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Cakes & Ale, A Dissertation on Banquets Interspersed with Various Recipes, More or Less Original, and anecdotes, mainly veracious

<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> <h3>BREAKFAST (continued)</h3> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="stanza"> “Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.” </div> </div> <blockquote> Country-house life—An Englishwoman at her best—Guests’ comforts—What to eat at the first meal—A few choice recipes—A noble grill-sauce—The poor outcast—Appetising dishes—Hotel “worries”—The old regime and the new—“No cheques”; no soles, and “whitings is hoff”—A halibut steak—Skilly and oakum—Breakfast out of the rates. </blockquote> By far the pleasantest meal of the day at a large country-house is breakfast. You will be staying there, most likely, an you be a man, for hunting or shooting—it being one of the eccentric dispensations of the great goddess Fashion that country-houses should be guestless, and often ownerless, during that season of the year when nature looks at her loveliest. An you be a woman, you will be staying there for the especial benefit of your daughter; for flirting—or for the more serious purpose of riveting the fetters of the fervid youth who may have been taken captive during the London season—for romping, and probably shooting and hunting, too; for lovely[Pg 11] woman up-to-date takes but little account of such frivolities as Berlin wool-work, piano-practice, or drives, well wrapped-up, in a close carriage, to pay calls with her hostess. As for going out with the “guns,” or meeting the sterner sex at luncheon in the keeper’s cottage, or the specially-erected pavilion, the darlings are not content, nowadays, unless they can use dapper little breech-loaders, specially made for them, and some of them are far from bad shots. Yes, ’tis a pleasant function, breakfast at the Castle, the Park, or the Grange. But, as observed in the last chapter, there must be no undue punctuality, no black looks at late arrivals, no sarcastic allusions to late hours, nor inane chaff from the other guests about the wine cup or the whisky cup, which may have been drained in the smoking-room, during the small hours. Her ladyship looks divine, or at all events regal, as she presides at what our American cousins would call the “business end” of the long table, whilst our host, a healthy, jolly-looking, “hard-bitten” man of fifty, faces her. His bright keen eye denotes the sportsman, and he can shoot as straight as ever, whilst no fence is too high, too wide, nor too deep for him. Sprinkled about, at either side of the table, amongst the red and black coats, or shooting jackets of varied hues—with a vacancy here and there, for “Algie” and “Bill,” and the “Angel,” who have not yet put in appearance—are smart, fresh-looking women, young, and “well-preserved,” and matronly, some in tailor-made frocks, and some in the silks and velvets suited[Pg 12] for those of riper age, and some in exquisitely-fitting habits. It is at the breakfast-table that the Englishwoman can defy all foreign competition; and you are inclined to frown, or even say things under your breath, when that mincing, wicked-looking little Marquise, all frills, and ribbons, and lace, and smiles, and Ess Bouquet, in the latest creation of the first man-milliner of Paris, trips into the room in slippers two sizes too small for her, and salutes the company at large in broken English. For the contrast is somewhat trying, and you wonder why on earth some women will smother themselves with scents and cosmetiques, and raddle their cheeks and wear diamonds so early in the morning; and you lose all sense of the undoubted fascination of the Marquise in speculating as to what manner of “strong woman” her femme de chambre must be who can compress a 22-inch waist into an 18-inch corset. There should, of course, be separate tea and coffee equipments for most of the guests—at all events for the sluggards. The massive silver urn certainly lends a tone to the breakfast-table, and looks “comfortable-like.” But it would be criminally cruel to satisfy the thirst of the multitude out of the same tea-pot or coffee-pot; and the sluggard will not love his hostess if she pours forth “husband’s tea,” merely because he is a sluggard. And remember that the hand which has held two by honours, or a “straight flush” the night before, is occasionally too shaky to pass tea-cups. No. Do not spare your servants, my lord, or my lady. Your guests must be “well[Pg 13] done,” or they will miss your “rocketing” pheasants, or fail to go fast enough at that brook with the rotten banks. “The English,” said an eminent alien, “have only one sauce.” This is a scandalous libel; but as it was said a long time ago it doesn’t matter. It would be much truer to say that the English have only one breakfast-dish, and its name is <h4>Eggs and Bacon.</h4> Pardon, I should have written two; and the second is ham and eggs. A new-laid egg—poached, not fried, an ye love me, O Betsy, best of cooks—and a rasher of home-cured hog are both excellent things in their way; but, like a partridge, a mother-in-law, and a baby, it is quite possible to have too much of them. The English hostess—I do not refer to the typical “her ladyship,” of whom I have written above, but to the average hostess—certainly launches out occasionally in the direction of assorted fish, kidneys, sausages, and chops, but the staple food upon which we are asked to break our fast is, undoubtedly, eggs and bacon. The great question of what to eat at the first meal depends greatly upon whether you sit down to it directly you emerge from your bedroom, or whether you have indulged in any sort of exercise in the interim. After two or three hours “amateur touting” on such a place as Newmarket Heath, the sportsman is ready for any sort of food, from a dish of liver and bacon to a good, thick fat chop, or an underdone steak. I have even attacked cold stewed eels (!) upon an[Pg 14] occasion when the pangs of hunger would have justified my eating the tom-cat, and the landlady as well. But chops and steaks are not to be commended to furnish forth the ordinary breakfast-table. I am coming to the hotel breakfast presently, so will say nothing about fried fish just yet. But here follows a list of a few of what may be called <h4>Allowable Breakfast Dishes</h4> Mushrooms (done plainly in front of the fire), sausages (toasted), scrambled eggs on toast, curried eggs, fish balls, kidneys, savoury omelette. Porridge may be useful for growing boys and briefless barristers, but this chapter is not written solely in their interests. Above all, do not, oh! do not, forget the grill, or broil. This should be the feature of the breakfast. Such simple recipes as those for the manufacture of fish balls or omelettes or curried eggs—though I shall have plenty to say about curries later on—need not be given here; but the following, for a grill-sauce, will be found invaluable, especially for the “sluggard.” <h4>Gubbins Sauce</h4> <blockquote> The legs and wings of fowl, turkey, pheasant, partridge, or moor-hen should only be used. Have these scored across with a sharp knife, and divided at the joints. And when your grill is taken, “hot as hot,” but not burnt, from the fire, have poured over it the following sauce. Be very particular that your cook pours it over the grill just before it is served up. And it is of the most vital importance that the sauce should be made, and well mixed, on[Pg 15] a plate over hot water—for instance, a slop-basin should be filled with boiling water and a plate placed atop. Melt on the plate a lump of butter the size of a large walnut. Stir into it, when melted, two teaspoonfuls of made mustard, then a dessert-spoonful of vinegar, half that quantity of tarragon vinegar, and a tablespoonful of cream—Devonshire or English. Season with salt, black pepper, and cayenne, according to the (presumed) tastes and requirements of the breakfasters. </blockquote> Let your sideboard—it is assumed that you have a sideboard—sigh and lament its hard lot, under its load of cold joints, game, and pies,—I am still harping on the country-house; and if you have a York ham in cut, it should be flanked by a Westphalian ditto. For the blend is a good one. And remember that no York ham under 20 lb. in weight is worth cutting. You need not put it all on the board at once. A capital adjunct to the breakfast-table, too, is a reindeer’s tongue, which, as you see it hung up in the shops, looks more like a policeman’s truncheon in active employment than anything else; but when well soaked and then properly treated in the boiling, is very tasty, and will melt like marrow in the mouth. A simple, excellent August breakfast can be made from a dish of freshly-caught trout, the legs and back of a cold grouse, which has been roasted, not baked, and <h4>A Large Peach.</h4> But what of the wretched bachelor, as he[Pg 16] enters his one sitting-room, in his humble lodging? He may have heard the chimes at midnight, in some gay and festive quarter, or, like some other wretched bachelors, he may have been engaged in the composition of romances for some exacting editor, until the smallish hours. Poor outcast! what sort of appetite will he have for the rusty rasher, or the shop egg, the smoked haddock, or the “Billingsgate pheasant,” which his landlady will presently send up, together with her little account, for his refection? Well, here is a much more tasty dish than any of the above; and if he be “square” with Mrs. Bangham, that lady will possibly not object to her “gal” cooking the different ingredients before she starts at the wash-tub. But let not the wretched bachelor suffer the “gal” to mix them. I first met this dish in Calcutta during the two months of (alleged) cold weather which prevail during the year. <h4>Calcutta Jumble.</h4> <blockquote> A few fried fillets of white fish (sole, or plaice—sole for choice), placed on the top of some boiled rice, in a soup plate. Pour over them the yolks of two boiled eggs, and mix in one green chili, chopped fine. Salt to taste. </blockquote> “Another way:” <blockquote> Mix with the rice the following ingredients:— The yolks of two raw eggs, one tablespoonful anchovy sauce, one small teaspoonful curry powder (raw), a sprinkling of cayenne, a little salt, and one green chili chopped fine. Each ingredient to be[Pg 17] added separately, and the eggs and curry powder to be stirred into the rice with a fork. Fillets of sole to be served atop. </blockquote> How many cooks in this England of ours can cook rice properly? Without pausing for a reply, I append the recipe, which should be pasted on the wall of every kitchen. The many cookery books which I have read give elaborate directions for the performance, of what is a very simple duty. Here it is, in a few lines— <h4>To cook Rice for Curry, etc.</h4> <blockquote> Soak a sufficiency of rice in cold water for two hours. Strain through a sieve, and pop the rice into boiling water. Let it boil—“gallop” is, I believe, the word used in most kitchens—for not quite ten minutes (or until the rice is tender), then strain off the water through a sieve, and dash a little cold water over the rice, to separate the grains. </blockquote> Here is another most appetising breakfast dish for the springtime— <h4>Asparagus with Eggs.</h4> <blockquote> Cut up two dozen (or so) heads of cooked asparagus into small pieces, and mix in a stewpan with the well-beaten yolks of two raw eggs. Flavour with pepper and salt, and stir freely. Add a piece of butter the size of a walnut (one of these should be kept in every kitchen as a pattern), and keep on stirring for a couple of minutes or so. Serve on delicately-toasted bread. </blockquote> <h4>An Hotel Breakfast.</h4> What memories do these words conjure up of a snug coffee-room, hung with hunting prints,[Pg 18] and portraits of Derby winners, and churches, and well-hung game; with its oak panellings, easy arm-chairs, blazing fire, snowy naperies, and bright silver. The cheery host, with well-lined paunch, and fat, wheezy voice, which wishes you good-morning, and hopes you have passed a comfortable night between the lavender-scented sheets. The fatherly interest which “William,” the grey-headed waiter, takes in you—stranger or habitué—and the more than fatherly interest which you take in the good cheer, from home-made “sassingers” to new-laid eggs, and heather honey, not forgetting a slice out of the mammoth York ham, beneath whose weight the old sideboard absolutely grunts. Heigho! we, or they, have changed all that. The poet who found his “warmest welcome in an inn” was, naturally enough, writing of his own time. I don’t like fault-finding, but must needs declare that the “warmest” part of an inn welcome to be found nowadays is the bill. As long as you pay it (or have plenty of luggage to leave behind in default), and make yourself agreeable to the fair and haughty bookkeeper (if it’s a “she”) who allots you your bedroom, and bullies the page-boy, nobody in the modern inn cares particularly what becomes of you. You lose your individuality, and become “Number 325.” Instead of welcome, distrust lurks, large, on the very threshold. <h4>“No Cheques Accepted”</h4> is frequently the first announcement to catch the eye of the incoming guest; and although you[Pg 19] cannot help admiring the marble pillars, the oak carving, the gilding, the mirrors, and the electric light, an uncomfortable feeling comes over you at meal times, to the effect that the cost of the decorations, or much of it, is taken out of the food. “Waiter,” you ask, as soon as your eyes and ears get accustomed to the incessant bustle of the coffee-room, and your nostrils to the savour of last night’s soup, “what can I have for breakfast?” “What would you like, sir?” “I should like a grilled sole, to begin with.” “Very sorry, sir, soles is hoff—get you a nice chop or steak.” “Can’t manage either so early in the day. Got any whitings?” “Afraid we’re out of whitings, sir, but I’ll see.” Eventually, after suggesting sundry delicacies, all of which are either “hoff,” or unknown to the waiter, you settle down to the consumption of two fried and shrivelled shop eggs, on an island of Chicago ham, floating in an Ægean Sea of grease and hot water; whilst a half quartern loaf, a cruet-stand the size of a cathedral, a rackful of toast of the “Zebra” brand, and about two gallons of (alleged) coffee, are dumped down in succession in front of you. There are, of course, some hostelries where they “do” you better than this, but my experience of hotel breakfasts at this end of the nineteenth century has not been encouraging, either to appetite or temper; and I do vow and[Pg 20] protest that the above picture is not too highly coloured. The toothsome, necessary bloater is not often to be met with on the hotel’s bill-of-fare; but, if soft roed—use no other—it will repay perusal. Toast it in a Dutch oven in front of a clear fire, and just before done split it up the back, and put a piece of butter on it. The roe should be well plumped, and of the consistency of Devonshire cream. A grilled sole for breakfast is preferable to a fried one, principally because it is by no means impossible that the fried sole be second-hand, or as the French call it réchauffé. And why, unless directions to the contrary be given, is the modest whiting invariably placed, tail in mouth, on the frying pan? A grilled whiting—assassinate your cook if she (or he) scorches it—is one of the noblest works of the kitchen, and its exterior should be of a golden brown colour. Do not forget to order sausages for breakfast if you are staying at Newmarket; there is less bread in them than in the Metropolitan brand. And when in Lincoln attempt a <h4>Halibut Steak,</h4> of which you may not have previously heard. The halibut should, previous to grilling or frying in salad oil, be placed on a shallow dish and sprinkled with salt. Then the dish should be half filled with water, which must not cover the salt. Leave the fish to soak for an hour, then cut into slices, nearly an inch thick, without removing the skin. Sprinkle some lemon juice and cayenne over the steaks before serving. [Pg 21] If you wish to preserve an even mind, and be at peace with the world, a visit to <h4>The Hotel Parish</h4> is not to be recommended. The Irish stew at dinner is not bad in its way, though coarse, and too liberally endowed with fat. But the breakfasts! Boiled oatmeal and water, with salt in the mess, and a chunk of stale brown bread to eat therewith, do not constitute an altogether satisfactory meal, the first thing in the morning; and it is hardly calculated to inspire him with much pride in his work, when the guest is placed subsequently before his “task” of unbroken flints or tarred rope. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 22] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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