proper vessel, 
 since it answers best, and is, however, a pleas- 
 ure to the eye, a stimulus to the imagination of 
 all who at one happy period of their lives have 
 dwelt in Turkey or neighbouring lands. Now, 
 grind your coffee finer, but be faithful to the 
 same proportions. Into the water drop first the 
 sugar, measuring it according to your taste or 
 mood, or leaving it out altogether if its sweet- 
 ness offend you. Put your pot on the fire, and 
 
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262 Enchanting Coffee 
 
 coffee. To a boil, as kitchen slang has it, let 
 it come, but gay bubbles on its surface must be 
 signal to lift off the pot; put it on the fire 
 again, almost at once, remove it bubbling a 
 second time, put it on again, and again remove 
 it. This device repeated thrice will be enough, 
 though a fourth repetition can do no harm. A 
 teaspoonful of cold water will compel unruly 
 grounds to settle. Ponr the thick, rich, brown 
 liquid, as it breaks into beautiful yellow froth 
 on the top, into the daintiest cups your cup- 
 board holds, and drink it and happiness to- 
 gether. 
 
 To add cream or milk to Turkish cofiEee 
 would be a crime; nor must more sugar be 
 dropped into its fragrant, luscious depths. Or- 
 dinary after-dinner coffee should also be drunk 
 without cream or milk, if pleasure be the 
 drinker's end. Indeed, a question it is wheth- 
 er it be ever wise to dilute or thicken coffee 
 and tea with milk, however well boiled, with 
 cream, however fresh. The flavour is de- 
 stroyed, the aroma weakened. But black coffee 
 with breakfast would mean to begin the day at 
 too high a state of pressure, in undue exhilara- 
 
Enchanting Coffee 263 
 
 tion of spirits. To speak honestly, coffee is no 
 less a mistake in the morning hours than 
 Whisky-and-soda or Absinthe. But custom has 
 sanctioned it; it has become a bad habit from 
 one end of the Continent to the other, in innu- 
 merable otherwise wholly decorous British 
 households. But slaves of habit sliould wear 
 their chains so that there is as little friction 
 and chafing as possible. Therefore, make your 
 morning coffee strong and aromatic and pure as 
 if destined for after-dinner delights: but pour 
 into it much milk; half and half would prove 
 proportions within reason. Not out of the way 
 is it to borrow a hint from provincial France 
 and serve caf^-au-lait in great bowls, thus tacitly 
 placing it forever on a plane apart from cafd 
 noir. Or else, borrow wisdom from wily 
 Magyar and frivolous Austrian, and exquisite, 
 dainty, decorative whipped cream heap up high 
 on the surface of the morning cup. Take train 
 to-morrow for Budapest; haunt its cafds and 
 kiosques, from the stately Renter to the Dan- 
 ube-commanding Hungaria ; study their meth- 
 ods with diligence and sincerity; and then, if 
 there be a spark of benevolence within you, 
 
264 Enchanting Coffee 
 
 return to preach the glad gospel of good coffee 
 to the heathen at home. A hero you would be, 
 worthy countryman of Nelson and of Welling- 
 ton; and thus surely should you win for your- 
 self fame, and a niche in Westminster Abbey. 
 
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