Part 22

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."