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

<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> <h3>SALADS</h3> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="stanza"> “O green and glorious, O herbaceous meat! ’Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat. Back to the world he’d turn his weary soul, And dip his fingers in the salad bowl!”      </div> </div> <blockquote> Nebuchadnezzar v. Sydney Smith—Salt?—No salad-bowl—French origin—Apocryphal story of Francatelli—Salads and salads—Water-cress and dirty water—Salad-maker born not made—Lobster salad—Lettuce, Wipe or wash?—Mayonnaise—Potato salad—Tomato ditto—Celery ditto—A memorable ditto. </blockquote> If Sydney Smith had only possessed the experience of old King Nebuchadnezzar, after he had been “turned out to grass,” the witty prebend might not have waxed quite so enthusiastic on the subject of “herbaceous meat.” Still the subject is a vast and important one, in its connection with gastronomy, and lends itself to poetry far easier than doth the little sucking pig, upon whom Charles Lamb expended so great and unnecessary a wealth of language. But look at the terse, perfunctory, and far from satisfactory manner in which the[Pg 148] Encyclopædia attacks the subject. “Salad,” we read, “is the term given to a preparation of raw herbs for food. It derives its name from the fact that salt is one of the chief ingredients used in dressing a salad.” This statement is not only misleading but startling; for in the “dressing” of a salad it would be the act of a lunatic to make salt the “chief ingredient.” Long before they had learnt the art of dressing the herbs, our ancestors partook of cresses (assorted), celery, and lettuces, after being soaked in water for a considerable period; and they dipped the raw herbs into salt before consuming them. In fact, in many a cheap eating-house of to-day, the term “salad” means plain lettuce, or cress, or possibly both, absolutely undressed—in a state of nature, plus plenty of dirty water. Even the English cook of the end of the nineteenth century cannot rid himself, or herself, of the idea that lettuce, like water-cress, knows the running brook, or the peaceful pond, as its natural element. And thirty years before the end of that century, a salad bowl was absolutely unknown in nine-tenths of the eating-houses of Great Britain. There is no use in blinking the fact that it is to our lively neighbours that we owe the introduction of the salad proper. Often as the writer has been compelled, in these pages, to inveigh against the torturing of good fish and flesh by the alien cook, and the high prices charged for its endowment with an alien flavour, let that writer (figuratively) place a crown of endive, tipped with baby onions, upon the brows[Pg 149] of the philanthropist who dressed the first salad, and gave the recipe to the world. That recipe has, of course, been improved upon; and although the savant who writes in the Encyclopædia proclaims that “salad has always been a favourite food with civilised nations, and has varied very little in its composition,” the accuracy of both statements is open to question. “Every art,” observes another writer, “has its monstrosities; gastronomy has not been behind-hand; and though he must be a bold man who will venture to blaspheme the elegancies of French cookery, there comes a time to every Englishman who may have wandered into a mistaken admiration of sophisticated messes, when he longs for the simple diet of his native land, and vows that the best cookery in the world, and that which satisfies the most refined epicureanism, sets up for its ideal—plainness of good food, and the cultivation of natural tastes.” And yet the French have taught us, or tried to teach us, how to prepare a dish of raw herbs, in the simplest way in the world! “Now a salad,” says the same writer, “is simplicity itself, and here is a marvel—it is the crowning grace of a French dinner, while, on the other hand, it is little understood and villainously treated at English tables.” Ahem! I would qualify that last statement. At some English tables I have tasted salads compared with which the happiest effort of the chef deserves not to be mentioned in the same garlic-laden breath. And “garlic-laden breath” naturally reminds me of the story of Francatelli—of which anecdote I do[Pg 150] not believe one word, by the way. It was said of Franc., whilst chef at the Reform Club, that his salads were such masterpieces, such things of beauty, that one of the members questioned him on the subject. “How do you manage to introduce such a delicious flavour into your salads?” “Ah! that should be my secret,” was the reply. “But I will tell him to you. After I have made all my preparations, and the green food is mixed with the dressing, I chew a little clove of garlic between my teeth—so—and then breathe gently over the whole.” But, as observed before, I do not believe that garlic story. O salad, what monstrosities are perpetrated in thy name! Let the genteel boarding-house cook-maid, the young lady who has studied harmony and the higher mathematics at the Board School, spread herself over the subject; and then invite the angels to inspect the matter, and weep! For this is the sort of “harmony” which the “paying guest,” who can appreciate the advantages of young and musical society, an airy front bed-chamber, and a bicycle room, is expected to enthuse over at the table d’hôte: a mélange of herbs and roots, including water-cress and giant radishes, swimming in equal parts of vinegar and oil, and a large proportion of the water in which the ingredients have been soaking for hours—said ingredients being minced small, like veal collops, with a steel knife. And the same salad, the very identical horror, obtrudes itself on the table at other genteel establishments than boarding-houses.[Pg 151] For they be “mostly fools” who people the civilised world. Let it be laid down as a golden rule, that the concoction of a salad should never, or hardly ever, be entrusted to the tender mercies of the British serving-maid. For the salad-maker, like the poet, is born, not made; and the divine afflatus—I don’t mean garlic—is as essential in the one as in the other. We will take the simple mixture, what is commonly known as the <h4>French Salad,</h4> first. This is either composed, in the matter of herbs, of lettuce, chopped taragon, chervil, and chives; or of endive, with, “lurking in the bowl,” a chapon, or crust of bread on which a clove of garlic has been rubbed. But the waiter, an he be discreet, will ask the customer beforehand if he prefer that the chapon be omitted. The dressing is simplicity itself: <blockquote> Within the bowl of a table-spoon are placed, in succession, a spot of made mustard, and a sprinkling of black pepper and salt. The bowl is filled up with vinegar, and with a fork in the other hand the waiter stirs quickly the mustard, etc., afterwards emptying the contents of the spoon over the green-stuff. Then the spoon is refilled—either twice or thrice, ad lib.—with Lucca oil, which is also poured over the salad. Then the final mixing takes place, in the salad bowl. </blockquote> But there be many and elaborate ways of salad-making. Here is the writer’s idea of a <h4>Lobster Salad</h4> for half-a-dozen guests: [Pg 152] <blockquote> In a soup plate, mix the yolks of two hard-boiled eggs—boiled for thirty minutes, and afterwards thrown into cold water—into a smooth paste with a teaspoonful of made mustard, and a tablespoonful of plain vinegar, added drop by drop. Keep on stirring, and add a dessert-spoonful of tarragon vinegar, a few drops of essence of anchovies, a teaspoonful (not heaped) of salt, about the same quantity of sifted sugar, and a good pinch of cayenne. [The tendency of black pepper is to make a salad gritty, which is an abomination.] Lastly, add, drop by drop, three tablespoonfuls of oil. Pour this dressing (which should be in a continual state of stir) into your salad bowl. Add the pickings of a hen lobster cut into dice, and atop of the lobster, lettuces which have been shred with clean fingers, or with ivory forks; a little endive may be added, with a slice or two of beetroot; but no onion (or very little) in a lobster salad. A few shreds of anchovy may be placed atop; with beetroot cut into shapes, the whites of the eggs, and the coral of the lobster, for the sake of effect; but seek not, O student, to achieve prettiness of effect to the detriment of practical utility. I need hardly add that the sooner after its manufacture a salad is eaten, the better will be its flavour. And the solid ingredients should only be mixed with the dressing at the very last moment; otherwise a sodden, flabby effect will be produced, which is neither pleasing to the eye, nor calculated to promote good digestion. </blockquote> I am perfectly aware that the above is not a strict Mayonnaise dressing, in which the egg yolks should be raw, instead of cooked. But, like the Scotsman, I have “tried baith,” and prefer my own way, which more resembles the sauce Tartare, than the Mayonnaise of our lively[Pg 153] neighbours, who, by the way, merely wipe, instead of wash, their lettuces and endive, to preserve, as they say, the flavour. Of course this is a matter of taste, but the writer must own to a preference for the baptised article, which must, however, on no account be left to soak, but be simply freed from dirt, grit, and—other things. What is the origin of the word “Mayonnaise”? No two Frenchmen will give you the same answer. “Of or belonging to Mayonne” would seem to be the meaning of the word; but then there is no such place as Mayonne in the whole of France. Grimod de la Reyniere maintained that the proper word was “Bayonnaise,” meaning a native of Bayonne, on the Spanish frontier. Afterwards Grimod, who was a resourceful man, got hold of another idea, and said that the word was probably “Mahonnaise,” and so named in honour of Marshal Richelieu’s capture of the stronghold of Mahon, in the island of Minorca. But what had this victory got to do with a salad dressing? What was the connection of raw eggs and tarragon vinegar with Marshal Richelieu? Then up came another cook, in the person of Carême, who established it as an absolute certainty that the genuine word was “Magnonnaise,” from the word “manier,” to manipulate. But as nobody would stand this definition for long, a fresh search had to be made; and this time an old Provençal verb was dug up—mahonner, or more correctly maghonner, to worry or fatigue. And this is now said by purists to be the source of Mayonnaise—“something worried,” or fatigued. And the[Pg 154] reason for the gender of the noun is said to be that in ancient times lovely woman was accustomed to manipulate the salad with her own fair fingers. In the time of Rousseau, the phrase retourner la salade avec les doigts was used to describe a woman as being still young and beautiful; just as in Yorkshire at the present time, “she canna mak’ a bit o’ bread” is used to describe a woman who is of no possible use in the house. So a Mayonnaise or a Mahonnaise—I care not which be the correct spelling—was a young lady who “fatigued” the salad. More shame to the gallants of the day, who allowed “fatigue” to be associated with youth and beauty! But can it possibly matter what the word means, when the mixture is smooth and savoury; and so deftly blended that no one flavour predominates? And herein lies the secret of every mixture used for the refreshment of the inner man and woman; whether it be a soup, a curry, a trifle, a punch, or a cup—no one ingredient should be of more weight or importance than another. And that was the secret of the “delicious gravy” furnished by the celebrated stew at the “Jolly Farmers,” in The Old Curiosity Shop of Charles Dickens. Mayonnaise (we will drop for the nonce, the other spelling) is made thus: <blockquote> In the proportions of two egg yolks to half a pint of Lucca oil, and a small wine-glassful of tarragon vinegar. Work the yolks smooth in a basin, with a seasoning of pepper (cayenne for choice), salt, and—according to the writer’s views—sifted sugar. Then a few drops of oil, and fewer of vinegar;[Pg 155] stirring the mixture all the time, from right to left, with a wooden, or ivory, spoon. In good truth ’tis a “fatiguing” task; and as in very hot weather the sauce is liable to decompose, or “curdle,” before the finishing touches are put to it, it may be made over ice. </blockquote> <div style="margin-left:25%"> <div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> “Stir, sisters, stir, Stir with care!” </div> </div></div> is the motto for the Mayonnaise-mixer. And in many cases her only reward consists in the knowledge that through her art and patience she has helped to make the sojourn of others in this vale of tears less tearful and monotonous. “Onion atoms” should “lurk within the bowl,” on nearly every occasion, and as for a potato salad—don’t be afraid, I’m not going to quote any more Sydney Smith, so don’t get loading your guns—well, here is the proper way to make it. <h4>Potato Salad.</h4> <blockquote> Cut nine or ten average-sized kidney potatoes (cooked) into slices, half an inch thick, put them in a salad bowl, and pour over them, after mixing, two tablespoonfuls of vinegar, one tablespoonful of tarragon vinegar, six tablespoonfuls of oil, one of minced parsley, a dessert-spoonful of onions chopped very fine, with cayenne and salt to taste. Shredded anchovies may be added, although it is preferable without; and this salad should be made a couple of hours or so before partaken of. </blockquote> The German recipe for a potato salad is too nasty to quote; and their Herring Salad, although said to be a valuable restorative of nerve[Pg 156] power, by no means presents an attractive appearance, when served at table. Far more to the mind and palate of the average epicure is a <h4>Tomato Salad.</h4> This is the author’s recipe: <blockquote> Four large tomatoes and one Spanish onion, cut into thin slices. Mix a spot of mustard, a little white pepper and salt, with vinegar, in a table-spoon, pour it over the love apples, etc., and then add two tablespoonfuls of oil. Mix well, and then sprinkle over the mixture a few drops of Lea and Perrins’s Worcester Sauce. For the fair sex, the last part of the programme may be omitted, but on no account leave out the breath of sunny Spain. And mark this well. The man, or woman, who mixes tomatoes with lettuces, or endives, in the bowl, is hereby sentenced to translate the whole of this book into Court English. </blockquote> <h4>Celery Salad.</h4> <blockquote> An excellent winter salad is made with beetroot and celery, cut in thin slices, and served—with or without onions—either with a mayonnaise sauce, or with a plain cream sauce: to every tablespoonful of cream add a teaspoonful of tarragon vinegar, a little sugar, and a suspicion of cayenne. This salad looks best served in alternate slices of beet and celery, on a flat silver dish, around the sauce. </blockquote> <h4>A Gentleman Salad Maker.</h4> Although in the metropolis it is still customary, in middle-class households, to hire “outside help” on the occasion of a dinner-party, we have[Pg 157] not heard for some time of a salad-dresser who makes house-to-house visitations in the exercise of his profession. But, at the end of the 18th century, the Chevalier d’Allignac, who had escaped from Paris to London in the evil days of the Revolution, made a fortune in this way. He was paid at the rate of £5 a salad, and naturally, soon started his own carriage, “in order that he might pass quickly from house to house, during the dining hours of the aristocracy.” High as the fee may appear to be, it is impossible to measure the width of the gulf which lies between the salad as made by a lover of the art, and the kitchen-wench; and a perfect salad is, like a perfect curry, “far above rubies.” <h4>A Memorable Salad</h4> was once served in my own mansion. The chef, who understood these matters well, when her hair was free from vine leaves, had been celebrating her birthday or some other festival; and had mixed the dressing with Colza oil. Her funeral was largely attended. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 158] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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