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

<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> <h3>VEGETABLES</h3> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="stanza"> “Herbs and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses.” </div> </div> <blockquote> Use and abuse of the potato—Its eccentricities—Its origin—Hawkins, not Raleigh, introduced it into England—With or without the “jacket”?—Don’t let it be à-la-ed—Benevolence and large-heartedness of the cabbage family—Peas on earth—Pythagoras on the bean—“Giving him beans”—“Haricot” a misnomer—“Borston” beans—Frijoles—The carrot—Crécy soup—The Prince of Wales—The Black Prince and the King of Bohemia. </blockquote> Item, the Potato, earth-apple, murphy, or spud; the most useful, as well as the most exasperating gift of a bountiful Providence. Those inclined to obesity may skip the greater part of this chapter. You can employ a potato for almost anything. It comes in very handy for the manufacture of starch, sugar, Irish stew, Scotch whisky, and Colorado beetles. Cut it in half, and with one half you restore an old master, and with the other drive the cat from the back garden. More deadly battles have been waged over the proper way to cook a potato, than over a parish boundary, or an Irish eviction. Strong-headed men hurl the[Pg 112] spud high in air, and receive and fracture it on their frontal bones; whilst a juggler like Paul Cinquevalli can do what he likes with it. Worn inside the pocket, it is an infallible cure for chronic rheumatism, fits, and tubercular meningitis. Worn inside the body it will convert a living skeleton into a Daniel Lambert. Plant potatoes in a game district, and if they come up you will find that after the haulms have withered you can capture all your rich neighbour’s pheasants, and half the partridges in the country. A nicely-baked potato, deftly placed beneath the root of his tail, will make the worst “jibber” in the world travel; whilst, when combined with buttermilk, and a modicum of meal, the earth-apple has been known to nourish millions of the rising generation, and to give them sufficient strength and courage to owe their back rents, and accuracy of aim for exterminating the brutal owner of the soil. The waiter, bless ye! the harmless, flat-footed waiter, doesn’t know all this. Potatoes to him are simply 2d. or 3d. in the little account, according to whether they be “biled, mash, or soty”; and if questioned as to the natural history of the floury tuber, he would probably assume an air of injured innocence, and assure you that during his reign of “thirty-five year, man and boy,” that establishment had “never ’ad no complaints.” The potato is most eccentric in disposition, and its cultivator should know by heart the beautiful ode of Horace which commences <div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> Aequam memento rebus in arduis . . . </div> </div> [Pg 113] The experiences of the writer as a potato grower have been somewhat mixed, and occasionally like the following:—Set your snowflakes in deeply-trenched, heavily-manured ground, a foot apart. In due time you will get a really fine crop of groundsel, charlock, and slugs, with enough bind-weed to strangle the sea-serpent. Clear all this rubbish off, and after a week or two the eye will be gladdened with the sight of the delicate green leaf of the tuber peeping through the soil. Slow music. Enter the Earl of Frost. No; they will not all be cut off. You will get one tuber. Peel it carefully, and place it in the pig-stye—the peeling spoils the quality of the pork. Throw the peeling away—on the bed in which you have sown annuals for choice—and in the late Spring you will have a row of potatoes which will do you credit. But this is frivolous. The origin of the potato is doubtful; but that it was used by the ancients, in warfare, is tolerably certain. Long before the Spaniards reached the New World it was cultivated largely by the Incas; and it was the Spaniards who brought the tuber to Europe, in the beginning of the sixteenth century. It was brought to England from Virginia by Sir John Hawkins in 1563; and again in 1586 by Sir Francis Drake, to whom, as the introducer of the potato, a statue was erected at Offenburg, in Baden, in 1853. In schools and other haunts of ignorance, the credit for the introduction of the tuber used to be and is (I believe) still given to Sir Walter Raleigh, who has been wrongly accredited with as many “good things” as have[Pg 114] been Theodore Hook or Sidney Smith. And I may mention en parenthèse, that I don’t entirely believe that cloak story. For many years the tuber was known in England as the “Batata”—overhaul your Lorna Doone—and in France, until the close of the eighteenth century, the earth apple was looked upon with suspicion, as the cause of leprosy and assorted fevers; just as the tomato, at the close of the more civilised nineteenth century, is said by the vulgar and swine-headed to breed cancer. Now then, With or without the jacket? And the reader who imagines that I am going to answer the question has too much imagination. As the old butler in Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone observes, there is much to be said on both sides. Personally I lean to the “no-jacket” side, unless the tuber be baked; and I would make it penal to serve a potato in any other way than boiled, steamed, or baked.[5] The bad fairy Ala should have no hand in its manipulation; and there be few æsthetic eaters who would not prefer the old-fashioned “ball of flour” to slices of the sodden article swimming in a bath of grease and parsley, and called a Sauté. The horrible concoction yclept “preserved potatoes,” which used to be served out aboard sailing vessels, after the passengers had eaten all the real articles, and which tasted like bad pease-pudding dressed with furniture polish, is, happily, deceased. And the best potatoes, the same breed which our fathers and our forefathers munched in the Covent Garden[Pg 115] “Cave of Harmony,” grow, I am credibly informed, in Jermyn Street. Moreover if you wish to spoil a dish of good spuds, there is no surer way than by leaving on the dish-cover. So much for boiling ’em—or steaming ’em. The Cabbage is a fine, friendly fellow, who makes himself at home, and generally useful, in the garden; whilst his great heart swells, and swells, in the full knowledge that he is doing his level best to please all. Though cut down in the springtime of his youth, his benevolence is so great that he will sprout again from his headless trunk, if required, and given time for reflection. The Romans introduced him into Great Britain, but there was a sort of cow-cabbage in the island before that time which our blue forefathers used to devour with their bacon, and steaks, in a raw state. “The most evolved and final variety of the cabbage,” writes a savant, “is the Cauliflower, in which the vegetative surplus becomes poured into the flowering head, of which the flowering is more or less checked; the inflorescence becoming a dense corymb instead of an open panicle, and the majority of the flowers aborting”—the head gardener usually tells you all this in the Scottish language—“so as to become incapable of producing seed. Let a specially vegetative cabbage repeat the excessive development of its leaf parenchyma, and we have the wrinkled and blistered Savoy, of which the hardy constitution, but comparative coarseness, become also more intelligible; again a specially vegetative cauliflower gives us an easily grown and hardy winter variety,[Pg 116] Broccoli”—Broccilo in Costerese—“from which, and not from the ordinary cauliflower, a sprouting variety arises in turn.” In Jersey the cabbage-stalks are dried, varnished, and used as spars for thatched roofs, as also for the correction of the youthful population. Cook all varieties of the cabbage in water already at the boil, with a little salt and soda in it. The French sprinkle cheese on a cauliflower, to make it more tasty, and it then becomes <h4>Choufleur aû Gratin.</h4> <blockquote> Remove the green leaves, and underboil your cauliflower. Pour over it some butter sauce in which have been mixed two ounces of grated cheese—half Gruyère and half Parmesan. Powder with bread crumbs, or raspings, and with more grated cheese. Lastly, pour over it a teaspoonful of oiled butter. Place in a hot oven and bake till the surface is a golden brown, which should be in from ten to fifteen minutes. Serve in same dish. </blockquote> Vegetarians should be particularly careful to soak every description of cabbage in salt and water before cooking. Otherwise the vegetarians will probably eat a considerable portion of animal food. Here occurs an opportunity for the recipe for an elegant dish, which the French call Perdrix aux Choux, which is simply <h4>Partridge Stewed with Cabbage, etc.</h4> <blockquote> A brace of birds browned in the stewpan with butter or good dripping, and a portion of a hand of pickled pork in small pieces, some chopped onion[Pg 117] and a clove or two. Add some broth, two carrots (chopped), a bay-leaf, and a chopped sausage or two. Then add a Savoy cabbage, cut into quarters, and seasoned with pepper and salt. Let all simmer together for an hour and a half. Then drain the cabbage, and place it, squashed down, on a dish. Arrange the birds in the middle, surround them with the pieces of pork and sausage, and pour over all the liquor from the stew. </blockquote> This is an excellent dish, and savours more of Teutonic than of French cooking. But you mustn’t tell a Frenchman this, if he be bigger than yourself. The toothsome Pea has been cultivated in the East from time immemorial, though the ancient Greeks and Romans do not appear to have had knowledge of such a dainty. Had Vitellius known the virtues of duck and green peas he would probably have not been so wrapt up in his favourite dormice, stuffed with poppy-seed and stewed in honey. The ancient Egyptians knew all about the little pulse, and not one of the leaders of society was mummified without a pod or two being placed amongst his wrappings. And after thousand of years said peas, when sown, have been known to germinate. The mummy pea-plant, however, but seldom bears fruit. Our idiotic ancestors, the ancient Britons, knew nothing about peas, nor do any of their descendants appear to have troubled about the vegetable before the reign of the Virgin Queen. Then they were imported from Holland, together with schnapps, curaçoa, and other things, and no “swagger” banquet was held without a dish[Pg 118] of “fresh-shelled ’uns,” which were accounted “fit dainties for ladies, they came so far and cost so dear.” In England up-to-date peas are frequently accompanied by pigeon pie at table; the dove family being especially partial to the little pulse, either when attached to the haulm, in the garden, or in a dried state. So that the crafty husbandman, who possesses a shot gun, frequently gathereth both pea and pigeon. A chalky soil is especially favourable to pea cultivation; and deal sawdust sprinkled well over the rows immediately after the setting of the seed will frustrate the knavish tricks of the field mouse, who also likes peas. The man who discovered the affinity between mint and this vegetable ought to have received a gold medal, and I would gladly attend the execution of the caitiff who invented the tinned peas which we get at the foreign restaurants, at three times the price of the English article. Here is a good simple recipe for Pea Soup, made from the dried article: <blockquote> Soak a quart of split peas in rain-water for twelve hours. Put them in the pot with one carrot, one onion, one leek, a sprig or two of parsley (all chopped), one pound of streaky bacon, and three quarts of the liquor in which either beef, mutton, pork, or poultry may have been boiled. Boil for nearly three hours, remove the bacon, and strain the soup through a tammy. Heat up, and serve with dried mint, and small cubes of fat bacon fried crisp. </blockquote> Green-Pea Soup is made in precisely the same way; but the peas will not need soaking[Pg 119] beforehand, and thrifty housewives put in the shells as well. Harmless and nutritious a vegetable as the Bean would appear to be, it did not altogether find favour with the ancients. Pythagoras, who had quaint ideas on the subject of the human soul, forbade his disciples to eat beans, because they were generated in the foul ooze out of which man was created. Lucian, who had a vivid imagination, describes a philosopher in Hades who was particularly hard on the bean, to eat which he declared was as great a crime as to eat one’s father’s head. And yet Lucian was accounted a man of common sense in his time. The Romans only ate beans at funerals, being under the idea that the souls of the dead abode in the vegetable. According to tradition, the “caller herrin’” hawked in the streets of Edinburgh were once known as “lives o’ men,” from the risks run by the fishermen. And the Romans introduced the bean into England by way of cheering up our blue forefathers. In the Roman festival of Lemuralia, the father of the family was accustomed to throw black beans over his head, whilst repeating an incantation. This ceremony probably inspired Lucian’s philosopher—for whom, however, every allowance should be made, when we come to consider his place of residence—with his jaundiced views of the Faba vulgaris. Curiously enough, amongst the vulgar folk, at the present day, there would seem to be some sort of prejudice against the vegetable; or why should “I’ll give him beans” be a synonymous threat with “I’ll do him all the mischief I can?” [Pg 120] There is plenty of nourishment in a bean; that is the opinion of the entire medical faculty. And whilst beans and bacon make a favourite summer repast for the farm-labourer and his family, the dish is also (at the commencement of the bean season) to be met with at the tables of the wealthy. The aroma of the flower of the broad bean was once compared, in one of John Leech’s studies in Punch, to “the most delicious ’air oil,” but, apart from this fragrance, there is but little sentiment about the Faba vulgaris. A much more graceful vegetable is the Phaseolus vulgaris, the kidney, or, as the idiotic French call it, the haricot bean. It is just as sensible to call a leg of Welsh mutton a pré salé, or salt meadow. No well-behaved hashed venison introduces himself to our notice unless accompanied by a dish of kidney beans. And few people in Europe besides Frenchmen and convicts eat the dried seeds of this form of bean, which is frequently sown in suburban gardens to form a fence to keep out cats. But the suburban cat knows a trick worth a dozen of that one; and no bean that was ever born will arrest his progress, or turn him from his evil ways. It is criminal to smother the kidney bean with melted butter at table. A little oil, vinegar, and pepper agree with him much better. In the great continent of America, the kidney-bean seed, dried, is freely partaken of. Pork and “Borston” beans, in fact, form the national dish, and right good it is. But do not attempt any violent exercise after eating the same. The Mexicans are the largest bean-eaters in the[Pg 121] world. They fry the vegetables in oil or stew them with peppers and onions, and these frijoles form the principal sustenance of the lower orders. An English “bean feast” (Vulg. beano) is a feast at which no beans, and not many other things, are eaten. The intelligent foreigner may take it that beano simply means the worship of Bacchus. With the exception of the onion there is no more useful aid to cookery of all sorts than the lowly carrot, which was introduced into England—no, not by the Romans—from Holland, in the sixteenth century. And the ladies who attended the court of Charles I. were in the habit of wearing carrot leaves in the hair, and on their court robes, instead of feathers. A similar fashion might be revived at the present epoch, with advantage to the banking account of vile man. As the Flemish gardeners brought over the roots, we should not despise carrots cooked in the Flemish way. Simmer some young carrots in butter, with pepper and salt. Add cream (or milk and yolk of eggs), a pinch of sugar, and a little chopped parsley. H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, according to report, invariably eats carrot soup on the 26th of August. The French call it “Crécy” soup, because their best carrots grow there; and Crécy it may be remembered was also the scene of a great battle, when one Englishman proved better than five Frenchmen. In this battle the Black Prince performed prodigies of valour, afterwards assuming the crest of the late Bohemian King—three ostrich feathers (surely these should be carrot tops?) with the motto “Ich Dien.” [Pg 122] <h4>Crécy Soup.</h4> <blockquote> Place a mirepoix of white wine in the pot, and put a quantity of sliced carrots atop. Moisten with broth, and keep simmering till the carrots are done. Then pour into a mortar, pound, and pass through a tammy. Thin it with more broth, sweeten in the proportion of one tablespoonful of sugar to two gallons of soup; heat up, pop a little butter in at the finish, and in serving it add either small cubes of fried bread, or rice boiled as for curry (see page 145). </blockquote> <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 123] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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