Chapter XIV: Salads and Condiments

"Epicurean cooks
Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite."

Roman salad--Italian ditto--Various other salads--Sauce
for cold mutton--Chutnine--Raw chutnee--Horse-radish
sauce--Christopher North's sauce--How to serve a
mackerel--_Sauce Tartare_--Ditto for sucking pig--Delights of
making _Sambal_--A new language.

It has, I hope, been made sufficiently clear that neither water-cress nor radishes should figure in a dressed salad; from the which I would also exclude such "small deer" as mustard and cress. There is, however, no black mark against the narrow-leaved CORN SALAD plant, or "lamb's lettuce"; and its great advantage is that it can be grown almost anywhere during the winter months, when lettuces have to be "coddled," and thereby robbed of most of their flavour.

Instead of yolk of egg, in a dressing, cheese may be
used, with good results, either cream cheese--_not_ the poor
stuff made on straws, but what are known as "napkin," or "New
Forest" cheeses--or Cheddar. Squash it well up with oil and
vinegar, and do not use too much. A piece of cheese the size of
an average lump of sugar will be ample, and will lend a most
agreeable flavour to the mixture.

_Roman Salad_

Lucullus and Co.--or rather their cooks--had much to learn in the preparation of the "herbaceous meat" which delighted Sydney Smith. The Romans cultivated endive; this was washed free from "matter in the wrong place," chopped small--absolutely fatal to the taste--anointed with oil and _liquamen_, topped up with chopped onions, and further ornamented with honey and vinegar. But before finding fault with the conquerors of the world for mixing honey with a salad, it should be remembered that they knew not "fine Demerara," nor "best lump," nor even the beet sugar which can be made at home. Still I should not set a Roman salad before my creditors, if I wanted them to have "patience." An offer of the very smallest dividend would be preferable.

_Italian Salad._

The merry Italian has improved considerably upon the herbaceous treat (I rather prefer "treat" to "meat") of his ancestors; though he is far too fond of mixing flesh-meat of all sorts with his dressed herbs, and his boiled vegetables. Two cold potatoes and half a medium sized beet sliced, mixed with boiled celery and Brussels sprouts, form a common salad in the sunny South; the dressing being usually oil and vinegar, occasionally oil _seule_, and sometimes a _Tartare_ sauce. Stoned olives are usually placed atop of the mess, which includes fragments of chicken, or veal and ham.

_Russian Salad._

This is a difficult task to build up; for a sort of Cleopatra's Needle, or pyramid, of cooked vegetables, herbs, pickles, etc., has to be erected on a flat dish. Carrots, turnips, green peas, asparagus, French beans, beetroot, capers, pickled cucumbers, and horse-radish, form the solid matter of which the pyramid is built.

Lay a _stratum_ on the dish, and anoint the _stratum_ with
_Tartare_ sauce. Each layer must be similarly anointed, and
must be of less circumference than the one underneath, till the
top layer consists of one caper. Garnish with bombs of caviare,
sliced lemon, crayfish, olives, and salted cucumber; and then
give the salad to the policeman on fixed-point duty. At least,
if you take my advice.

_Anchovy Salad._

This is usually eaten at the commencement of dinner, as a _hors d'oeuvre_.

Some shreds of anchovy should be arranged "criss-cross"
in a flat glass dish. Surround it with small heaps of chopped
truffles, yolk and white of hard-boiled eggs, capers, and a
stoned olive or two. Mix all the ingredients together with a
little Chili vinegar, and twice the quantity of oil.

The mixture is said to be invaluable as an appetiser; but the modest oyster on the _deep shell_--if he has not been fattened at the bolt-hole of the main sewer--is to be preferred.

Cooked vegetables, for salad purposes, are not, nor will they ever be, popular in England, Nine out of ten Britains will eat the "one sauce" with asparagus, in preference to the oiled butter, or plain salad dressing, of mustard, vinegar, pepper, salt, and oil; whilst 'tis almost hopeless to attempt to dissuade madame the cook from smothering her cauliflowers with liquefied paste, before sending them to table. Many a wild weed which foreign nations snatch greedily from the soil, prior to dressing it, is passed by with scorn by our islanders, including the dandelion, which is a favourite of our lively neighbours, for salad purposes, and is doubtless highly beneficial to the human liver. So is the cauliflower; and an eminent medical authority once gave out that the man who ate a parboiled cauliflower, as a salad, every other day, need never send for a doctor. Which sounds rather like fouling his own nest.

_Fruit Salad._

This is simply a French _compôte_ of cherries, green almonds, pears, limes, peaches, apricots in syrup slightly flavoured with ginger; and goes excellent well with any cold brown game. Try it.

_Orange Salad._

Peel your orange, and cut it into thin slices. Arrange
these in a glass dish, and sugar them well. Then pour over them
a glass of sherry, a glass of brandy, and a glass of maraschino.

_Orange Sauce._

Cold mutton, according to my notions, is "absolutely beastly," to the palate. More happy homes have been broken up by this simple dish than by the entire army of Europe. And 'tis a dish which should never be allowed to wander outside the servants' hall. The superior domestics who take their meals in the steward's room, would certainly rise in a body, and protest against the indignity of a cold leg, or shoulder. As for a cold loin--but the idea is too awful. Still, brightened up by the following condiment, cold mutton will go down smoothly, and even gratefully:--

Rub off the thin yellow rind of two oranges on four lumps
of sugar. Put these into a bowl, and pour in a wine-glass
of port, a quarter pint of dissolved red-currant jelly, a
teaspoonful of mixed mustard--don't be frightened, it's all
right--a finely-minced shallot, a pinch of cayenne, and some
more thin orange rind. Mix well. When heated up, strain and
bottle off.

But amateur sauces should, on the whole, be discouraged. The writer has tasted dozens of imitations of Lea and Perrins's "inimitable," and it is still inimitable, and unapproachable. It is the same with chutnee. You can get anything in that line you want at Stembridge's, close to Leicester Square, to whom the writer is indebted for some valuable hints. But here is a recipe for a mixture of chutnee and pickle, which must have been written a long time ago; for the two operations are transposed. For instance, _the onions should be dealt with first_.

_Chutnine._

Ten or twelve large apples, peeled and cored, put in an
earthenware jar, with a little vinegar (on no account use
water) in the oven. Let them remain till in a pulp, then take
out, and add half an ounce of curry powder, one ounce of
ground ginger, half a pound of stoned raisins, chopped fine,
half a pound moist sugar, one teaspoonful cayenne pepper, one
tablespoonful salt. Take four large onions (_this should be
done first_), chop very fine, and put them in a jar with a pint
and a half of vinegar. Cork tightly and let them remain a week.
Then add the rest of the ingredients, after mixing them well
together. Cork tightly, and the chutnine will be ready for use
in a month. It improves, however, by keeping for a year or so.

_Raw Chutnee_

is another aid to the consumption of cold meat, and I have also seen it used as an accompaniment to curry, but do not recommend the mixture.

One large tomato, one smaller Spanish onion, one green
chili, and a squeeze of lemon juice. Pulp the tomato; don't try
to extract the seeds, for life is too short for that operation.
Chop the onion and the chili very fine, and mix the lot up with
a pinch of salt, and the same quantity of sifted sugar.

I know plenty of men who would break up their homes (after serving the furniture in the same way) and emigrate; who would go on strike, were roast beef to be served at the dinner-table unaccompanied by horse-radish sauce. But this is a relish for the national dish which is frequently overlooked.

_Horse-radish Sauce._

Grate a young root as fine as you can. It is perhaps needless to add that the fresher the horse-radish the better. No vegetables taste as well as those grown in your own garden, and gathered, or dug up, just before wanted. And the horse-radish, like the Jerusalem artichoke, comes to stay. When once he gets a footing in your garden you will never dislodge him; nor will you want to. Very well, then:

Having grated your horse, add a quarter of a pint of
cream--English or Devonshire--a dessert-spoonful of sifted
sugar, half that quantity of salt, and a tablespoonful of
vinegar. Mix all together, and, if for hot meat, heat in the
oven, taking care that the mixture does not curdle. Many people
use oil instead of cream, and mix grated orange rind with the
sauce. The Germans do not use oil, but either make the relish
with cream, or hard-boiled yolk of egg. Horse-radish sauce
for hot meat may also be heated by pouring it into a jar, and
standing the jar in boiling water--"jugging it" in fact.

_Celery Sauce_,

for boiled pheasant, or turkey, is made thus:

Two or three heads of celery, sliced thin, put into a
saucepan with equal quantities of sugar and salt, a dust of
white pepper, and two or three ounces of butter. Stew your
celery slowly till it becomes pulpy, but _not brown_, add two
or three ounces of flour, and a good half-pint of milk, or
cream. Let it simmer twenty minutes, and then rub the mixture
through a sieve.

The carp as an item of food is, according to my ideas, a fraud. He tastes principally of the mud in which he has been wallowing until dragged out by the angler. The ancients loved a dish of carp, and yet they knew not the only sauce to make him at all palatable.

_Sauce for Carp._

One ounce of butter, a quarter pint of good beef gravy,
one dessert-spoonful of flour, a quarter pint of cream and two
anchovies chopped very small. Mix over the fire, stir well till
boiling, then take off, add a little Worcester sauce, and a
squeeze of lemon, just before serving.

_Christopher North's Sauce._

This is a very old recipe. Put a dessert-spoonful of
sifted sugar, a salt-spoonful of salt, and rather more than
that quantity of cayenne, into a jar. Mix thoroughly, and
add, gradually, two tablespoonfuls of Harvey's sauce, a
dessert-spoonful of mushroom ketchup, a tablespoonful of lemon
juice, and a large glass of port. Place the jar in a saucepan
of boiling water, and let it remain till the mixture is very
hot, but not boiling. If bottled directly after made, the sauce
will keep for a week, and may be used for duck, goose, pork, or
(Christopher adds) "any broil." But there is but _one_ broil
sauce, the GUBBINS SAUCE, already mentioned in this work.

_Sauce for Hare._

What a piece of work is a hare! And what a piece of work it is to cook him in a laudable fashion!

Crumble some bread--a handful or so--soak it in port
wine, heat over the fire with a small lump of butter, a
tablespoonful of red-currant jelly, a little salt, and a
tablespoonful of Chili vinegar. Serve as hot as possible.

Mackerel is a fish but seldom seen at the tables of the great. And yet 'tis tasty eating, if his Joseph's coat be bright and shining when you purchase him. When stale he is dangerous to life itself. And he prefers to gratify the human palate when accompanied by

_Gooseberry Sauce_,

which is made by simply boiling a few green gooseberries,
rubbing them through a sieve, and adding a little butter and a
suspicion of ginger. Then heat up. "A wine-glassful of sorrel
or spinach-juice," observes one authority, "is a decided
improvement." H'm. I've tried both, and prefer the gooseberries
unadorned with spinach liquor.

Now for a sauce which is deservedly popular all over the world, and which is equally at home as a salad dressing, as a covering for a steak off a fresh-run salmon, or a portion of fried eel; the luscious, the invigorating

_Sauce Tartare_,

so called because no tallow-eating Tartar was ever known to taste thereof. I have already given a pretty good recipe for its manufacture, in previous salad-dressing instructions, where the yolks of hard-boiled eggs are used. But chopped chervil, shallots, and (occasionally) gherkins, are added to the _Tartare_ arrangement; and frequently the surface is adorned with capers, stoned olives, and shredded anchovies.

In the chapters devoted to dinners, no mention has been made of the sucking pig, beloved of Charles Lamb.[8] This hardened offender should be devoured with

_Currant Sauce_:

Boil an ounce of currants, after washing them and picking
out the tacks, dead flies, etc., in half a pint of water, for
a few minutes, and pour over them a cupful of finely grated
crumbs. Let them soak well, then beat up with a fork, and
stir in about a gill of oiled butter. Add two tablespoonfuls
of the brown gravy made for the pig, a glass of port, and a
pinch of salt. Stir the sauce well over the fire. It is also
occasionally served with roast venison; but not in the mansions
of my friends.

What is sauce for Madame Goose is said to be sauce for Old Man Gander. Never mind about that, however. The parents of young Master Goose, with whom alone I am going to deal, have, like the flowers which bloom in the spring, absolutely nothing to do with the case. This is the best

_Sauce for the Goose_

known to civilisation:

Put two ounces of green sage leaves into a jar with an
ounce of the thin yellow rind of a lemon, a minced shallot, a
teaspoonful of salt, half a ditto of cayenne, and a pint of
claret. Let this soak for a fortnight, then pour off the liquid
into a tureen; or boil with some good gravy. This sauce will
keep for a week or two, bottled and well corked up.

And now, having given directions for the manufacture of sundry "cloyless sauces"--with only one of the number having any connection with _Ala_, and that one a sauce of world-wide reputation, I will conclude this chapter with a little fancy work. It is not probable that many who do me the honour to skim through these humble, faultily-written, but heartfelt gastronomic hints are personally acquainted with the cloyless

_Sambal_,

who is a lady of dusky origin. But let us quit metaphor, and direct the gardener to

Cut the finest and straightest cucumber in his crystal
palace. Cut both ends off, and divide the remainder into
two-inch lengths. Peel these, and let them repose in salt to
draw out the water, which is the indigestible part of the
cucumber. Then take each length, in succession, and with a
very sharp knife--a penknife is best for the purpose--pare it
from surface to centre, until it has become one long, curly
shred. Curl it up tight, so that it may resemble in form the
spring of a Waterbury watch. Cut the length through from end to
end, until you have made numerous long thin shreds. Treat each
length in the same way, and place in a glass dish. Add three
green chilies, chopped fine, a few chopped spring onions, and
some tiny shreds of the Blue Fish of Java. Having performed
a fishless pilgrimage in search of this curiosity, you will
naturally fall back upon the common or Italian anchovy, which,
after extracting the brine and bones, and cleansing, chop fine.
Pour a little vinegar over the mixture.

"Sambal" will be found a delicious accompaniment to curry--when served on a salad plate--or to almost any description of cold meat and cheese. It is only fair to add, however, that the task of making the relish is arduous and exasperating to a degree; and that the woman who makes it--no male Christian in the world is possessed of a tithe of the necessary patience, now that Job and Robert Bruce are no more--should have the apartment to herself. For the labour is calculated to teach an entirely new language to the manufacturer.