Part 11
Some years ago a party of city people spent a charming summer in a farm-house high up among the Berkshire hills. The accommodations of the roomy old-fashioned dwelling were good, the breakfasts and dinners excellent, well cooked, and liberal in provision. But the teas! Night after night the guests gathered about a tea-table adorned with plates of cold bread, of butter, and of cake, pitchers of milk, and occasionally a dish of berries or of stewed fruit. Tea there was, as a matter of course, but never a bit of meat or fish, or an egg in any form, boiled, poached, or in an omelet; not even a pat of pot-cheese or a few slices of dairy cheese. Warm biscuit, muffins, and waffles were likewise conspicuous by their absence.
It was all very well for those who ate bread and milk and were fond of cake, but for a party of ravenous young people, who had spent a long afternoon playing tennis, fishing or driving, or tramping over the hills in the hunger-provoking air, the sight of the table was not inspiriting; nor did it become more popular as the season advanced and the early frosty evenings improved appetites that had never been poor. Yet, in spite of loudly expressed hints, it never seemed to occur to the farmer's good wife that her tea-table was not supplied with every viand the most exacting eater could desire.
Naturally, when a hearty meal has been served in the middle of the day, there should be no thought of having to prepare a second dinner for the evening. But there should be, at least, some relish to vary the monotony of plain bread and butter, something to give the meal an aspect other than that of a perfunctory "feed," where every one eats on the principle upon which Nicholas Nickleby "distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge" the morning after his arrival at Dotheboys Hall—not that he wanted it then, but lest he should be inconveniently hungry when there was nothing to eat.
There are many delicious supper dishes which are made with little difficulty. In winter, oysters, clams, scallops, broiled ham, fried, broiled, or stewed chicken, chicken scallop or mince, sausages, bacon and eggs, with any of the large varieties of griddle-cakes or warm breads, will make a meal to satisfy any one; while in summer, salads of eggs, fish, lobsters, chicken, cold lamb or veal, shrimp, cheese, beet leaves, lettuce, cabbage, potato, string-beans, and of many other kinds, may be relied upon. Omelets and other preparations of eggs are inexpensive, easily cooked, and generally popular, while cold meat goes well on a summer evening, especially when accompanied by bannocks, scones, butter-cakes, toasted crackers, wafers, or some light bread that is easily made and not hard to digest. Then there are galantines, potted meats, jellied fish, pickled salmon, cottage-cheese, and numerous other little delicacies that are not costly and yet are good.
The table for tea should be set much as it is for breakfast, with the exception of the oatmeal sets. All the dishes may be placed upon the table at once, as they would be at lunch, and the family may do much of the passing of plates. The tea is served with the first course, and the cups and tray may be removed to make room for the dish of fruit or simple sweets that generally concludes the meal. The saucers in which these are served should stand on plates, on which each guest may lay the cake which is usually passed at the same time. Hot puddings are out of place at tea, but instead there may be, in winter, apple-sauce, stewed prunes, preserved ginger, brandied and preserved peaches, pears or plums, jams or marmalades, custards, blanc-manges, jellies, or anything of that sort; while in summer it is rarely impossible to procure berries of some kind, or other fruit. A dish of "bonny-clabber"—better known, perhaps, as "loppered milk"—of junket, or of syllabub is always delicious, and is usually easily obtained where milk and cream are plentiful.
No domestic sight is pleasanter in its way than a tea-table on a cold winter night, spread with a bright cloth and set out with dainty china and shining silver, and with all the cheer-inspiring appurtenances of the tea-tray; with the plate of hot bread, the savory dish of hot meat, and the little relishes that housekeepers know well how to supply. And in summer its counterpart is seen in the table laid in the room brightened by the level sun's rays, where a crisp salad, piles of white and brown bread, and a plate of rusk or tea-biscuit, pitchers of milk, and a dish of berries with cream in abundance revive the fainting appetites and spirits of those who have borne the heat and burden of the day.
In summer a tea on the lawn is an agreeable variety to introduce occasionally. A medium-sized table may be carried out under the trees, and spread with a white cloth. On this are placed the principal dishes—the bread-and-butter, which may sometimes have its place taken by sandwiches; the salad or cold meat, or both; the cake and fruit. The tea-tray and kettle may be here too, or the tea may be made in the house. Iced tea and coffee make a pleasant change once in a while.
A rug or two may be laid on the grass if any of the party have a nervous dread of colds, and a few little tables will provide a space upon which to rest a cup of tea or a glass of milk when the lap is occupied by the plate containing the more solid viands. Low chairs should stand here and there, and the whole scene will present a charmingly festal appearance at a trifling outlay of time and trouble.
A certain family who possess a delightful country place make their Sunday evening _al fresco_ tea one of the pleasantest spots in the week. No one is present but the family and any guests who may be staying in the house. The pretty, simple meal is served out on the grassy lawn, which slopes down to the water. When the eating is over, the maid comes out, gathers the dishes into a tray, and carries them back to the house, happy in the thought that there is no supper-table to be cleared and no dining-room to be brushed up.
Long after the vestiges of the feast have been removed the family sit there, chatting pleasantly, watching the sunset and the stars coming out or the moon rising. By and by some voice begins a hymn, the others take it up, and the singing goes on until the early bedtime comes, and the party turns towards the house with a restful happiness that is none the less deep and true because it is hard to describe or to analyze.
AFTERNOON TEA
Among the many English customs which have been introduced into American society there is none that sooner attained a widespread popularity than afternoon tea—a simple and easy form of entertainment, that entailed little expense and less trouble upon the hostess, and supplied a long-felt want. Soon all over the land teas were the rage, and in large cities and small villages alike cards were flying about, bearing upon them the name of the hostess, and in one corner, "Tea at five o'clock" or "Tea from four to six," as the case might be.
With the usual tendency of the citizens of this great and glorious country to impress upon the fashions borrowed from other nations the stamp of their own individuality, it was not long before the stereotyped tea, bread-and-butter, and cake, which had at first made up the _menu_ of these entertainments, began to undergo modifications. First, chocolate was added, on the plea that many people do not care for tea. Bouillon came next, and the use of this served as the basis of that absurd report, instantly accepted by foreigners, that the American young women were so fragile in constitution as to be obliged to brace themselves up with strong beef tea at their receptions, in order to enable them to perform their social duties. With bouillon came sandwiches; next appeared salad, and after that oysters, croquettes, creams, ices, and charlottes followed one another in rapid succession, until the metamorphosis of the modest tea into the reception, with its heavy party supper, was complete.
Part of this change may be attributed to the display and love of competition which are numbered among our national characteristics. But at least a portion of the blame must fall upon the participants in these entertainments, who, not understanding that a tea to be a tea must be simple, did not hesitate to grumble at the trifling nature of the refreshments there offered for their delectation.
"I am sick of your afternoon teas!" grumbled one lord of creation, when informed that the family had just received cards to one of these affairs. "_I_ like to go to a place where you get something to eat besides a cup of beef tea and a cracker, or tea and bread-and-butter. It isn't the kind of supper a hungry man wants when he comes from his business. He needs something hearty."
Ignorant and boorish though he was, he voiced the sentiment of many of his sex, who, owing to the training American society has furnished in this respect, consider no party a success unless the social enjoyments are supplemented by a big "spread." In England, where the dinner hour falls later than it usually does in this country, the light sustenance offered by afternoon tea serves as a welcome break in the long stretch which intervenes between luncheon and dinner. Here a man who has his appetite whetted for a six-o'clock repast cares little for a trifling refection at five or half after five. It only serves to blunt his hunger without satisfying it.
Of course, as soon as the tea was merged into the virtual equivalent of an evening party given in the daytime, its recommendation as a cheap and convenient method of entertaining one's friends vanished. While one merely dropped in for a cup of tea on the way home from calls or shopping, a plain walking gown or visiting costume was perfectly appropriate. But with the increased formality of the tea arose the necessity for richer dress, and the afternoon kettle-drum became a kind of heterogeneous-looking assembly, where, at five o'clock in the afternoon, some of the women would appear in evening gowns, with low necks and short sleeves, and some in street suits, while the men, of course, wore morning coats; although in small towns the sight of men in dress suits before six o'clock is an anomaly too often witnessed.
Even apart from the matter of dress, other difficulties and complications arose. Persons in moderate circumstances who had rejoiced at the advent of the tea, because it rendered feasible the gratification of their hospitable instincts at an outlay within their means, shrank back in dismay from this hybrid form of assembly, declaring that it was as easy to give a regular evening party, and get the credit for that, as it was to receive guests in a fashion which assumed simplicity, but cost no less than an affair that made more show.
A few women have had the courage to adhere to what was the original design of the afternoon tea, and to offer their guests only the light refreshments suitable for this form of entertaining. To such people the labor connected with thus gathering their friends about them is a trifling task. The hostess sees that her rooms are in their best looks; fills a few vases with fresh flowers, to give a festal air; sets a round-table in her drawing-room or library, or in the dining-room, if these apartments are _en suite_; draws up her prettiest cups and saucers and plates in battle array, and invites a few young girls or intimate friends to assist her. They wear either pretty house costumes or dainty tea gowns. For refreshments are provided tea and chocolate, possibly bouillon, bread-and-butter or tiny sandwiches, and plenty of light cakes. The eating is a secondary matter, the _raison d'être_ of the company being the desire for pleasant social intercourse in an informal fashion.
The woman who has a regular "at home" or a weekly "afternoon tea" during the season provides even less. She has tea or cocoa—rarely both—bread-and-butter or fancy biscuit, and cake. The toasted muffins or crumpets and the many tea-cakes dear to the British palate are little in vogue here, where the dinner hour is almost invariably six or half after six. Very few are the houses where daily afternoon tea is the rule.
Numberless pretty adjuncts can be procured to contribute to the attractiveness of the kettle-drum. The tall crane, with its brass, copper, or silver kettle, the daintily embroidered tea and tray cloths, the fine fringed or hem-stitched doilies, the exquisite china, the quaint teapot, the cozy, the odd dishes for cake and biscuit—all afford opportunity for the display of a cultured taste or of a quick fancy. Nothing need be very costly, but everything must be pretty, and in this day the combination of beauty and cheapness is by no means difficult or unusual.
The cards for an afternoon tea bear simply the name of the hostess, and that of her daughter if the latter is "out," and in the corner is written or engraved "Tea" or "At Home," and the day and the hour of the entertainment. The card of any friend who is visiting the hostess, or who entertains with her, is enclosed in the same envelope. If the invited guest cannot be present, she sends her card, by post or by private hand, so that it may reach the hostess upon the day when she receives.
Those people who live in the country, or who are so fortunate as to possess summer places out of town, can give charming outdoor teas, which far surpass in pleasantness anything that can be devised in the city. We Americans live too much in the house, and that, too, in a climate which offers great facilities for a freer mode of life. A tea on a lawn or veranda when the air is full of the perfume of flowers and the country is in its holiday trim is a delight to all those lucky enough to be invited to it. For such a kettle-drum, iced tea and lemonade or claret-cup, sandwiches, and cake may be offered, with berries or other fruits when these are in season.
HIGH TEA
For a small company the high tea is an excellent form of entertainment. It is not suitable for a large assembly, but when a limited number of guests have been invited to spend the evening in some such recreation as card-playing, it is very pleasant to ask them first to high tea. Or if the latter part of the evening is to be devoted to dancing, a chosen few of the guests may be invited to tea first, and the remainder requested to come later. In that case no supper should be offered to the dancers except cake, ices, and coffee.
Should the dining-table be large enough to accommodate all the guests bidden to the high tea, it may be drawn to the requisite length, and all the company seated about it. But if, from the limited dimensions of the dining-room, or because it better suits the fancy of the hostess, small tables are preferred, these may be laid so as to accommodate at each six, or four, or even two, always taking care in the last case that the right two are placed together.
If one large table is used, it may be spread with either a dinner or a tea cloth. Flowers should be in the middle upon a pretty centre-piece, and there may be small vases set about here and there. Individual bouquets are not at all necessary. The places should be arranged as usual, with small silver for each course, and the usual accompaniments of butter-plates—or of bread-and-butter plates—salt-cellars, glasses, napkins, etc. If it is warm weather, the table may be further beautified by the bowls or baskets of fresh fruits that are to make part of the dessert, and, in winter, dishes of cake, of preserved or brandied fruits, etc., may be on the table. Should the hostess prefer, however, these may be placed on the sideboard, thus allowing space for the more substantial viands, which at a tea are seldom relegated to the position on the side-table that they would take at dinner.
At the head of the table sits the hostess, with the tea-tray in front of her. It by no means follows, however, because this repast is called a tea that the Chinese herb should be _en évidence_. If the party is composed chiefly of young people, the chances are strongly in favor of their preference being for coffee or chocolate. They may be offered their choice of these beverages, which the hostess pours out, the servant passing them with cream and sugar, that each may add of these to suit himself. Russian tea may possibly be offered, but even this is apt to be less popular than either chocolate or coffee.
Should small tables be used, the hostess may preside over a tray placed upon one of them, or, when it seems more convenient, the cups may be filled outside, and passed to each with the cream-pitcher and sugar-bowl. It saves some delay in serving if there are a cream-pitcher and sugar-bowl on each table. These little tables may be covered with small cloths or large napkins, and need have nothing else upon them beyond the necessary furniture for each place, except, perhaps, a vase of flowers. While small tables are often admirable as accommodating more people with comfort than could be seated at a large table, yet the latter gives opportunity for a prettier display of floral decoration, china, silver, etc., than is afforded by the former.
The bill of fare is easily arranged. There are no raw oysters or clams, as at a lunch or dinner; and while bouillon may be provided, it is not at all necessary. The meal may begin with oysters in some form, as fricasseed, fried, broiled, steamed, or panned, or in croquettes. With them are passed bread-and-butter (brown or graham bread cut thin is good with oysters) or rolls. The plates are then removed, and the next course brought in. This may consist of chicken—broiled or fried—or broiled birds, or French chops, and of potatoes in some form, as _à la parisienne_, French fried, or hashed with cream and browned. Cold tongue or ham is sometimes also passed at this time, and warm bread in some shape, as French rolls, sally-lunn, tea-biscuit, rusk, or waffles. The coffee or chocolate is also served at this stage in the proceedings.
After this course comes a salad—lettuce and tomato mayonnaise, or chicken, lobster, or salmon—fresh plates being served for this, as a matter of course. Olives and some fancy cheese—Brie, Roquefort, or Gorgonzola—usually come with the salad. Cheese at this stage is strongly recommended by the epicure; but it is not essential, except to those who hold, in the words of the old doggerel, that
"A dinner (or supper) without cheese Is like a kiss without a squeeze."
The table is now cleared, and the dessert brought in. This may be quite simple, as, say, preserved or brandied fruit with fancy cakes; or it may be more elaborate, and comprise jelly, charlotte-russe, or fresh fruit of some kind, and light cakes. Ices are not strictly _en règle_, although no canon of taste is seriously offended if they are offered. It is better, however, to serve them later in the evening. Still, they are not essential even then. Finger-bowls set on doilies laid on pretty plates must be passed the last thing before the guests quit the table.
Of course the _menu_ suggested above may be altered to suit the season and the taste of the entertainer. Lobster or crabs, clams or shrimps, may be substituted for the oysters. Green pease may accompany chops, or sweetbreads may be the principal meat dish of the second course. Roast duck, turkey, or chicken may be provided if broilers are out of season, or birds may be served with a lettuce or celery salad for the third course. And when one reflects upon the fancy dishes which may be prepared for dessert—the blanc-manges, the jellied fruits, the Spanish or Bavarian or Hamburg creams, the charlottes of divers kinds, the whips, custards, and syllabubs—the only difficulty that arises is where to choose.
A pretty notion is to introduce some unexpected feature into the high tea which will appeal to the imaginations of the guests as well as to their palates. A little ingenuity will suggest some novelty of this sort. The literary salad, which has become well known in certain localities, may yet be unfamiliar in others. This is made by cutting a number of slips of paper, writing on each one a prose or poetic quotation, and attaching each strip to a leaf of pale green tissue-paper, cut and crimped into the fashion of a lettuce leaf. Different shades of the paper should be selected, so that the tints may blend as they do in a veritable head of lettuce. These leaves are then arranged in a bowl, and at some point in the meal, usually just before the dessert, the bowl is passed, and each guest draws out at random two or three of the leaves. The endeavor then is to guess the authorship of the different quotations, and a prize is usually offered to the one who guesses the greatest number correctly. The prize may be the bowl or dish in which the salad is served. Or, instead of quotations, conundrums may be written on the slips, and puzzling out their answers usually affords a great deal of amusement.
A bright young hostess, who was always bubbling over with new and charming ideas, hit upon the clever one of having her guests' characters told by chirosophy. She obtained a specimen of the handwriting of each of those whom she had invited, and sent the samples to a specialist, who deduced from each an estimate of the characteristics of its writer. The verdicts thus obtained were enclosed each in an envelope bearing the name of the person whose peculiar bias was therein described. The envelopes were then bound with ribbons, tied, and sealed. One was laid at the place of each guest at the table, and after providing a fruitful source of wonder and comment during the early part of the meal, the seals were broken when the fruit was passed. Each read aloud the statement contained in her envelope, and it was curious and amusing to observe with what accuracy many idiosyncrasies and singular traits of disposition had been indicated.
SOME HINTS ABOUT SUPPER
In these days of theatre and opera parties the matter of late suppers assumes more importance than it possessed in the time when these amusements were less universally popular. Upon the occasions when a young man escorted his "best girl" to the play or the concert, he took her afterwards, as a natural sequence, to a restaurant, where they partook of some such light refreshment as ice-cream, cake, and coffee, this style of supper being varied sometimes by the introduction of oysters in one form or another. But when a company of young people go to the theatre nowadays, and return afterwards to the house of their chaperon or of some other member of the party, they are usually hungry with the healthy appetite that it is no longer the foolish fashion to conceal.
The members of whist clubs, of literary or dramatic circles, of small dancing classes, of amateur orchestras, and of a variety of other similar social organizations, feel a like desire for food after an evening's busy occupation, while even in the family the sensible custom is gaining ground of eating something not long before retiring—a something which, if not equal in extent and weight to the late supper of our English cousins, is yet more substantial than the caramels and chocolate creams with which school-girls, and often their seniors, solace the hunger that is apt to attack them about bedtime.