Chapter XVII: Sweets to the Sweet 428 (10)

With the recipes of the "Oracle" the reader need not be as much concerned as with its spirit and its epicurean principles, which reveal a strongly marked individuality, and a comprehension far in advance of the time in Great Britain. Oracular and discursive, the author ambles pleasantly along the road of Conviviality, scattering his maxims and dispensing his formulas, while dipping into volume after volume to emphasise his text. The "Oracle" may be briefly described as a quaint medley of cookery, hygienic precepts, science, gastronomy, and domestic economy, written by a _bon vivant_. A long chapter is devoted to the subject of invitations to dinner, wherein punctuality is strictly insisted upon--dining, according to the writer, being the only act of the day which cannot be put off with impunity for even five minutes. He would have the cook the warden in chief, as defined by Mercier, a physician who cures two mortal maladies, Hunger and Thirst; or a _Hominum servatorem_--a preserver of mankind, as designated by Plautus. A good dinner, he maintains, is one of the greatest enjoyments of human life; but it should never be at the mercy of belated guests,--"what will be agreeable to the stomach and restorative to the system at five o'clock will be uneatable and indigestible at a quarter past." When he himself gave a dinner-party, the guests were invited for five o'clock, and at five minutes after the hour specified, the street door was locked, and the key, by his order, was set aside. But it is perhaps in the chapter on advice to cooks, and in his directions as to the minutiæ of boiling, baking, roasting, and frying, that he is most suggestive. A characteristic farewell to the reader concludes the volume, which even to-day may be consulted with profit--an observation that will also apply to many portions of its companion treatise, "The Art of Invigorating and Prolonging Life."

Less pretentious, and dealing more with the æsthetic side of good living, are the essays of the "Original," by Thomas Walker, barrister at law and magistrate, which treat of the pleasures of the table under the titles, "The Art of Attaining High Health" and "The Art of Dining."[41] These critical dissertations originally appeared in 1835 in a weekly periodical of which he was the editor, the series terminating with his death the subsequent year. And if the influence of the "Almanach" is readily discernible in the case of Dr. Kitchener, so in like manner one detects a flavour of the "Physiology" in the genial pages of Walker. Kitchener undoubtedly proves himself the more valiant trencherman, while Walker remains the more refined and philosophic host.

His golden rule was, "Content the stomach and the stomach will content you." A little irregularity in agreeable company he deems better than the best observance in solitude. When dining alone is necessary, however, he adds that the mind should be disposed to cheerfulness by a previous interval of relaxation from whatever has seriously occupied the attention, and by directing it to some agreeable object. And so contentment ought to be an accompaniment to every meal. Punctuality becomes the more essential, and the diner and the dinner should be ready at the same time. Concerning dining in comfort, he holds that a chief maxim is to have what you want when you want it, and not be obliged to wait for little additions to be supplied, when what they belong to is half or entirely finished.

The plates should be brought in before the dish, and the dish and its adjuncts appear simultaneously; in other words, the necessary condiments should always be at hand, and the wines should stand ready to be poured out at the moment required,--the lesson of patience, however desirable, is not a virtue that should be inculcated at the dinner-table; and prompt service must ever form a great desideratum of the perfect meal. In dining, more than anything else, perhaps, whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well, though this were far from meaning that lavish expenditure need enter into the hospitable relations of host and guests. Forethought and careful personal attention, it may be reiterated, play a most important part at the board of Good Cheer; and simple dishes unexceptionally prepared and served, with the beverages that naturally accompany them at the proper temperature, will garnish any table with a cloth of gold. "A good soup, a small turbot, a neck of venison, ducklings with green peas, or chicken with asparagus, and an apricot tart," the Earl of Dudley was accustomed to say, "is a dinner for an emperor." There are those possibly who might prefer the much more simple menu of a French gourmet,--"A bottle of Chambertin, a _ragoût à la Sardanapale_, and a pretty lady _causeur_, are the three best companions at table in France."

But it will be rendering greater justice to the author to permit him to speak for himself on some of the niceties connected with the art he has expounded so wisely and so well:

"Anybody can dine, but few know how to dine so as to ensure
the greatest quantity of health and enjoyment" [he agrees with
Dumas and Fayot]. "Indeed, many people contrive to destroy
their health; and as to enjoyment, I shudder when I think
how often I have been doomed to only a solemn mockery of it;
how often I have sat in durance stately, to go through the
ceremony of dinner, the essence of which is to be without
ceremony, and how often in this land of liberty I have felt
myself a slave.

"There is in the art of dining a matter of special
importance--I mean attendance, the real end of which is to
do that for you which you cannot so well do for yourself.
Unfortunately, this end is generally lost sight of, and the
effect of attendance is to prevent you from doing that which
you could do much better for yourself. The cause of this
perversion is to be found in the practice and example of
the rich and ostentatious, who constantly keep up a sort of
war-establishment, or establishment adapted to extraordinary
instead of ordinary occasions, and the consequence is that,
like all potentates who follow the same policy, they never
really taste the sweets of peace; they are in a constant state
of invasion by their own troops. It is a rule at dinners not
to allow you to do anything for yourself, and I have never
been able to understand how even salt, except it be from some
superstition, has so long maintained its place. I am rather a
bold man at table and set form very much at defiance, so that
if a salad happens to be within my reach, I make no scruple
to take it to me; but the moment I am espied, it is nipped up
from the most convenient into the most inconvenient position.
See a small party with a dish of fish at each end of the
table, and four silver covers standing unmeaningly at the
sides, whilst everything pertaining to the fish comes, even
with the best attendance, provokingly lagging, one thing after
another, so that contentment is out of the question; and all
this is done under pretence that it is the most convenient
plan. This is an utter fallacy. The only convenient plan is
to have everything actually upon the table that is wanted at
the same time, and nothing else; as, for example, for a party
of eight, turbot and salmon, with doubles of each of the
adjuncts, lobster-sauce, cucumber, young potatoes, cayenne,
and Chili vinegar, and let the guests assist one another,
which with such an arrangement they could do with perfect
ease. This is undisturbed and visible comfort.

"A system of simple attendance would induce a system of simple
dinners, which are the only dinners to be desired.... With
respect to wine, it is often offered when not wanted; and when
wanted, is perhaps not to be had till long waited for. It
is dreary to observe two guests, glass in hand, waiting the
butler's leisure to take wine together, and then perchance
being helped in despair to what they did not ask for; and
it is still more dreary to be one of the two yourself. How
different when you can put your hand on a decanter the moment
you want it!"

"Perhaps the most distressing incident in a grand dinner"
[the author continues] "is to be asked to take champagne, and
after much delay to see the butler extract the bottle from a
cooler, and hold it nearly parallel to the horizon in order
to calculate how much he is to put into the first glass to
leave any for the second. To relieve him and yourself from
the chilling difficulty, the only alternative is to change
your mind and prefer sherry, which, under the circumstances,
has rather an awkward effect. These and an infinity of minor
evils are constantly experienced amidst the greatest displays.
Some good bread and cheese and a jug of ale comfortably set
before me, and heartily given, are heaven and earth in
comparison.... The legitimate objects of dinner are to refresh
the body, to please the palate, and to raise the social humour
to the highest point; but these objects, so far from being
studied, in general are not even thought of, and display and
an adherence to fashion are their meagre substitutes."

To be niggardly with one's champagne we have already alluded to as despicable. Yet the amount of this wine that may be dispensed at dinner should depend on the cellar of the entertainer; and where Yquem or a grand Deidesheimer, Lafite, or La Tâche of well-succeeded years is also to figure, it is wise for the host to let the fact be known, and for him to curtail the flow of sparkling wine, in order that proper justice may be rendered to its companions. On this subject the "Original" again proves itself a valuable signboard, and its doctrine as to the conduct of the dinner forms a tenet worthy of all praise,--"If the master of a feast wishes his party to succeed, he must know how to command and not let his guests run riot, each according to his own wild fancy." We cannot agree with the "Original" and some others that it is correct to serve a sparkling wine, to the exclusion of all others, throughout an extended repast. The palate and the eye weary of a single beverage, however brilliant the vintage, and yearn for a contrast in flavour and colour.

Simplicity is constantly urged throughout "The Art of Dining," and again and again does the author insist upon the necessity of having whatever dish that may be served preceded by all its minor adjuncts, and accompanied by all the proper vegetables quite hot, so that it may be enjoyed entirely and at once. The liquid accessories he would have placed upon the table in such a manner as to be as much as possible within the reach of each person; and as Mathew Bramble, in "Humphrey Clinker," talks, in his delights of rural life, of eating trout struggling from the stream, so he would have his dishes served glowing or steaming from the kitchen, a quality which lends a relish otherwise impossible.

"There are two kinds of dinners" [he goes on to say]--"one
simple, consisting of a few dishes, the other embracing a
variety. Both kinds are good in their way, and both deserve
attention; but for constancy I greatly prefer the simple
style.... In the first place, it is necessary not to be afraid
of not having enough, and so to go into the other extreme
and have a great deal too much, as is almost invariably the
practice. It is also necessary not to be afraid of the table
looking bare, and so to crowd it with dishes not wanted,
whereby they become cold and sodden. 'Enough is as good as a
feast' is a sound maxim, as well in providing as in eating.
The having too much, and setting dishes on the table merely
for appearance, are practices arising out of prejudices which,
if once broken through, would be looked upon, and deservedly,
as the height of vulgarity. The excessive system is a great
preventive of hospitality, by adding to the expense and
trouble of entertaining, whilst it has no one advantage. It
is only pursued by the majority of people for fear of being
unlike the rest of the world."

Every gastronomer will endorse the sentiment that in proportion to the smallness of a dinner ought to be its excellence, both as to the quality of materials and the cooking. Nor is there less truth in the complaint that it is an existing evil that everybody is prone to strive after the same dull style--the rule generally followed being to consider what the guests are accustomed to; whereas it should be reversed, and what they are not accustomed to should rather be set before them. This stricture he applies to the serving of wines as well as of viands--"we go on in the beaten track without profiting by the varieties which are to be found on every side." To order dinner well he defines as a matter of invention and combination, involving novelty, simplicity, and taste; whereas in the generality of dinners there is no character but that of dull routine, according to the season. Too little attention, he complains, is paid to the mode of dining according to the time of the year, summer dinners being for the most part as heavy and as hot as those in winter, with the consequence of being frequently very oppressive, both in themselves and from their effect on the room. In hot weather the chief thing to be aimed at is to produce a light and cool feeling, both by the management of the room and the nature of the repast; in winter, warmth and substantial diet afford the most satisfaction.

It may be held with reason that some of the inconveniences pointed out with reference to service could be obviated by the service _à la Russe_--discarding its medley of dishes on the table, and utilising its features of carving and serving. But Walker's great aim was that of a simple style of dinner-giving to a select few whose number he would limit to eight. Under these circumstances it is easy to understand how it were more appetising to dispense with any dishes in waiting which serve to cloy rather than to stimulate appetite, and more advantageous to have the carving performed by the master himself. At a men's dinner, more especially, where a saddle of mutton, a haunch of venison, or other roast forms the _pièce de résistance_, and where, therefore, "cut and come again" is the motto of the hour, the less formal style is certainly preferable, and productive of the best results to the guests.

It is only on one occasion that we find him wavering in the dogmas he advances so emphatically and withal so aptly, this incertitude occurring in connection with a dinner he had ordered at Blackwall, the menu of which may be appropriately transcribed as a practical illustration of his ideas on gastronomy:

"The party will consist of seven men beside myself, and every
guest is asked for some reason--upon which good fellowship
mainly depends; for people brought together unconnectedly
had, in my opinion, better be kept separate. Eight I hold to
be the golden number, never to be exceeded without weakening
the efficacy of concentration. The dinner is to consist of
turtle, followed by no other fish but whitebait, which is
to be followed by no other meat but grouse, which are to
be succeeded simply by apple-fritters and jelly; pastry on
such occasions being quite out of place. With the turtle of
course there will be punch, with the whitebait champagne,
and with the grouse claret: the two former I have ordered to
be particularly well iced, and they will all be placed in
succession on the table, so that we can help ourselves as
we please. I will permit no other wines, unless, perchance,
a bottle or two of port, if particularly wanted, as I hold
variety of wines a great mistake. With respect to the
adjuncts, I shall take care that there is cayenne, with lemons
cut in halves, not in quarters, within reach of every one
for the turtle, and that brown bread and butter in abundance
is set upon the table for the whitebait. The dinner will be
followed by ices and a good dessert, after which coffee and
one glass of liqueur each, and no more."

Surely, an excellent repast, if the cooking was all that could have been desired, as the author happily informs the reader was the case. But in his comments on the dinner occurs this qualifying sentence,--"There was an opinion broached that some flounders, water-zoutcheed, between the turtle and whitebait would have been an improvement"; and, for once, the "Original" proves vacillating, and adds--"Perhaps they would." Yet, if we are to believe no less an authority than Thackeray, the dish under consideration is one for which room may always be appropriately found--a dish that, when well prepared, possesses ambrosial qualities. He is discoursing of a flounder-souchy in the sketch entitled, "Greenwich Whitebait"; and one's mouth fairly waters as he reads it: "It has an almost angelic delicacy of flavour; it is as fresh as the recollections of childhood--it wants a Correggio's pencil to describe it with sufficient tenderness."

The recipe for a water-souchy is thus given by Kitchener, to be made with flounders, whiting, gudgeons, or eels:

"After cutting the fish in handsome pieces, place them in a
stewpan with as much water as will cover them, with some
parsley or parsley roots sliced, an onion minced fine, and a
little pepper and salt, to which sometimes scraped horseradish
and a bay-leaf are added. Skim carefully when boiling, and
when the fish is sufficiently done send it up in a deep dish
lined with bread sippets, and some slices of bread and butter
on a plate. Some cooks thicken the liquor the fish has been
stewing in with flour and butter, and flavour it with white
wine, lemon juice, essence of anchovy, and catsup, and boil
down two or three flounders to make a fish broth to boil the
other fish in, observing that the broth cannot be good unless
the fish are boiled too much."

This does not sound as palatable as a sole _au gratin_ or _en matelote Normande_, or even whitebait--that "little means of obtaining a great deal of pleasure"; but one can scarcely forget Thackeray's sentence, even if his appreciation may have been heightened by the surroundings of the Ship Tavern and congenial companionship.

Nearly ten years after Walker's day we find Thackeray also condemning many similar evils:

"I would have" [he urges, and the advice is still
pertinent]--"a great deal more hospitality and less show.
Everybody has the same dinner in London, and the same soup,
and the same saddle of mutton, boiled fowls and tongue,
entrées, champagne, and so forth. Who does not know those
made dishes with the universal sauce to each: fricandeau,
sweetbreads, damp dumpy cutlets, etc., seasoned with the
compound of grease, onions, bad port wine, cayenne pepper, and
curry-powder, the poor wiry Moselle and sparkling Burgundy in
the ice-coolers, and the old story of white and brown soup,
turbot, little smelts, boiled turkey, and saddle of mutton?...
What I would recommend with all my power is that dinners
should be more simple, more frequent, and should contain fewer
persons. Ten is the utmost number that a man of moderate means
should ever invite to his table; although in a great house
managed by a great establishment the case may be different.
A man and a woman may look as if they were glad to see ten
people; but in a great dinner they abdicate their position as
host and hostess,--are mere creatures in the hands of the sham
butlers, sham footmen, and tall confectioners' emissaries who
crowd the room,--and are guests at their own table, where they
are helped last, and of which they occupy the top and bottom."

Thackeray has written frequently on the pleasures of the table, and his name may well figure in the annals of gastronomy as one of its shining lights, if only for his delicious essays "Memorials of Gormandising" and "On Some Dinners at Paris," to which in their entirety the reader is referred.

Still later, Charles Dickens keenly satirises the existing pomp and the lack of simplicity of the English table, notably among the higher classes, where he finds so much Powder in waiting that it flavours the repast, pulverous particles getting into the dishes, and Society's meats having a seasoning of first-rate footmen--society having everything it could want, and could not want, for dinner.

Perhaps in no connection with the art of which the "Original" treats is the advice more practical than in the remarks on variety, with which the reference to Walker may be terminated:

"Although I like, as a rule, to abstain from much variety at
the same meal, I think it both wholesome and agreeable to
vary the food on different days, both as to the materials and
mode of dressing them. The palate is better pleased and the
digestion more active, and the food, I believe, assimilates
in a greater degree with the system. The productions of the
different seasons and of different climates point out to us
unerringly that it is proper to vary our food; and one good
general rule I take to be, to select those things which are
most in season, and to abandon them as soon as they begin to
deteriorate in quality. Most people mistake the doctrine of
variety in their mode of living; they have great variety at
the same meals, and great sameness at different meals. These
agreeable varieties are never met with, or even thought of,
in the formal routine of society, though they contribute
much, when appropriately devised, to the enjoyment of a
party. With respect to variety of vegetables, I think the
same rule applies as to other dishes. I would not have many
sorts on the same occasion, but would study appropriateness
and particular excellence. One of the greatest luxuries, to
my mind, in dining is to be able to command plenty of good
vegetables, well served up. Excellent potatoes, smoking hot,
and accompanied by melted butter of the first quality, would
alone stamp merit on any dinner; but they are as rare on state
occasions, so served, as if they were of the cost of pearls."

It may be subjoined to the many pertinent observations respecting the duties of the entertainer, that so far as it is within his power he should consider his guests individually, weighing their personal likes and dislikes to such extent as may comport with the general welfare. The first thing he should recognise as his imperative duty is to please. Yet while a surprise in the components of the dinner is to be desired, the choice of dishes should nevertheless be made with reference to the taste of the majority, in distinction to one's own preference or the predilections of the few. With the stiff and formal dinner, or with large dinner-parties, fine discrimination is less practicable, these functions being necessarily a burden to all concerned. _Les dîners fins se font en petits comités_; and, equally, in informal gatherings. The deft hand and nice judgment may be thoroughly manifested only among intimate friends, where the personality of the master may guide and direct, free from the trammels of conventionality. Then that false etiquette which prescribes that the entertainer should never rise from the table may be waived; and where he may enhance the pleasure of his friends by an impromptu visit to the wine-cellar in pursuit of some special vintage that the moment calls for, or carry out a happy thought that the occasion may create, it is his bounden duty to perform for himself what others may not perform as well, or perform not at all. With the absence of formality, the wit may rise to the full height of his genius, the humorist may shine, and the accomplished and graceful liar draw a treble measure of delight from the font of a genial and exuberant fancy.

Frontispiece of the Second Canto of "La Conversation" of the Abbé
Délille, 1822]

"The Art of Dining" also forms the title of a work by the scholarly essayist Abraham Hayward, a rearrangement of two articles he had contributed to the "Quarterly Review" in 1835 and 1836.[42] By few writers has the subject been treated so invitingly. There is no taint of grossness throughout his review; and if it be true that next to partaking of a good dinner is to read about one, we must thank him for the enjoyment he has contributed. A distinguished scholar and epicure, he had travelled widely, and was equally at home in the French and English capitals. All the celebrated restaurants, chefs, and maîtres-d'hôtel of Paris were familiar to him, while few have shown themselves as conversant with the literature of his theme. He had, moreover, an entrée into the most distinguished circles; and, last but not least, possessed a marvellous memory to recall the people he had met, and the dinners and festivities at which he had assisted--with the bon-mots, repartees, and anecdotes that the popping of corks without number had set free. As a raconteur, with an unlimited repertory of incidents concerning the notables who were prominent in society, politics, and gastronomy, he is said to have been unsurpassed.

His subject, he states, has been discussed with the object of facilitating convivial enjoyment and promoting sociability; and in these matters he will be found both a brilliant _causeur_ and connoisseur. Passing by his anecdotal review of Parisian cookery, his reference to the simple expedients by which the success of a dinner may be insured will serve to show his resources, and his grasp of the practical side of the topic:

"We have seen Painter's turtle prepare the way for a success
which was crowned by a lark pudding. We have seen a kidney
dumpling perform wonders; and a noble-looking shield of
Canterbury brawn from Groves's diffuse a sensation of
unmitigated delight. One of Morell's Montanches hams, or a
woodcock pie from Bavier's of Boulogne, would be a sure card;
but a home-made partridge pie would be more likely to come
upon your company by surprise, provided a beefsteak be put
over as well as under the birds, and the birds be placed with
their breasts downwards in the dish. Game or wild fowl is
never better than broiled; and a boiled shoulder of mutton,
or boiled duck or pheasant, might alone found a reputation.
A still more original notion was struck out by a party of
eminent connoisseurs who entertained the Right Hon. Sir Henry
Ellis at Fricœur's, just before he started on his Persian
embassy. They actually ordered a roasted turbot, and were
boasting loudly of the success of the invention when a friend
of ours had the curiosity to ask M. Fricœur in what manner
he set about the dressing of the fish. 'Why, sare, you no
tell; we no roast him at all; we put him in oven and bake
him.'"

Some there are who would seriously object to boiled mutton as opposed to roast, and who assuredly would cry out in horror at a duck or game-bird boiled. Yet boiled mutton with capers is orthodox--like corned beef and cabbage, or the _Rindfleisch_ with horseradish sauce, which blends so well with the Münchner where one meets it in the middle of the day in Germany. A broiled teal, wood-duck, or butterball, by all means; but a roast canvasback, redhead, or mallard in preference always.

"Marrowbones are always popular" [the author continues].
"So is a well-made devil or a broil. When a picture of the
Dutch school, representing a tradesman in a passion with his
wife for bringing up an underdone leg of mutton, was shown
to the late Lord Hertford, his lordship's first remark was,
'What a fool that fellow is not to see that he may have a
capital broil!' A genuine _hure de sanglier_, or wild boar's
head, would elevate the plainest dinner into dignity. The
comparative merits of pies and puddings present a problem
which it is no easy matter to decide. On the whole, we give
the preference to puddings, as affording more scope to the
inventive genius of the cook. A plum-pudding, for instance,
our national dish, is hardly ever boiled enough. A green
apricot tart is commonly considered the best tart that is
made: but a green apricot pudding is a much better thing. A
cherry dumpling is better than a cherry tart. A beefsteak
pudding, again, is better than the corresponding pie; but
oysters and mushrooms are essential to its success. A
mutton-chop pudding with oysters, but without mushrooms, is
excellent."

Never having tried the last-mentioned "remove," the writer is willing to trust to its excellence, and to the general good taste of Hayward. But one has his doubts sometimes, the proof of the pudding being in the eating; and possibly a mutton-chop and oyster compound may be spoiling two things intrinsically good in themselves, and the dish deserve to be placed in the same category with a boiled pheasant or a wild fowl. Moreover, what may taste or appear excellent in one place does not always appear the same in another, this holding true with many things besides dishes, which may be affected by the climate, the surroundings, or one's mood at the time.

The topic of fish is particularly well treated by Hayward. On the subject of game, he has this to say concerning a native marsh-bird of the sandpiper tribe, highly prized for its eggs and flesh, which has become even yet more rare with the draining of the English meres and fens:

"Ruffs and reeves are little known to the public at large,
though honourable mention is made of them by Bewick. The
season for them is August and September. They are found in
fenny countries (those from Whittlesea Meer in Lincolnshire
are best), and must be taken alive and fattened on boiled
wheat or bread and milk mixed with hemp-seed, for about a
fortnight, taking good care never to put two males to feed
together, or they will fight _à l'outrance_. Prince Talleyrand
was extremely fond of ruffs and reeves, his regular allowance
during the season being two a day: they are dressed like
woodcocks. These birds are worth nothing in their wild state;
and the art of fattening them is traditionally said to have
been discovered by the monks in Yorkshire, where they are
still in high favour with the clerical profession, as a
current anecdote will show. At a grand dinner at Bishopthorpe
(in Archbishop Markham's time) a dish of ruffs and reeves
chanced to be placed immediately in front of a young divine
who had come up to be examined for priest's orders, and was
considerately (or, as it turned out, inconsiderately) asked
to dinner by his grace. Out of sheer modesty, the clerical
tyro confined himself exclusively to the dish before him, and
persevered in his indiscriminating attentions to it till one
of the resident dignitaries (all of whom were waiting only the
proper moment to participate) observed him, and called the
attention of the company by a loud exclamation of alarm. But
the warning came too late: the ruffs and reeves had vanished
to a bird, and with them, we are concerned to add, all the
candidate's hopes of Yorkshire preferment are said to have
vanished too.

"A similar anecdote is current touching wheatears, which, in
our opinion, are a greater delicacy. A Scotch officer was
dining with the late Lord George Lennox, then commandant at
Portsmouth, and was placed near a dish of wheatears, which was
rapidly disappearing under his repeated attacks. Lady Louisa
Lennox tried to divert his attention to another dish. 'Na, na,
my leddy,' was the reply, 'these wee birdies will do verra
weel.'"

In vivid contrast to the works of Walker and Hayward is a volume entitled "Apician Morsels" (London, 1829), wherein the author, who veils his identity under a facetious pseudonym, has unblushingly garbled whole chapters from the old historians, the "Almanach," and various writers, interspersed with coarse stories of gluttony. It is to be deplored that La Reynière cannot arise from his final resting-place to administer the castigation the author deserves. From him it is refreshing to turn to the "Dipsychus" of Arthur Hugh Clough and read his animated poem, "Le Dîner," with its resonant refrain which, strangely, has been omitted from the later editions:

"Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes past,
And he who came first had to wait for the last.
The oysters ere this had been in and been out;
While I have been sitting and thinking about
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money!

"A clear soup with eggs; _voilà tout_; of the fish
The _filets de sole_ are a moderate dish
_A la Orly_, but you're for red mullet, you say.
By the gods of good fare, who can question to-day
How pleasant it is, etc.

"After oysters, Sauterne; then sherry; champagne;
Ere one bottle goes, comes another again;
Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above,
And tell to our ears in the sounds that we love
How pleasant it is, etc.

"I've the simplest of tastes; absurd it may be,
But I almost could dine on a _poulet au riz_,
Fish and soup and omelette, and that--but the deuce--
There were to be woodcocks, and not _charlotte russe_!
So pleasant it is, etc.

"Your Chablis is acid, away with the Hock,
Give me the pure juice of the purple Médoc;
St. Péray is exquisite; but, if you please,
Some Burgundy first, before tasting the cheese.
So pleasant it is, etc.

"As for that, pass the bottle, and hang the expense--
I've seen it observed by a writer of sense
That the labouring classes could scarce live a day
If people like us didn't eat, drink, and pay.
So useful it is, etc.

"One ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend,
Having dinner and supper and plenty to spend.
And so, suppose now, while the things go away,
By way of a grace we all stand up and say,
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money!"

To English guides, so far as the metropolis is concerned, should be added Lieutenant-Colonel Newnham-Davis' recent volume--a veritable Murray to the table of London.[43] In this gossipy and sprightly manual one may dine by proxy in nearly all the leading restaurants as well as in many of the more Bohemian resorts. The appointments and surroundings of each are picturesquely set forth, with the exact menu and price of each dinner, together with an occasional recipe of some distinguished foreign master of the range, or a dish for which a restaurant is especially renowned. And while one may marvel at the writer's facile receptivity for an almost unvaried round of vintage champagnes, and sympathise with him in the frequent iteration of certain dishes, one must recognise, nevertheless, that if the dinners he discussed as an official representative of the "Pall Mall Gazette" could be duplicated by the average diner, London were not to be despised as a stamping-ground for the accomplished gastronomer. The author does not hesitate to criticise, though his exceptions are usually in the nature of a sauce piquante, rather than a drastic condiment; and it is evident in the majority of the feasts he passes under review--now with a boon companion, and now with a pretty and well-gowned _causeuse_--that the special resources of the chef and maître-d'hôtel, who are duly introduced to the reader, have been brought into Aladdin-like play for his special delectation. The Benedict will doubtless envy him his _petits-dîners_ with so varied a menu of charming women to stimulate his appetite and share his champagne and _entremets de douceur_; the bachelor will recognise how a prolonged series of such dinners with supplementary flowers, a _loge_ at the theatre, and a concluding supper swell the _addition_, and render rising with the lark or any attention to business the following morning utterly beyond the compass of mortal power. To assist in a repast with Colonel Davis, however, is to be assured of dining excellently in London, with pleasant company and a double assurance of the truth of the aphorism, that one can never grow old at table.

Reference has already been made to numerous French minor writers on gastronomy; among whom should not be omitted the name of the eminent Dr. Réveillé-Parise, author of several works on hygiene, whose dissertation on the oyster, presented with all the charm that a brilliant style and profound erudition may impart, is unrivalled in the language.[44]

Much has naturally been said, both by English and by French writers, concerning the restaurant. The celebrated Dr. Véron, who was nearly always accustomed to dine at a restaurant in preference to dining at his own home, gave these as his reasons:

"In your own home the soup is on the table at a certain hour,
the roast is taken off the jack, the dessert is spread out
on the sideboard. Your servants, in order to get more time
over their meals, hurry you up; they do not serve you, they
gorge you. At the restaurant, on the contrary, they are
never in a hurry, they let you wait, and, besides, I always
tell the waiters not to mind me; that I like being kept a
long while--that is one of the reasons why I come here.
Another thing, at the restaurant the door is opened at every
moment and something happens. A friend, a chum, or a mere
acquaintance comes in; one chats and laughs; all this aids
digestion. A man ought not to make digestion a business apart.
He ought to dine and digest at the same time, and nothing
aids this dual function like good conversation. Perhaps the
servant of Madame de Maintenon, when the latter was still
Madame Scarron, was a greater philosopher than we suspect
when he whispered to his mistress, 'Madame, the roast has run
short; give them another story.'"

It was after a dinner in a Fifth Avenue restaurant, at which terrapin and '89 Pol Roger, canvasback, and '78 Haut-Bailly figured, that while smoking his Vuelta-Abajo--impressed with the excellence of the repast, and smitten at the thought of his absent ones--the host observed to his companions, "Heavens! how I wish I could afford to treat my family to a dinner like this!" The stomach also has its conscience. But Thackeray has covered precisely such a case in the essay, "On some Dinners at Paris." "What is the use," he asks, "of having your children, who live on roast mutton in the nursery, to sit down and take the best three-fourths of a _perdreau truffé_ with you? What is the use of helping your wife, who doesn't know the difference between sherry and Madeira, to a glass of priceless Romanée or sweetly odoriferous Château Lafite of '42?"

Besides his sonnets "Le Toast" and "Barrière du Maine," Charles Monselet has written most entertainingly of the restaurant under the title, "Les Cabinets Particuliers," a sketch which figured in "Le Double Almanach Gourmand" of 1866, of which he was the editor for several years. In this publication appeared Albert Glatigny's "Rue des Poitevins," one of several poems with the restaurant as their theme, the stanzas being not unworthy of the melodious lyre of "Les Vignes Folles" and "Les Flèches d'Or":

"C'est le vieux restaurant où vont les écoliers
Qui n'ont point submergés les cols brisés encore.
Dans l'atmosphère chaude et franche on voit éclore,
Entre deux brocs de vin des refrains cavaliers.

"Les peintres, les rimeurs,--leurs soucis oubliés,--
Y vont rire le soir d'un bon rire sonore,
Et pour mon compte, moi dans mon for, je m'honore
D'avoir allègrement grimpé ses escaliers.

"Des escaliers du temps de la serrurerie,
Larges, la rampe en fer, ouvragés, bien dallés,
Donnant sur un cour propre à la rêverie.

"Maison Laveur! hier, c'était là qu'attablés
Devant la soupe aux choux, nous guettions, mon Lemoyne,
La petite servante aux rougeurs de pivoine."

The student of Glatigny, who must always admire the rhythm and melody of his Muse, will also remember his quaint sonnet published in "Gilles et Pasquins," entitled "Monselet devoured by the Lobsters." The works of Henri Murger are replete with epulary sketches of the old Latin Quarter of Paris, a district from which Victor Hugo has also drawn. Théodore de Banville has likewise depicted many a picturesque restaurant scene in his airy "Odes Funambulesques." The lyrists, too, have not been unmindful of the poetry of the kitchen.

Many visitors to Paris will remember dining at Bignon's, and doubtless will equally recall the figures of the _addition_. Of this restaurant, whose carte was devoid of prices, it was said that a man who dined at the corner table for a period of years became a cosmopolite--in every capital of Europe he would be recognised and fêted; for that matter, he did not need to rise from his chair, as all Europe would pass in review before him.

A provincial dining there in April, on perceiving melons on the card, ordered one. "What!" he exclaimed, after examining his bill, "thirty francs for a melon! You are joking!"

"Monsieur," replied Bignon, "if you can find me three or four at the same price, I will buy them immediately."

"Fifteen francs for a peach?" inquired Prince Narischkin; "they must be very scarce."

"It isn't the peaches that are scarce, _mon prince_; it is the Narischkins."

"Monsieur Bignon, a red herring at two and a half francs! It seems to me that is excessive."

"But these prices are marked in your interest," rejoined the restaurateur. "It is the barrier I have established between my clients and the vulgar. Why do you come here? To be among yourselves, to avoid embarrassing or compromising surroundings. If I changed my prices, the house would be invaded, and you would all leave."

Another patron who complained of a sauce was asked, "Did you dine here last evening?"

"No," he replied.

"That is the trouble, then; you spoiled your taste in the other restaurant."

Still another guest objected to the charges on his bill, comparing it with an identical breakfast of a few days previous which amounted to eighteen and a half francs, whereas the breakfast in question was charged twenty-one francs, eighty centimes.

"I will investigate the mistake," said Bignon, who, with the two bills, proceeded to the desk, returning shortly afterwards.

"It is very true, Monsieur, that a mistake was made in your favour last Monday; but I make no claim for restitution!"

Do the anecdotes and cook-books and treatises on eating and drinking savour of gluttony to some who eat only to live, and who are lacking in the finesse of Good Cheer? Let all such consult a volume written by one of the gentler sex, and hearken to her admirable definition of the Tenth Muse:

"Gluttony is ranked with the deadly sins; it should be
honoured among the cardinal virtues. To-day women, as a rule,
think all too little of the joys of eating; they hold lightly
the treasures that should prove invaluable. They refrain
to recognise that there is no less art in eating well than
in painting well or writing well. For the _gourmande_, or
glutton, duty and amusement go hand in hand. Mind and body
alike are satisfied. The good of a pleasantly planned dinner
outbalances the evil of daily trials and tribulations. By
artistic gluttony, beauty is increased, if not actually
created. Rejoice in the knowledge that gluttony is the best
cosmetic. Gross are they who see in eating and drinking nought
but grossness. Gluttony is a vice only when it leads to
stupid, inartistic excess."[45]

OF SAUCES

"Je la redoute, cette sauce. Avec elle on mangerait toujours.
La lecture seule de sa recette donne faim."

BARON BRISSE: La Petite Cuisine.

The supreme triumph of the French cuisine consists in its sauces; for nothing can so vary the routine of daily cookery as the different combinations of herbs and seasonings that may be utilised by a competent artist as an adjunct and a finish to a dish. King's "Art of Cookery" has admirably versified the mission of the sauce:

"The spirit of each dish and zest of all
Is what ingenious cooks the Relish call;
For though the market sends in loads of food,
They all are tasteless till that makes them good."

From the engraving after Masquelier]

As without flattery there were no society, so without sauces there were no gastronomy. Properly prepared, with a thorough understanding of the hygienic nature of flavourings and their harmony with reference to the special viands they are to enhance, a finely composed sauce is a digestive as well as a stimulus to the organs of taste. No better illustration of the qualities of a perfect sauce occurs in the annals of the art than that of Baron Brisse, which refers to sauce béarnaise, and La Reynière's comment on anchovy sauce,--"_Lorsque cette sauce est bien traitée, elle ferait manger un éléphant_. This is La Reynière's recipe, including its proper belongings, as given in the sixth year of the "Almanach":

"The anchovy figures as a stimulant and aperient in a great
number of sauces, whose presence imparts to them their
principal virtues. Such are the sauces _à l'Allemande_, _à
l'anchois_, _aux câpres_, etc.; we shall confine ourselves
to the recipe of that which bears its name. Anchovy sauce is
prepared by first carefully washing the anchovies in vinegar;
the bones are then removed, the fish finely minced and placed
in a stewpan with a clear _coulis_[46] of veal and ham,
pepper, salt, nutmeg, and fine spices; after heating reduce to
the proper consistence and give it the finishing touch. This
sauce serves for the roast. The anchovy plays the principal
rôle in the sauce served with roast sirloin of beef and hare
_à la broche_. It is made with their juices and a little
bouillon, anchovies coarsely chopped, capers, fine herbs,
tarragon, pepper, salt, and vinegar. With this sauce well
prepared, one might eat an elephant.

"Anchovy sauce is also employed in several sorts of gravies,
and one may say that it is not misplaced in any piquante
sauce: for it is in itself an excellent _épigramme_.
It follows from these remarks that the anchovy is an
indispensable adjunct to good cheer. Its body figures
admirably for the déjeuner and with the hors-d'œuvres, and
its spirit makes itself distinctly felt in all sauces that it
permeates. It imparts to them a savour which stimulates the
appetite and agreeably captivates the palate."

In the middle ages the office of the _saucier_, or master sauce-maker, was invested with great importance. A chief functionary in all grand houses, under him were clerks, varlets, and youths termed _galopins de saucerie_, who stood ever ready to do his bidding. Old woodcuts depict him presiding over his receptacles--as imposing in his dignity as the master-carver himself. Even then the adage held good that the sauce was often worth more than the fish.

Indeed, the sauce is the sonnet of the table, as varied in its forms as the structure of the sonnet itself. The Gaul is its master, and to him belongs the majority of its most pleasing tenses. In the words of the distinguished Marquis de Cussy, who maintained that a good cook can remove your gout as you would remove your gloves,--"_Point de sauce, point de salut, point de cuisine_; where would we be if the grand sauces, the lesser ones, and the special ones that have rendered the French school illustrious had not been discovered by men of the greatest genius? The life labours of one alone would not have sufficed. What a brilliant ladder to scale, that which, leaving the last round--the sauce pauvre homme--is lost in the clouds with the velouté, the grande and petite espagnole, and the réductions!"[47]

Sauce Soubise, sauce d'Orléans, sauce d'Uxelles, and sauce à la Régence are all credited to great minds of the eighteenth century, so prolific of new culinary discoveries. Through their piquant instrumentality we may in imagination summon the splendours of the Regency and the reign of Louis, surnamed "le Bien-Aimé," with the brilliant toilets of its gay and pretty women--the high-heeled pointed shoe, the powdered hair, the rouge and beauty-spot, the painted fan and walking-stick of _fille_, duchesse, and marquise that still look at us from the canvases of Boucher and Watteau. We may see, too, the V-shaped satin corsage, the expansive pannier, the diaphanous _robe déshabillée_,--flounced, frilled, flowered, and furbelowed,--the embroidered petticoat and surge of lace and ribband, as fair dame and plumed gallant repair to the suppers of the Palais-Royal and the Parc aux Cerfs, or sit down amid umbrageous glades to the revels of a _fête champêtre_.

Almost as many varieties of sauces exist as of soups. But these may vary little or largely from their usually accepted names. The cook will tell you, if you are unacquainted with the fact yourself, that by adding to simple melted butter a liberal amount of finely chopped parsley (some ruin the relish with grated nutmeg, a spice which should be used with great discretion), salt and pepper, and a dash of lemon, you have what is termed a maître-d'hôtel sauce. Add to this finely minced garden-cress, chervil, and a little tarragon and burnet, and you produce a different sauce under the same name. Thus plain onion sauce and sauce Soubise, in each of which the onion forms the dominant chord, may differ equally, and sauce piquante and sauce Robert vary only in their titles and the additional mustard called for by the latter. Sauce poivrade, in like manner, is a sauce piquante with an increased supply of pepper and without the pickled cucumber.

Among the most valuable of all sauces, though employed only cold and served with cold viands, is that which at once suggests what Jules Janin in an inadvertent moment termed the "cardinal of the seas," and that at a luncheon or a late supper possesses a merit distinctively its own. This Carême has dealt with at length in his treatise on cold sauces. The origin of the word "mayonnaise," a blending supposed to be the invention of the Maréchal de Richelieu, has always remained in doubt. Its etymology has been attributed to Mahon, a town of southern France. Yet this supposed derivation is extremely dubious; and as it was also known as "bayonnaise," it might be ascribed equally to Bayonne, famous for its hams, its cheese, and its chocolate, and for having invented the bayonet.[48]

It has been variously termed mahonaise, bayonnaise, mahonnoise, magnonaise, and mayonnaise. But Carême, after minutely describing its preparation, from the first drop of oil to its final silky, white, and unctuous cream, denies its accepted derivation, and pronounces it _magnonaise_, from the verb _manier_--to stir; as it may be prepared only through the continual stirring it undergoes, which results in a marrowy, velvety, and very appetising sauce, unique of its kind, and bearing no resemblance to others that are obtained only through reductions of the range. Despite this ingenious explanation, the word is still written "mayonnaise"; and while lights shine brilliantly, and champagne sparkles, and the great crawfish, sublimated into salad, receives the encomiums of appreciative guests, the famous chef of the Empire is forgotten, and the chapter of the "Cuisinier Parisien" exists only as a tale that is told.

It may be observed that a good sauce should be perfect in flavour, colour, smell, and consistency. It should be savoury, flowing, and well defined. On the proper _liaison_, a correct apportionment of the flavourings, a knowledge of the range, and a discriminating palate, supplemented by long experience, depends its triumph. Of course the _bain-marie_ will be readily accessible when the sauce is obliged to wait, the butter will be unexceptionable, and the shallot especially will never be lacking when its virtues are in request. As has been previously stated in the case of numerous other culinary preparations, success depends more upon the practitioner than the formula. It is as difficult, therefore, to describe the subtle chiaroscuro of a perfect sauce as to define the hues that mantle the petals of the rose "Beauté Inconstante," or the combined odours hived by a windless night of June.

Comparatively few sauces may suffice for the modest household to supplement the espagnole, or brown sauce, and the velouté, or white sauce, the foundations from which most others are compounded. These two rudimentary sauces, to be well made, should not be greasy, but contain just enough fat, according to the authorities, to present the velvety appearance of a full-blown damask rose. Carême devotes twenty-five pages to these "mother sauces" and their two slight modifications, béchamel and allemande; while Francatelli points out that although great care and watchful attention are requisite in every branch of cookery, the exercise of these qualities is most essential in the preparation of the grand stock sauces. In the home kitchen these are naturally prepared in an infinitely more simple manner than according to the elaborate recipes of the great professors of the table.