Part 6

Chapter 63,442 wordsPublic domain

These several gentlemen, combined into one, would not be all too learned in the niceties of gastronomy to be able to put together a modern dinner menu. Nowadays we want something more than mere quantity. The Gargantuan repasts of our forefathers are not for us. In those days, maybe (or perhaps not), unlimited exercise, hunting, and the like made these gross meals comparatively digestible; but we live in more delicate times, and want our viands fewer in number and more carefully cooked, with less added flavour and more of their own natural juices.

It is very true that one-half of the world does not know how the other half dines. We follow one another in sheep-like fashion round the few better-known restaurants, eating the same dinners, drinking the same wines, and seeing the same people week after week, in a dull monotony of sameness.

And yet there are a few quite nice, respectable, meetable sort of folk, who, with the cosmopolitan habit strong upon them, know their London well enough to be able to dine every night in a different country, and remain all the time within a shilling cab-fare of Piccadilly.

How is it done, you will ask? It is really very simple.

Say you want a French dinner, light, delicate, and appetizing, go to Kettner, in Church Street, Soho, or to Dieudonné, in Ryder Street, and you will find _un petit diner très-fin_, as good as you will obtain anywhere in Paris. If you patronize the former very old and very quaint establishment, ask to look over the kitchens; they are as neat and clean as those in a painting by an old Dutch master. As to the menu, you cannot do better than leave yourself in the hands of the _maître d’hôtel_.

If you are inclined to dine _à l’Italienne_, go to Pagani’s, in Great Portland Street, and order _Minestrone_; _Sôle à la Pagani_; _Pollio alla Contrabandista_, and macaroni; take plenty of Parmesan cheese with everything, and imagine yourself in Florence. Do not forget to drink the special _Lacrima Christi_, and inspect the “autograph-room” on the second floor.

Again, suppose you desire to spend a Teutonic evening and regale yourself on German delicacies. Hie then to the old Gambrinus, in Regent Street, run by the excellent Oddenino of the Imperial. Call the _Ober Kellner_ and _bestell_ yourself _Fleisch Brühe_, _Karpfe in Bier_, _Kalbskotlette mit Celeri salat_, and _Dampfnudeln_. As the American critic remarked: “If you like that sort of thing that’s just the sort of thing you’ll like.”

I have lunched Turkishly in the City off _Kabobs_, kid stuffed with pistachio, and most excellent rice-milk and cinnamon. There used to be a Spanish restaurant in Soho, where they gave you _Escudella_, _Estofado_, and the world-renowned _Gaspacho_; but I rather think that this place came to an untimely end, owing to lack of patronage. Many Russian dishes, such as _Bortsch_, _Blinis_, _Koulbiac_, and _Shtshi_, are to be met with on the ordinary menus of the best restaurants; and the Swedish _Smorgasbord_, or exaggerated _Zakouska_ of the Russians, is occasionally put before one as _hors d’œuvre à la Suédoise_, which is, of course, quite wrong, because the real thing ought to be eaten standing up at a side-table, and not sitting down at the dinner-table. However, these are the necessary tributes to convention.

“_Œufs à la coque!_ Of course not! I want hens’ eggs, ordinary barn-door fowls’. What silly people these foreigners are!”

The average Englishman travelling abroad has really not got much beyond that stage of insular and ignorant prejudice. But why should he go abroad at all, when here in his native London he can, if he so desires, get a dinner cooked after (sometimes very much after) the fashion of almost any country in the world?

A dining tour in London, covering the cuisines of a score of different nationalities, is not difficult, and, moreover, it is vastly instructing. Properly approached, the cooks will be found to be only too glad to show what they can do in serving dishes of their own homeland. They appreciate the compliment of being asked to illustrate their national bill of fare, and, as practically everything can be procured in London, it is an interesting experiment to spend ten days in dining in foreign countries--and going home to one’s own bed every night.

Do you wish to cross that ridiculously disappointing ocean called the Atlantic and try an American dinner? Come with me to the Criterion and instruct the American chef to prepare the dinner on the lines shown below:--

Chicken Okra. Clam Broth. Salt Cod and Hash. Oyster Fritters. Mixed Turkey and Corn. Stuffed Red Peppers. Terrapin Maryland. Chipped Beef. Scalloped Sweet Potatoes. Cold Slaw. Graham Pudding. New England Indian Pudding. Temperance Punch.

This programme calls for little explanation. The okra cooked with the chicken gives it a peculiar and quite delicious flavour. The clam is a dulcet combination of the oyster, the mussel, and the scallop.

One of the most valuable products of the United States (gastronomically speaking), the terrapin must be eaten to be believed. It must also be specially imported. It is a species of turtle--but even more so--and quite exquisite in its subtlety. New England Indian pudding, according to the recipe of Mrs. Henry W. Blair, wife of the now or former Senator for New Hampshire, is compounded as follows:--

Two quarts of milk, one cup of meal, one cup of molasses, half a cup of sugar, one teaspoonful of salt, one teaspoon of cinnamon or ginger, two eggs. Heat one quart of milk, milk-warm, then slowly stir in the meal, and keep stirring gently until it thickens, but does not quite boil. Remove from the stove and add the molasses, sugar, salt, and spice. Then beat the eggs well and stir them in. Pour into the pudding-dish, remove the mixing-spoon, and turn the second quart of milk in. Send immediately to the oven without mixing, and cook steadily for five hours.

There are a dozen Chinese restaurants in London, but they are in the East--the very far East--and you must make paradoxically for the West India Dock Road and then inquire of a policeman--who probably will not know. This Chinese menu given is a typical one.

Bow Ha Mai. (Boiled Prawns in Oil.) Chow Chop Suey. (Bits of Pork Chops.) Ham ob Dan. (Preserved Eggs with Ducks’ Gizzards.) Ob Gan Bow Vo Toway. (Ducks’ Livers and Boiled Ham.) Chow Ju Aw. (Boiled Pork.) Bow Ny Gwei. (Cuttle Fish.) Yen Wo Gong. (Pigeon Eggs and Birds’ Nest Soup.) Bow Hai. (Boiled Crabs.) Yuen Tsyai. (Rice Cakes.) Bow Ob. (Duck Tongues and Mushrooms.) Ju Tow Ny Gow. (Fried Roofs of the Mouths of Pigs.) Chow ob Jun. (Ducks’ Feet.) Lein Chi Gong. (Lily-seed Soup.) Hong Yin Gong. (Almond Soup.) Dein Som. (Sweetmeats.) Yueh Biung. (Mincemeat.) Gwoy Zoo. (Fruits.) Kwoh Zuh. (Seeds.) Cha Sam Soo. (Tea and Rice Whisky.)

From China to Japan is not a far cry, but I fear you cannot dine Japanesily in the East; you must come West, and even then engage a special cook from the Legation or the Japanese Club. Still it is to be done, and this menu gives a series of titbits which are in themselves most appetizing. You may feel inclined afterwards to go elsewhere and eat a chop, but that is not the fault of the Japanese cuisine, but of your own large appetite.

Luimano. (Fish Soup.) Shira. (Bean Soup.) Ohira. (Vegetable Soup.) Sashimi. (Raw Sliced Fish.) Nizakana. (Boiled Fish.) Teriyaki. (Roast Fish.) Shiwoyaki. (Roast Fish.) Muchitori. (Vegetables.) Umani. (Fish and Vegetables.) Trubonomoni. (Vegetables.) Gozen. (Rice.) Tsukemono. (Pickles.) Shoyu. (Sauce.) Saki.

In Scandinavian restaurants, which are to be found in the neighbourhood of the docks, where Danes, Swedes, and Norwegian sailors mostly congregate, the food is quite excellent. Simple, well cooked, and very toothsome. The Swedish menu which I have given is not, of course, the sort of dinner that a Dalarne peasant would get, but the sort of thing that, if you give proper notice, can be prepared for you by a knowledgeable Scandinavian cook.

Kraftor. (Crayfish.) Korvel Soppa. (Chervil Soup.) Kokt Halmstad Lax. (Boiled Salmon.) Stekt Sjotunga. (Roasted Soles.) Kalfbrass Arter. (Stewed Veal and Peas.) Brytbonor. (Broad Beans.) Farska Carotter. (Fresh Carrots.) Kyckling. (Chicken.) Ungorre. Tomatsallad. Blandad Fruvt. (Fruit Salad.) Jordgubbar. (Strawberries.) Glacemarenger. (Ice Pudding.)

For those who do not object to oil and garlic there is much that is attractive in the Spanish cuisine. There is only one place--as yet--in London where a real Spanish dinner is to be had, and then it must be specially ordered; but there are several Spanish chefs who, on persuasion, can be bribed to cook a dinner on the lines indicated.

Entremeses variados. (Hors d’œuvre.) Sopa. (Soup.) Ostras a la Espanola. (Oysters.) Pescado Chambord. (Fish.) Pichones a la Provenzal. Jamon y Pavo con Jalea de Grosellas. (Ham and Gooseberry Jelly.) Salomillo de ternera con trufas. Ensalada. (Salad.) Esparragos. (Asparagus.) Quesos Variados. (Sweets.)

The Italian style of cookery must not be judged by the examples of it in the thousands of cheap restaurants scattered throughout London. As a matter of fact they are mostly run by Swiss, either French-Swiss, German-Swiss, Italian-Swiss, or Swiss-Swiss. The real Italian style of feeding is quite excellent, and at most of the best West End restaurants they have at least one Italian cook, who, if the dinner be intelligently ordered, will be only too delighted to show his skill.

Antipasto. Vermicelli al Brodo. Minestrone alla Milanaise. Rombo, salsa Olandese. Gnocchi alla Piemontese. Medaglione di Manso all’ Italiana. Patate Novelle. Anitra arrosto. Insalata. Pere al Nebiolo. Gelato alla Vaniglia.

There is an Indian restaurant in Stafford Street which appeals to all Anglo-Indians--and to many others who appreciate a real curry, either dry or wet, Madras, Ceylon, Bombay, or any other style. The menu as follows can be cooked to perfection, and it is quite quaint to be greeted by white-robed, blue-turbaned attendants with a polite “Salaam, sahib!” They make good waiters, too; silent, quick, and deft.

Bhurta. (Hors d’œuvre.) Shorwa. (Soup.) Muchee Salna. (Fish Curry.) Hulvan Kabbab. (Lamb Cutlets.) Teeter Pallow. (Partridge Pilaff.) Subzie Chichkey. (Vegetable Curry.) Mithau. (Sweets.) Meva. (Fruit.) Kava. (Coffee.)

Where so many are good it would be invidious to say which is the best German restaurant in London, and it would also be a gross mistake to imagine that a German dinner is all sauerkraut and sausage. On the contrary, good German cookery (whether north or south) is as good as in any other part of Europe, and in some respects better. It can be sampled in several German restaurants in London. I would advise all visitors at a German restaurant to try the Prinz Pückler, an ice-pudding, which may be singled out as being especially worthy of imitation.

About French cookery there is nothing new to be said, because every one knows--or ought to know--that when it is good it is very good indeed, and when it is bad--it is horrid. In London it is not difficult to obtain examples both of the good and the horrid French styles. The horrid will not be needed twice! The real cuisine bourgeoise, which does not attempt to disguise the true flavour of the meats with unholy sauces, is nearly the very best in the world.

Last, but not least, of all, in all probability best of all, is a real English menu, and it is really difficult to say where it may best be ordered, for the _maître d’hôtel_ of a big restaurant looks askance at a bill of fare without one single French word in it, not even an _à la_.

A dear lady whose wit was better than her French pronunciation once said at a little dinner, “It is not so much the menu that matters, as the men you sit next to.” And really the programme is not by any means as important as the cooking thereof.

Old-fashioned Christmas cookery was, no doubt, of a heavier and more serious nature than ours of to-day, although the compounding of the historic plum-pudding seems to have been much the same. Here is the recipe of Mr. Richard Briggs, “many years cook at the Globe Tavern, the White Hart, and now at the Temple Coffee House.” It appears in his “English Art of Cookery,” published in 1788:--

Take a pound of flour, and mix it into batter with half a pint of milk; beat up the yolks of eight and the whites of four eggs, a pound of beef suet shred fine, a pound of raisins picked, a pound of currants, washed and picked, half a nutmeg grated, a teaspoonful of beaten ginger, a little moist sugar, a glass of brandy, and a little lemon-peel shred fine. Mix it well together, tie it up in a cloth, and boil it four hours. When it is done, turn it out into a dish, and garnish with powder sugar, with melted butter, sweet wine and sugar, mixed in a boat.

This is a curious recipe, which, I think, might work out very well. My copy of this old book bears the following quaint inscription on the fly-leaf: “The gift of Andrew Newton, Esquire, to the Dean and Chapter of Lichfield for the use of the Library of that Cathedral.” What _can_ the Dean and Chapter have wanted with a cookery book?

“You can’t please everybody,” as the old fisherman remarked to the grumbling angler who brought up a red-herring at the end of his line, and there are doubtless some--many, maybe--who prefer a less seasonable dinner than the stereotyped Christmas meal. For such this dainty and simple menu is humbly suggested:--

Potage poule au pot Henri IV. Merlans à la Bretonne. Filet de Bœuf à la Provençale. Chapons du Mans rôtis. Ragout de truffes. Fonds d’Artichauts demi-glace. Bombe Chantilly.

As a matter of fact, this was the dinner given a short while ago in Paris by the _Société des Amis des Livres_, who know as much about cookery as they do about bookery. It is worthy of record for its simplicity and completeness.

For those who like to be thoroughly conventional, and yet at the same time to let sweet reasonableness attend their feasts, let me recommend a Christmas dinner fashioned on somewhat the following lines:--

Consommé with Italian paste. Oyster soup. Turbot, Hollandaise sauce with capers. Brill and Tartare sauce. Turkey stuffed with chestnuts or fresh truffles. Fillet of beef, horse-radish sauce. Soufflé of fowl. Westphalian goose breast with winter spinach. Stewed celery. Plum pudding, brandy sauce. Mince pies. Chartreuse of oranges. Welsh rabbit. Devilled biscuit.

This is a special Christmas dinner prepared by the late Sir Henry Thompson, whose views on food and feeding are well known. It is most certainly a very happy combination of the necessities and the delicacies of the season, and as such needs no further recommendation. It is perhaps especially applicable to country-house parties, where both sexes are wont to have a pretty appetite.

“Science can analyse a pork chop, and say how much of it is phosphorus and how much is protein, but science cannot analyse any man’s wish for a pork chop, and say how much of it is hunger, how much nervous fancy, how much a haunting love of the beautiful. The man’s desire for the pork chop remains literally as mystical and ethereal as his desire for heaven.” Now, who wrote that ingenuous passage? _Je vous le donne en trois._ Charles Lamb? No. G. A. Sala? No. Mr. Lecky? Certainly not! It is by that inimitable humorist, G. K. Chesterton. And it’s quite true.

There is a most delectable little part of the turkey which the French euphoniously call _le sot l’y laisse_. Grimod de la Reynière, the celebrated gourmet, was wont to say that it was the most exquisite morsel of flesh in the world.

Travelling one day some miles from his country-seat, he pulled up at a roadside inn for dinner. The host regretted that he had nothing to offer the stranger. “But,” said the latter, “I see five turkeys hanging up there. Why not give me one of them?” The innkeeper was sorry, but they were all ordered by a gentleman staying in the house. “Surely he cannot want them all himself. Ask him to permit me to share his meal.” Again the innkeeper had to refuse. The gentleman in question was very particular. He only ate one tiny little piece from each bird--_le sot l’y laisse_, in fact. More anxious than ever to know who this rival gourmet was who had the same tastes as himself, de la Reynière insisted on making his acquaintance. He found it was his own son.

This is the menu of the Queen’s Guard Dinner, St. James’s Palace, for Friday, 23 March, 1855. Considering that it is only fifty years old, and therefore well within the memory of many living men, it makes curiously quaint reading.

Les Huîtres. Potage à la Crécy aux croûtons. Potage de Macaroni au consommé. La Merluche sauce aux œufs. Les truites grillées à la Tartare. Saddle of Mutton. Les Poulets garnis d’une langue. Les Côtelettes de mouton à la Soubise. Le vol au vent aux écrévisses. Les Kromeskys de ris de veau. Les filets de bœuf piqués sauce poivrade. Les pigeons and la pintade piquée. Les Pommes au riz. Les fondus en caisses. La gelée au noyeau. Les meringues à la Chantilly. Les Epinards au jus. La moëlle aux croûtons.

Such a deal of fine, confused feeding would be deemed vulgar and ostentatious to-day. The dinner could not have been served and eaten in less than a couple of hours, and there is an appalling ponderosity of substantials which must have tried the mid-Victorian digestion to the uttermost.

In pleasing contrast to the foregoing, I will quote a charming little dinner given in Paris by a hostess who understands the art of menu-fashioning in the highest degree.

Huîtres de Marennes. Potage Bonne Femme. Filets de Soles Joinville. Selle d’agneau bouquetière. Salmis de bécasses aux truffes. Foie gras à la Souwaroff. Poulardes à la Parisienne. Cœurs de laitues à la Russe. Pointes d’asperges à la crème. Glace Lavallière. Gauffrettes.

Few people know why an extra thick fillet of beef is called a _Chateaubriand_, and fewer still know how it ought to be cooked. You may ask all the chefs in town, and it is about thirty-three to one against your getting any historically precise information on the subject.

The story of the matter is briefly this. The dish was first cooked in the year 1802 at Champeaux Restaurant, in the Place de la Bourse. It was just at the period when Chateaubriand published his most brilliant work, “Le Génie du Christianisme.” “The profane wits of the kitchen” thought that a good steak sent to the fire between two malefactor steaks was a fair parody of the title of the book. The fillet or steak was cut so thick that by the ordinary method of cooking it might be burned on the surface whilst quite raw inside, and therefore--although the original and authentic method is ignored nowadays--it was put upon the fire between two other slices of beef, which, if burned, could be thrown away. Thus only is the Chateaubriand properly cooked.

The title has really nothing to do with the garnishing or the sauce, although the average _maître d’hôtel_ will insist otherwise. Nevertheless the true story is as above. Chateaubriand was French Ambassador at the Court of St. James in 1822.

It may be of interest to put on record here His Majesty the King’s Derby Day dinner at Buckingham Palace to the members of the Jockey Club. Here it is:--

Tortue Claire. Crême de Pois Comtesse. Whitebait au Naturel et à la Diable. Suprêmes de Truites à la Valenciennes. Zéphires de Cailles à la Montagne. Hanches de Venaison, Sauce Aigredoux. Selle d’Agneau froide à la Niçoise. Pommes de Terre à la Jaucourt. Ortolans Rôtis. Poussins sur Canapés. Salade de Cœurs de Romaines. Asperges d’Argenteuil, Sauce Mousseline. Pêches à la Reine Alexandra. Patisseries à la Parisienne. Cassolettes à la Jockey Club. Petites Glaces Printanières. Friandises. Dessert.

From trustworthy accounts I am constrained to believe that royal banquets are like many other mundane things. They look well, they read well, possibly they taste well, but there is inevitably the sub-acid flavour of Dead Sea apples, and the thoughtful observer may echo Talleyrand’s remark that whenever he perused a royal menu his thoughts involuntarily turned to _pot-au-feu_.

Although some kings (and queens too) were undoubtedly valiant trenchermen (and women), yet it is an ascertained fact that the more luxury appears on the bill of fare, the more frugal is the repast of majesty. The third Napoleon, towards the end of his reign, was forced to be so abstemious that, when the most tempting _plats_ jostled one another on his table, he found himself obliged to dine off a cutlet and a cup of rice.