Part 23
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.
"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."
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.