Edward Spencer

CHAPTER VIII DINNER ( continued ) "The strong table groans Beneath the smoking sirloin stretched immense."

A merry Christmas—Bin F—A Noel banquet—Water-cress—How Royalty fares—The Tsar—Bouillabaisse—Tournedos—Bisque—Vol-au-vent—PrÈ salÉ—Chinese banquets—A fixed bayonet—Bernardin salmi—The duck-squeezer—American cookery—“Borston” beans—He couldn’t eat beef.

A Christmas dinner in the early Victorian era! Quelle fÊte magnifique! The man who did not keep Christmas in a fitting manner in those days was not thought much of. “Dines by himself at the club on Christmas day!” was the way the late Mr. George Payne of sporting memory, summed up a certain middle-aged recluse, with heaps of money, who, although he had two estates in the country, preferred to live in two small rooms in St. James’s Place, S.W., and to take his meals at “Arthur’s.”

And how we boys (not to mention the little lasses in white frocks and black mittens) used to overeat ourselves, on such occasions, with no fear of pill, draught, or “staying in,” before our eyes!

The writer has in his mind’s eye a good specimen of such an old-fashioned dinner, as served in the fifties. It was pretty much the same feast every Christmas. We commenced with some sort of clear soup, with meat in it. Then came a codfish, crimped—the head of that household would have as soon thought of eating a sÔle au vin blanc as of putting before his family an uncrimped cod—with plenty of liver, oyster sauce, and pickled walnuts; and at the other end of the table was a dish of fried smelts. EntrÉes? Had any of the diners asked for an entrÉe, his or her exit from the room would have been a somewhat rapid one. A noble sirloin of Scotch beef faced a boiled turkey anointed with celery sauce; and then appeared the blazing pudding, and the mince-pies. For the next course, a dish of toasted (or rather stewed) cheese, home-made and full of richness, was handed round, with dry toast, the bearer of which was closely pursued by a varlet carrying a huge double-handed vessel of hot spiced-ale, bobbing or floating about in the which were roasted crab-apples and sippets of toast; and it was de rigueur for each of those who sat at meat to extract a sippet, to eat with the cheese.

How the old retainer, grey and plethoric with service, loved us boys, and how he would manoeuvre to obtain for us the tit-bits! A favoured servitor was “Joseph”; and though my revered progenitor was ostensibly the head of the house, he would, on occasion, “run a bad second” to “Joseph.” Memory is still keen of a certain chilly evening in September, when the ladies had retired to the drawing-room, and the male guests were invited to be seated at the small table which had been wheeled close to the replenished fire.

“Joseph,” said the dear old man, “bring us a bottle or two of the yellow seal—you know—Bin F.”

The servitor drew near to his master, and in a stage whisper exclaimed:

“You can’t afford it, sir!”

“What’s that?” roared the indignant old man.

“You can’t afford it, sir—Hawthornden’s won th’ Leger!”

“Good Gad!” A pause—and then, “Well, never mind, Joseph, we’ll have up the yellow seal, all the same.”

One of the writer’s last Christmas dinners was partaken of in a sweet little house in Mayfair; and affords somewhat of a contrast with the meal quoted above. We took our appetites away with a salad composed of anchovies, capers, truffles, and other things, a Russian sardine or two, and rolls and butter. Thence, we drifted into Bouillabaisse (a tasty but bile-provoking broth), toyed with some filets de sÔle À la Parisienne (good but greasy), and disposed of a tournedos, with a nice fat oyster atop, apiece (et parlez-moi d’Ça!). Then came some dickey-birds sur canapÉ—alleged to be snipe, but destitute of flavour, save that of the tin they had been spoiled in, and of the “canopy.” An alien cook can not cook game, whatever choice confections he may turn out—at least that is the experience of the writer. We had cressons, of course, with the birds; though how water-cress can possibly assimilate with the flesh of a snipe is questionable. “Water-creases” are all very well at tea in the arbour, but don’t go smoothly with any sort of fowl; and to put such rank stuff into a salad—as my hostess’s cook did—is absolutely criminal.

To continue the Mayfair banquet, the salad was followed by a soufflÉe À la Noel (which reminded some of the more imaginative of our party of the festive season), some cheese straws, and the customary ices, coffee, and liqueurs. On the whole, not a bad meal; but what would old Father Christmas have said thereto? What would my revered progenitor have remarked, had he been allowed to revisit the glimpses of the moon? He did not love our lively neighbours; and, upon the only occasion on which he was inveigled across the Channel, took especial care to recross it the very next day, lest, through circumstances not under his own control, he might come to be “buried amongst these d——d French!”

The following menu may give some idea as to how

Royalty

entertains its guests. Said menu, as will be seen, is comparatively simple, and many of the dishes are French only in name:—

HuÎtres
——
ConsommÉ aux oeufs pochÉs
Bisque d’Écrevisses
——
Turbot, sauce d’homard
Fillets de saumon À l’Indienne
——
Vol-au-vent FinanciÈre
Mauviettes sur le Nid
——
Selle de mouton de Galles rotie
Poulardes À l’Estragon
——
Faisans
BÉcassines sur croÛte
——
Chouxfleur au gratin
——
Plum Pudding
Bavarois aux abricots
——
Glace À la Mocha

Truly a pattern dinner, this; and ’twould be sheer impertinence to comment thereon, beyond remarking that English dishes should, in common fairness, be called by English names.

Her Imperial Majesty the Tsaritza, on the night of her arrival at Darmstadt, in October 1896, sat down, together with her august husband, to the following simple meal:—

ConsommÉ de Volaille Cronstades d’Écrevisses
——
Filet de Turbot À la Joinville
——
Cimier de Chevreuil
[A haunch of Roebuck is far to be desired above
the same quarter of the red deer].
——
Terrine de Perdreaux
——
Ponche Royale
——
Poularde de Metz
——
Choux de Bruxelles
——
Bavarois aux Abricots
——
Glaces PanachÉes

The partiality of crowned heads towards “Bavarois aux Abricots”—“Bavarois” is simply Bavarian cheese, a superior sort of blanc mange—is proverbial. And the above repast was served on priceless Meissen china and silver. The only remarks I will make upon the above menu are that it is quite possible that the capon may have come from Metz, though not very probable. French cooks name their meat and poultry in the most reckless fashion. For instance, owing to this reckless nomenclature the belief has grown that the best ducks come from Rouen. Nothing of the sort. There are just as good ducks raised at West Hartlepool as at Rouen. “Rouen” in the bill-of-fare is simply a corruption of “roan”; and a “roan duck” is a quacker who has assumed (through crossing) the reddish plumage of the wild bird. As for (alleged) Surrey fowls, most of them come from Heathfield in Sussex, whence £142,000 worth were sent in 1896.

Let us enquire into the composition of some of the high-sounding plats, served up by the average chef.

Bouillabaisse.—Of it Thackeray sang—

Avoid eels and herrings in this concoction as too oily. Soles, mullet, John Dory, whiting, flounders, perch, roach, and mussels will blend well, and allow half a pound of fish for each person. For every pound of fish put in the stewpan a pint of water, a quarter of a pint of white wine, and a tablespoonful of salad oil. If there be four partakers, add two sliced onions, two cloves, two bay-leaves, two leeks (the white part only, chopped), four cloves of garlic, a tablespoonful chopped parsley, a good squeeze of lemon juice, half an ounce of chopped capsicums, a teaspoonful (or more ad lib.) of saffron, with pepper and salt. Mix the chopped fish in all this, and boil for half an hour. Let the mixture “gallop” and strain into a tureen with sippets, and the fish served separately.

Tournedos.—No relation to tornado, and you won’t find the word in any Gallic dictionary. A tournedos is a thin collop of beef, steeped in a marinade for twenty-four hours (personally I prefer it without the aid of the marine) and fried lightly. Turn it but once. The oyster atop is simply scalded. Try this dish.

Bisque.—In the seventeenth century this was made from pigeons by the poor barbarians who knew not the gentle lobster, nor the confiding crayfish. Heat up to boiling-point a Mirepoix of white wine. You don’t know what a

Mirepoix

is? Simply a faggot of vegetables, named after a notorious cuckold of noble birth in the time of Louis XV. Two carrots, two onions, two shalots, two bay-leaves, a sprig of thyme and a clove of garlic. Mince very small, with half a pound of fat bacon, half a pound of raw ham, pepper and salt, and a little butter. Add a sufficiency of white wine. In this mixture cook two dozen crayfish for twenty minutes, continually tossing them about till red, when take them out to cool. Shell them, all but the claws, which should be pounded in a mortar and mixed with butter. The flesh of the tails is reserved to be put in the soup at the last minute; the body-flesh goes back into the mirepoix, to which two quarts of broth are now added. Add the pounded shells to the soup, simmer for an hour and a half, strain, heat up, add a piece of butter, the tails, a seasoning of cayenne, and a few quenelles of whiting.

Vol-au-vent FinanciÈre.—This always reminds me of the fearful threat hurled by the waiter in the “Bab Ballads” at his flighty sweetheart:

Make your crust—light as air, and flaky as snow, an you value your situation—and fill with button mushrooms, truffles, cock’s-combs, quenelles of chicken, and sweetbread, all chopped, seasoned, and moistened with a butter sauce. Brown gravy is objectionable. Garnish the Vol with fried parsley, which goes well with most luxuries of this sort.