Back Aa

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

<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> <h3>SUPPER</h3> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="stanza"> “We are such stuff As dreams are made of.” </div> </div> <blockquote> Cleopatra’s supper—Oysters—Danger in the Aden bivalve—Oyster stew—Ball suppers—Pretty dishes—The Taj Mahal—Aspic—Bloater paste and whipped cream—Ladies’ recipes—Cookery colleges—Tripe—Smothered in onions—North Riding fashion—An hotel supper—Lord Tomnoddy at the “Magpie and Stump.” </blockquote> That cruel and catlike courtesan, Cleopatra, is alleged to have given the most expensive supper on record, and to have disposed of the bonne bouche herself, in the shape of a pearl, valued at the equivalent of £250,000, dissolved in vinegar of extra strength. Such a sum is rather more than is paid for a supper at the Savoy, or the Cecil, or the Metropole, in these more practical times, when pearls are to be had cheaper; and there is probably about as much truth in this pearl story as in a great many others of the same period. I have heard of a fair declassée leader of fashion at Monte Carlo, who commanded that her major domo should be put to death for not having[Pg 171] telegraphed to Paris for peaches, for a special dinner; but the woman who could melt a pearl in vinegar, and then drink——halte la! Perhaps the pearl was displayed in the deep shell of the oyster of which the “noble curtesan” partook? We know how Mark Antony’s countrymen valued the succulent bivalve; and probably an oyster feast at Wady Halfa or Dongola was a common function long before London knew a “Scott’s,” a “Pimm’s,” or a “Sweeting’s.” Thanks partly to the “typhoid scare,” but principally to the prohibitive price, the “native” industry of Britain has been, at the latter end of the nineteenth century, by no means active, although in the illustrated annuals Uncle John still brings with him a barrel of the luscious bivalves, in addition to assorted toys for the children, when he arrives in the midst of a snow-storm at the old hall on Christmas Eve. But Uncle John, that good fairy of our youth, when Charles Dickens invented the “festive season,” and the very atmosphere reeked of goose-stuffing, resides, for the most part, “in Sheffield,” in these practical days, when sentiment and goodwill to relatives are rapidly giving place to matters of fact, motor cars, and mammoth rates. The Asiatic oyster is not altogether commendable, his chief merit consisting in his size. Once whilst paying a flying visit to the city of Kurachi, I ordered a dozen oysters at the principal hotel. Then I went out to inspect the lions. On my return I could hardly push my way into the coffee-room. It was full of oyster! There was[Pg 172] no room for anything else. In fact one Kurachi oyster is a meal for four full-grown men. More tragic still was my experience of the bivalves procurable at Aden—which cinder-heap I have always considered to be a foretaste of even hotter things below. Instead of living on coal-dust (as might naturally be expected) the Aden oyster appears to do himself particularly well on some preparation of copper. The only time I tasted him, the after consequences very nearly prevented my ever tasting anything else, on this sphere. And it was only the comfort administered by the steward of my cabin which got me round. “Ah!” said that functionary, as he looked in to see whether I would take hot pickled pork or roast goose for dinner. “The last time we touched at Aden, there was two gents ’ad ’ysters. One of ’em died the same night, and the other nex’ mornin’.” I laughed so much that the poison left my system. Yet still we eat oysters—the Sans Bacilles brand, for choice. And if we can only persuade the young gentleman who opens the bivalves to refrain from washing the grit off each in the tub of dirty water behind the bar, so much the better. And above all, the bivalves should be opened on the deep shell, so as to conserve some of the juice; for it is advisable to get as much of the bivalve as we can for the money. Every time I crunch the bones of a lark I feel that I am devouring an oratorio, in the way of song; and whilst the bivalve is sliding down the “red lane” it may[Pg 173] be as well to reflect that “there slips away fourpence”; or, as the Scotsman had it, “bang went saxpence!” In connection with Mr. Bob Sawyer’s supper party in Pickwick, it may be recollected that “the man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent had not been told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork: and very little was done in this way.” And in one’s own house, unless there be an adept at oyster-opening present, the simplest way to treat the bivalve is the following. It should be remembered that a badly-opened oyster will resemble in flavour a slug on a gravel walk. So roast him, good friends, in his own fortress. <h4>Oysters in their own Juice.</h4> <blockquote> With the tongs place half-a-dozen oysters, mouths outwards, between the red-hot coals of the parlour or dining-room fire—the deep shell must be at the bottom—and the oysters will be cooked in a few minutes, or when the shells gape wide. Pull them out with the tongs, and insert a fresh batch. No pepper, vinegar, or lemon juice is necessary as an adjunct; and the oyster never tastes better. </blockquote> At most eating-houses, <h4>Scalloped Oysters</h4> taste of nothing but scorched bread-crumbs; and the reason is obvious, for there is but little else in the scallop shell. Natives only should be used. [Pg 174] <blockquote> Open and beard two dozen, and cut each bivalve in half. Melt two ounces of butter in a stewpan, and mix into it the same allowance of flour, the strained oyster liquor, a teacupful of cream, half a teaspoonful of essence of anchovies, and a pinch of cayenne—death to the caitiff who adds nutmeg—and stir the sauce well over the fire. Take it off, and add the well-beaten yolks of two eggs, a tablespoonful of finely chopped parsley, and a teaspoonful of lemon juice. Put in the oysters, and stir the whole over a gentle fire for five minutes. Put the mixture in the shells, grate bread-crumbs over, place a small piece of butter atop, and bake in a Dutch oven before a clear fire until the crumbs are lightly browned, which should be in about a quarter of an hour. </blockquote> <h4>Oyster Stew</h4> is thoroughly understood in New York City. On this side, the dish does not meet with any particular favour, although no supper-table is properly furnished without it. <blockquote> Open two dozen oysters, and take the beards off. Put the oysters into a basin and squeeze over them the juice of half a lemon. Put the beards and the strained liquor into a saucepan with half a blade of mace, half a dozen peppercorns ground, a little grated lemon rind, and a pinch of cayenne. Simmer gently for a quarter of an hour, strain the liquid, thicken it with a little butter and flour, add a quarter of a pint (or a teacupful) of cream, and stir over the fire till quite smooth. Then put in the oysters, and let them warm through—they must not boil. Serve in a soup tureen, and little cubes of bread fried in bacon grease may be served with the stew, as with pea-soup. </blockquote> Be very careful to whose care you entrust your barrel, or bag, of oysters, after you have got[Pg 175] them home. A consignment of the writer’s were, on one memorable and bitter cold Christmas Eve, consigned to the back dairy, by Matilda Anne. Result—frostbite, gapes, dissolution, disappointment, disagreeable language. <h4>Ball Suppers.</h4> More hard cash is wasted on these than even on ball dresses, which is saying a great deal. The alien caterer, or charcutier, is chiefly to blame for this; for he it is who has taught the British matron to wrap up wholesome food in coats of grease, inlaid with foreign substances, to destroy its flavour, and to bestow upon it an outward semblance other than its own. There was handed unto me, only the other evening, what I at first imagined to be a small section of the celebrated Taj Mahal at Agra, the magnificent mausoleum of the Emperor Shah Jehan. Reference to the bill-of-fare established the fact that I was merely sampling a galantine of turkey, smothered in some white glazy grease, inlaid with chopped carrot, green peas, truffles, and other things. And the marble column (also inlaid) which might have belonged to King Solomon’s Temple, at the top of the table, turned out to be a Tay salmon, decorated à la mode de charcutier, and tasting principally of garlic. A shriek from a fair neighbour caused me to turn my head in her direction; and it took some little time to discover, and to convince her, that the item on her plate was not a mouse, too frightened to move, but some preparation of the liver of a goose, in “aspic.” [Pg 176] This said Aspic—which has no connection with the asp which the fair Cleopatra kept on the premises, although a great French lexicographer says that aspic is so called because it is as cold as a snake—is invaluable in the numerous “schools of cookery” in the which British females are educated according to the teaching of the bad fairy Ala. The cold chicken and ham which delighted our ancestors at the supper-table—what has become of them? Yonder, my dear sir, is the fowl, in neat portions, minced, and made to represent fragments of the almond rock which delighted us whilst in the nursery. The ham has become a ridiculous mousse, placed in little accordion-pleated receptacles of snow-white paper; and those are not poached eggs atop, either, but dabs of whipped cream with a preserved apricot in the centre. It was only the other day that I read in a journal written by ladies for ladies, of a dainty dish for luncheon or supper: croûtons smeared with bloater paste and surmounted with whipped cream; and in the same paper was a recipe for stuffing a fresh herring with mushrooms, parsley, yolk of egg, onion, and its own soft roe. I am of opinion that it was a bad day for the male Briton when the gudewife, with her gude-daughter, and her gude cook, abandoned the gude roast and boiled, in favour of the works of the all-powerful Ala. And now let us proceed to discuss the most homely supper of all, and when I mention the magic word [Pg 177] <h4>Tripe</h4> there be few of my readers who will not at once allow that it is not only the most homely of food, but forms an ideal supper. This doctrine had not got in its work, however, in the ’sixties, at about which period the man who avowed himself an habitual tripe-eater must have been possessed of a considerable amount of nerve. Some of the supper-houses served it—such as the Albion, the Coal Hole, and more particularly, “Noakes’s,” the familiar name for the old Opera Tavern which used to face the Royal Italian Opera House, in Bow Street, Covent Garden. But the more genteel food-emporiums fought shy of tripe until within three decades of the close of the nineteenth century. Then it began to figure on the supper bills, in out-of-the-way corners; until supper-eaters in general discovered that this was not only an exceedingly cheap, but a very nourishing article of food, which did not require any special divine aid to digest. Then the price of tripe went up 75 per cent on the programmes. Then the most popular burlesque artiste of any age put the stamp of approval upon the new supper-dish, and tripe-dressing became as lucrative a profession as gold-crushing. There is a legend afloat of an eminent actor—poor “Ned” Sothern, I fancy, as “Johnny” Toole would never have done such a thing—who bade some of his friends and acquaintance to supper, and regaled them on sundry rolls of house flannel, smothered with the orthodox onion sauce. But that is another story.[Pg 178] Practical jokes should find no place in this volume, which is written to benefit, and not alarm, posterity. Therefore let us discuss the problem <h4>How to Cook Tripe.</h4> <blockquote> Ask for “double-tripe,” and see that the dresser gives it you nice and white. Wash it, cut into portions, and place in equal parts of milk and water, boiling fast. Remove the saucepan from the hottest part of the fire, and let the tripe keep just on the boil for an hour and a half. Serve with whole onions and onion sauce—in this work you will not be told how to manufacture onion sauce—and baked potatoes should always accompany this dish to table. </blockquote> Some people like their tripe cut into strips rolled up and tied with cotton, before being placed in the saucepan; but there is really no necessity to take this further trouble. And if the cook should forget to remove the cotton before serving, you might get your tongues tied in knots. In the North Riding of Yorkshire, some of the farmers’ wives egg-and-bread-crumb fillets of tripe, and fry them in the drip of thick rashers of ham which have been fried previously. The ham is served in the centre of the dish, with the fillets around the pig-pieces. This is said to be an excellent dish, but I prefer my tripe smothered in onions, like the timid “bunny.” Edmund Yates, in his “Reminiscences,” describes “nice, cosy, little suppers,” of which in his early youth he used to partake, at the house of his maternal grandfather, in Kentish Town. “He[Pg 179] dined at two o’clock,” observed the late proprietor of the World, “and had the most delightful suppers at nine; suppers of sprats, or kidneys, or tripe and onions; with foaming porter and hot grog afterwards.” I cannot share the enthusiasm possessed by some people for Sprats, as an article of diet. When very “full-blown,” the little fish make an excellent fertiliser for Marshal Niel roses; but as “winter whitebait,” or sardines they are hardly up to “Derby form.” Sprats are not much encouraged at the fashionable hotels; and when tripe is brought to table, which is but rarely, that food is nearly always filleted, sprinkled with chopped parsley, and served with tomato sauce. This is the sort of supper which is provided in the “gilt-edged” caravanserais of the metropolis, the following being a verbatim copy of a bill of fare at the Hotel Cecil:— <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="stanza"> Souper, 5s. </div> <div class="stanza"> Consommé Riche en tasses. Laitances Frites, Villeroy. Côte de Mouton aux Haricots Verts. Chaudfroid de Mauviettes. Strasbourg evisie. Salade. Biscuit Cecil. </div> </div> A lady-like repast this; and upon the whole, not dear. But roast loin of mutton hardly sounds tasty enough for a meal partaken of somewhere about the stroke of midnight. Still, such a supper is by no means calculated to “murder sleep.” Upon the other hand it is a[Pg 180] little difficult to credit the fact that the whole of the party invited by “My Lord Tomnoddy” to refresh themselves at the “Magpie and Stump,” including the noble host himself, should have slumbered peacefully, with a noisy crowd in the street, after a supper which consisted of <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="stanza"> “Cold fowl and cigars, Pickled onions in jars, Welsh rabbits and kidneys, Rare work for the jaws.” </div> </div> <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 181] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.