Edward Spencer

The brief lives of the best—A vegetable with a pedigree—Argenteuil—The Elysian Fields—The tomato the emblem of love—“Neeps”—Spinach—“Stomach-brush”—The savoury tear-provoker—Invaluable for wasp-stings—Celery merely cultivated “smallage”—The “Apium”—The parsnip—O Jerusalem!—The golden sunflower—How to get pheasants—A vegetarian banquet—“Swelling wisibly.”

It is one of the most exasperating laws and ordinations of Nature that the nicest things shall last the shortest time. “Whom the gods love die young,” is an ancient proverb; and the produce of the garden which is most agreeable to man invariably gives out too soon. Look at peas. Every gardener of worth puts in the seed so that you may get the different rows of marrow-fats and telephones and ne plus ultras in “succession”; and up they all come, at one and the same time, whilst, if you fail to pick them all at once, the combined efforts of mildew and the sun will soon save you the labour of picking them at all. Look at strawberries; and why can’t they stay in our midst all the year round, like the various members of the cabbage family?

Then look at Asparagus. The gardener who could persuade the heads of this department to pop up in succession, from January to December would earn more money than the Prime Minister. The favourite vegetable of the ancient Romans was introduced by them, with their accustomed unselfishness, into Britain, where it has since flourished—more particularly in the alluvial soil of the Thames valley in the neighbourhood of Mortlake and Richmond, ground which is also especially favourable to the growth of celery. In an ancient work called De Re Rustica, Cato the Elder, who was born 234 B.C., has much to say—far more, indeed, than I can translate without the aid of a dictionary or “crib”—about the virtues and proper cultivation of asparagus; and Pliny, another noble Roman, devotes several chapters of his Natural History (published at the commencement of the Christian era) to the same subject. “Of all the productions of your garden” says this Mr. Pliny, “your chief care will be your asparagus.” And the cheerful and sanguine householder of to-day who sows his asparagus, and expects to get it “while he waits” has ample consolation for disappointment in the reflection that his labours will benefit posterity, if not the next tenant.

The foreigners can beat us for size, in the matter of asparagus; but ours is a long way in front for flavour. In France the vegetable is very largely grown at Argenteuil on the Seine, a district which has also produced, and still produces, a wine which is almost as dangerous to man as hydrocyanic acid, and which was invariably served in the restaurants, after the sitting had been a lengthy one, no matter what special brand might have been ordered. English hosts play the same game with their “military” ports and inferior sherries. The Argenteuil asparagus is now grown between the vines—at least 1000 acres are in cultivation—hence the peculiar flavour which, however grateful it may be to Frenchmen, is somewhat sickly and not to be compared with that of the “little gentleman in Green,” nearly the whole of whom we English can consume with safety to digestion.

According to Greek mythology, asparagus grew in the Elysian fields; but whether the blessed took oil and vinegar with it, or the “bill-sticker’s paste,” so favoured in middle-class kitchens of to-day, there is no record. It goes best, however, with a plain salad dressing—a “spot” of mustard worked into a tablespoonful of oil, and a dessert-spoonful of tarragon vinegar, with pepper and salt ad lib.

Asparagus is no longer known in the British pharmacopoeia, but the French make large medicinal use of its root, which is supposed to still the action of the heart, like foxglove, and to act as a preventive of calculi. In cooking the vegetable, tie in small bundles, which should be stood on end in the saucepan, so that the delicate heads should be steamed, and not touched by the boiling water. Many cooks will contest this point; which, however, does not admit of argument.

There was once a discussion in a well-known hostelry, as to whether the

Tomato

was a fruit or a vegetable. Eventually the head-waiter was invited to solve the great question. He did so on the spot.

“Tumarter, sir? Tumarter’s a hextra.”

And as a “hextra” it has never since that period ceased to be regarded. A native of South America, the plant was introduced into Europe by the Spaniards, late in the sixteenth century, and the English got it in 1596. Still until a quarter of a century ago the tomato has not been largely cultivated, save by the market gardener; in fact in private gardens it was conspicuous by its absence. Those who eat it do not invariably succumb to cancer; and the dyspeptic should always keep it on the premises. As the tomato is also known as the “love-apple,” a great point was missed by our old friend Sergeant Buzfuz, in the celebrated Bardell v. Pickwick trial, when referring to the postscript, “chops, and tomato sauce.” Possibly Charles Dickens was not an authority on veget—— I beg pardon, “hextras.”

Here is a French recipe for

Tomate au Gratin:

Cut open the tops and scoop out the pulp. Pass it through a sieve, to clear away the pips, and mix with it either a modicum of butter, or oil, some chopped shalot and garlic, with pepper and salt. Simmer the mixture for a quarter of an hour, then stir in some bread-crumbs, previously soaked in broth, and some yolks of egg. When cold, fill the tomato skins with the mixture, shake some fine bread raspings over each, and bake in quick oven for ten or twelve minutes.

The

Turnip

is not, as might be sometimes imagined, entirely composed of compressed deal splinters, but is a vegetable which was cultivated in India long before the Britons got it. The Scotch call turnips “neeps”; but the Scotch will do anything. Probably no member of the vegetable family is so great a favourite with the insect pests sent on earth by an all-wise Providence to prevent mankind having too much to eat. But see that you get a few turnips to cook when there is roast duck for dinner.

Spinach

was introduced into Spain by the Arabs, and as neither nation possessed at that time, at all events, the attribute of extra-cleanliness, they must have eaten a great deal of “matter in the wrong place,” otherwise known as dirt. For if ever there was a vegetable the preparation of which for table would justify any cook in giving notice to leave, it is spinach.

The Germans have nick-named it “stomach-brush,” and there is no plant growing which conduces more to the health of man. But there has been more trouble over the proper way to serve it at table than over Armenia. The French chop up their Épinards and mix butter, or gravy, with the mess. Many English, on the other hand, prefer the leaves cooked whole. It is all a matter of taste.

But I seem to scent a soft, sweet fragrance in the air, a homely and health-giving reek, which warns me that I have too long neglected to touch upon the many virtues of the

Onion.

Indigenous to India in the form of

Garlic

(or gar-leek, the original onion), the Egyptians got hold of the tear-provoker and cultivated it 2000 years before the Christian era. So that few of the mortals of whom we have ever read can have been ignorant of the uses of the onion, or gar-leek. But knowledge and practice have enabled modern gardeners to produce larger bulbs than even the most imaginative of the ancients can have dreamt of. To mention all the uses to which the onion is put in the kitchen would be to write a book too weighty for any known motive power to convey to the British Museum; but it may be briefly observed of the juice of the Cepa that it is invaluable for almost any purpose, from flavouring a dish fit to set before a king, to the alleviation of the inflammation caused by the poison-bearing needle which the restless wasp keeps for use within his, or her, tail. In fact, the inhabited portion of the globe had better be without noses than without onions.

Like the tomato, Celery is a “hextra”—and a very important one. If you buy the heads at half-a-crown per hundred and sell them at threepence a portion, it will not exercise your calculating powers to discover the profits which can be made out of this simple root. Celery is simply cultivated “smallage”; a weed which has existed in Britain since the age of ice. It was the Italians who made the discovery that educated smallage would become celery; and it is worthy of note that their forefathers, the conquerors of the world, with the Greeks, seem to have known “no touch of it”—as a relish, at all events; though some writers will have it that the “Apium,” with which the victors at the Isthmian and other games were crowned was not parsley but the leaf of the celery plant. But what does it matter? Celery is invaluable as a flavourer, and when properly cultivated, and not stringy, a most delightful and satisfactory substance to bite. In fact a pretty woman never shows to more advantage than when nibbling a crisp, “short” head of celery—provided she possess pretty teeth.

With boiled turkey, or ditto pheasant, celery sauce is de rigueur; and it should be flavoured slightly with slices of onion, an ounce of butter being allowed to every head of celery. The French are fond of it stewed; and as long as the flavour of the gravy, or jus, does not disguise the flavour of the celery, it is excellent when thus treated. Its merits in a salad will be touched upon in another chapter.

The Parsnip is a native of England, where it is chiefly used to make an inferior kind of spirit, or a dreadful brand of wine. Otherwise few people would trouble to cultivate the parsnip; for we can’t be having boiled pork or salt fish for dinner every day. The Vegetable Marrow is a member of the pumpkin family and is a comparatively tasteless occupant of the garden, its appearance in which heralds the departure of summer. In the suburbs, if you want to annoy the people next door, you cannot do better than put in a marrow plant or two. If they come to anything, and get plenty of water, they will crawl all over your neighbour’s premises; and unless he is fond of the breed, and cuts and cooks them, they make him mad. The frugal housewife, blessed with a large family, makes jam of the surplus marrows; but I prefer a conserve of apricot, gooseberry, or greengage. Another purpose to which to put this vegetable is—

Scoop out the seeds, after cutting it in half, lengthways. Fill the space with minced veal (cooked), small cubes of bacon, and plenty of seasoning—some people add the yoke of an egg—put on the other half marrow, and bake for half-an-hour.

This Baked Marrow is a cheap and homely dish which, like many another savoury dish, seldom finds its way to the rich man’s dining-room.

The Artichoke is a species of thistle; and the man who pays the usual high-toned restaurant prices for the pleasure of eating such insipid food, is an—never mind what. Boil the thing in salt and water, and dip the ends of the leaves in oil and vinegar, or Holland sauce, before eating. Then you will enjoy the really fine flavour of the—oil and vinegar, or Holland sauce.

The so-called Jerusalem Artichoke is really a species of sunflower. Its tuber is not a universal favourite, though it possesses far from a coarse flavour. The plant has nothing whatever to do with Jerusalem, and never had. Put a tuber or two into your garden, and you will have Jerusalem artichokes as long as you live on those premises. For the vegetable will stay with you as long as the gout, or the rate-gatherer. Pheasants are particularly partial to this sort of crop.

By far the best vegetable production of the gorgeous East is the

Brinjal

’Tis oval in shape, and about the size of a hen’s egg, the surface being purple in colour. It is usually cut in twain and done “on the grating”; I have met something very like the brinjal in Covent Garden; but can find no record of the vegetable’s pedigree in any book.

Although there are still many vegetarian restaurants in our large towns, the prejudice against animal food is, happily, dying out; and if ridicule could kill, we should not hear much more of the “cranks” who with delightful inconsistency, would spurn a collop of beef, and gorge themselves on milk, in every shape and form. If milk, butter, and cheese be not animal food I should like to know what is? And it is as reasonable to ask a man to sustain life on dried peas and mushrooms as to feed a tiger on cabbages.

Once, and only once, has the writer attempted a

Vegetarian Banquet.

It was savoury enough; and possessed the additional merit of being cheap. Decidedly “filling at the price” was that meal. We—I had a messmate—commenced with (alleged) Scotch broth—which consisted principally of dried peas, pearl barley, and oatmeal—and a large slice of really excellent brown bread was served, to each, with this broth. Thereupon followed a savoury stew of onions and tomatoes, relieved by a “savoury pie,” apparently made from potatoes, leeks, bread crumbs, butter, and “postponed” mushrooms. We had “gone straight” up to now, but both shied a bit at the maccaroni and grated cheese. We had two bottles of ginger beer apiece, with this dinner, which cost less than three shillings for the two, after the dapper little waitress had been feed. On leaving, we both agreed to visit that cleanly and well-ordered little house again, if only from motives of economy; but within half an hour that programme was changed.

Like the old lady at the tea-drinking, I commenced to “swell wisibly”; and so did my companion.

“Mon alive!” he gasped. “I feel just for all the wor-rld like a captive balloon, or a puffy-dunter—that’s a puffing whale, ye ken. I’ll veesit yon onion-hoose nae mair i’ ma life!”

And I think it cost us something like half a sovereign in old brandy to neutralise the effects of that vegetarian banquet.