Cakes & Ale, A Dissertation on Banquets Interspersed with Various Recipes, More or Less Original, and anecdotes, mainly veracious
<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</SPAN></h2>
<h3>SALADS AND CONDIMENTS</h3>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="stanza"> <b> <span style="margin-left:3em">“Epicurean cooks<br/>
</span> Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite.”</b> </div>
</div>
<blockquote>
<p>Roman salad—Italian ditto—Various other salads—Sauce for
cold mutton—Chutnine—Raw chutnee—Horse-radish sauce—Christopher
North’s sauce—How to serve a mackerel—<i>Sauce
Tartare</i>—Ditto for sucking pig—Delights of making <i>Sambal</i>—A new language.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>It has, I hope, been made sufficiently clear that
neither water-cress nor radishes should figure in a
dressed salad; from the which I would also exclude
such “small deer” as mustard and cress. There
is, however, no black mark against the narrow-leaved <span class="smcap">Corn Salad</span> plant, or “lamb’s lettuce”;
and its great advantage is that it can be grown
almost anywhere during the winter months, when
lettuces have to be “coddled,” and thereby robbed
of most of their flavour.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Instead of yolk of egg, in a dressing, cheese may
be used, with good results, either cream cheese—<i>not</i> the poor stuff made on straws, but what are known as
“napkin,” or “New Forest” cheeses—or Cheddar.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</SPAN></span> Squash it well up with oil and vinegar, and do not
use too much. A piece of cheese the size of an
average lump of sugar will be ample, and will lend
a most agreeable flavour to the mixture.</p>
</blockquote>
<h4><i>Roman Salad</i></h4>
<p>Lucullus and Co.—or rather their cooks—had
much to learn in the preparation of the
“herbaceous meat” which delighted Sydney
Smith. The Romans cultivated endive; this
was washed free from “matter in the wrong
place,” chopped small—absolutely fatal to the
taste—anointed with oil and <i>liquamen</i>, topped up
with chopped onions, and further ornamented
with honey and vinegar. But before finding
fault with the conquerors of the world for mixing
honey with a salad, it should be remembered that
they knew not “fine Demerara,” nor “best lump,”
nor even the beet sugar which can be made at
home. Still I should not set a Roman salad
before my creditors, if I wanted them to have
“patience.” An offer of the very smallest dividend
would be preferable.</p>
<h4><i>Italian Salad.</i></h4>
<p>The merry Italian has improved considerably
upon the herbaceous treat (I rather prefer “treat”
to “meat”) of his ancestors; though he is far
too fond of mixing flesh-meat of all sorts with his
dressed herbs, and his boiled vegetables. Two
cold potatoes and half a medium sized beet sliced,
mixed with boiled celery and Brussels sprouts,
form a common salad in the sunny South; the
dressing being usually oil and vinegar, occasionally<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</SPAN></span> oil <i>seule</i>, and sometimes a <i>Tartare</i> sauce. Stoned
olives are usually placed atop of the mess, which
includes fragments of chicken, or veal and ham.</p>
<h4><i>Russian Salad.</i></h4>
<p>This is a difficult task to build up; for a sort
of Cleopatra’s Needle, or pyramid, of cooked
vegetables, herbs, pickles, etc., has to be erected
on a flat dish. Carrots, turnips, green peas,
asparagus, French beans, beetroot, capers, pickled
cucumbers, and horse-radish, form the solid
matter of which the pyramid is built.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Lay a <i>stratum</i> on the dish, and anoint the <i>stratum</i> with <i>Tartare</i> sauce. Each layer must be similarly
anointed, and must be of less circumference than the
one underneath, till the top layer consists of one
caper. Garnish with bombs of caviare, sliced lemon,
crayfish, olives, and salted cucumber; and then give
the salad to the policeman on fixed-point duty. At
least, if you take my advice.</p>
</blockquote>
<h4><i>Anchovy Salad.</i></h4>
<p>This is usually eaten at the commencement
of dinner, as a <i>hors d’œuvre</i>.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Some shreds of anchovy should be arranged
“criss-cross” in a flat glass dish. Surround it with
small heaps of chopped truffles, yolk and white of
hard-boiled eggs, capers, and a stoned olive or two.
Mix all the ingredients together with a little Chili
vinegar, and twice the quantity of oil.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The mixture is said to be invaluable as an
appetiser; but the modest oyster on the <i>deep
shell</i>—if he has not been fattened at the bolt-hole
of the main sewer—is to be preferred.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Cooked vegetables, for salad purposes, are not,
nor will they ever be, popular in England, Nine
out of ten Britains will eat the “one sauce”
with asparagus, in preference to the oiled butter,
or plain salad dressing, of mustard, vinegar,
pepper, salt, and oil; whilst ’tis almost hopeless
to attempt to dissuade madame the cook from
smothering her cauliflowers with liquefied paste,
before sending them to table. Many a wild weed
which foreign nations snatch greedily from the
soil, prior to dressing it, is passed by with scorn
by our islanders, including the dandelion, which
is a favourite of our lively neighbours, for salad
purposes, and is doubtless highly beneficial to the
human liver. So is the cauliflower; and an
eminent medical authority once gave out that the
man who ate a parboiled cauliflower, as a salad,
every other day, need never send for a doctor.
Which sounds rather like fouling his own nest.</p>
<h4><i>Fruit Salad.</i></h4>
<p>This is simply a French <i>compôte</i> of cherries,
green almonds, pears, limes, peaches, apricots in
syrup slightly flavoured with ginger; and goes
excellent well with any cold brown game. Try it.</p>
<h4><i>Orange Salad.</i></h4>
<blockquote>
<p>Peel your orange, and cut it into thin slices.
Arrange these in a glass dish, and sugar them well.
Then pour over them a glass of sherry, a glass of
brandy, and a glass of maraschino.</p>
</blockquote>
<h4><i>Orange Sauce.</i></h4>
<p>Cold mutton, according to my notions, is<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</SPAN></span> “absolutely beastly,” to the palate. More happy
homes have been broken up by this simple dish
than by the entire army of Europe. And ’tis
a dish which should never be allowed to wander
outside the servants’ hall. The superior domestics
who take their meals in the steward’s room, would
certainly rise in a body, and protest against the
indignity of a cold leg, or shoulder. As for a
cold loin—but the idea is too awful. Still,
brightened up by the following condiment, cold
mutton will go down smoothly, and even gratefully:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Rub off the thin yellow rind of two oranges on
four lumps of sugar. Put these into a bowl, and
pour in a wine-glass of port, a quarter pint of dissolved
red-currant jelly, a teaspoonful of mixed
mustard—don’t be frightened, it’s all right—a finely-minced
shallot, a pinch of cayenne, and some more
thin orange rind. Mix well. When heated up,
strain and bottle off.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>But amateur sauces should, on the whole, be
discouraged. The writer has tasted dozens of
imitations of Lea and Perrins’s “inimitable,” and
it is still inimitable, and unapproachable. It is the
same with chutnee. You can get anything in
that line you want at Stembridge’s, close to
Leicester Square, to whom the writer is indebted
for some valuable hints. But here is a recipe
for a mixture of chutnee and pickle, which must
have been written a long time ago; for the two
operations are transposed. For instance, <i>the
onions should be dealt with first</i>.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</SPAN></span></p>
<h4><i>Chutnine.</i></h4>
<blockquote>
<p>Ten or twelve large apples, peeled and cored, put
in an earthenware jar, with a little vinegar (on no
account use water) in the oven. Let them remain
till in a pulp, then take out, and add half an ounce
of curry powder, one ounce of ground ginger, half a
pound of stoned raisins, chopped fine, half a pound
moist sugar, one teaspoonful cayenne pepper, one
tablespoonful salt. Take four large onions (<i>this
should be done first</i>), chop very fine, and put them in
a jar with a pint and a half of vinegar. Cork tightly
and let them remain a week. Then add the rest
of the ingredients, after mixing them well together.
Cork tightly, and the chutnine will be ready for
use in a month. It improves, however, by keeping
for a year or so.</p>
</blockquote>
<h4><i>Raw Chutnee</i></h4>
<p>is another aid to the consumption of cold meat,
and I have also seen it used as an accompaniment
to curry, but do not recommend the
mixture.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>One large tomato, one smaller Spanish onion, one
green chili, and a squeeze of lemon juice. Pulp
the tomato; don’t try to extract the seeds, for life
is too short for that operation. Chop the onion and
the chili very fine, and mix the lot up with a pinch
of salt, and the same quantity of sifted sugar.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I know plenty of men who would break up
their homes (after serving the furniture in the
same way) and emigrate; who would go on
strike, were roast beef to be served at the dinner-table
unaccompanied by horse-radish sauce. But
this is a relish for the national dish which is
frequently overlooked.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</SPAN></span></p>
<h4><i>Horse-radish Sauce.</i></h4>
<p>Grate a young root as fine as you can. It is
perhaps needless to add that the fresher the horse-radish
the better. No vegetables taste as well
as those grown in your own garden, and gathered,
or dug up, just before wanted. And the horse-radish,
like the Jerusalem artichoke, comes to
stay. When once he gets a footing in your
garden you will never dislodge him; nor will
you want to. Very well, then:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Having grated your horse, add a quarter of a pint
of cream—English or Devonshire—a dessert-spoonful
of sifted sugar, half that quantity of salt, and a tablespoonful
of vinegar. Mix all together, and, if for
hot meat, heat in the oven, taking care that the
mixture does not curdle. Many people use oil
instead of cream, and mix grated orange rind with
the sauce. The Germans do not use oil, but either
make the relish with cream, or hard-boiled yolk of
egg. Horse-radish sauce for hot meat may also be
heated by pouring it into a jar, and standing the
jar in boiling water—“jugging it” in fact.</p>
</blockquote>
<h4><i>Celery Sauce</i>,</h4>
<p>for boiled pheasant, or turkey, is made thus:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Two or three heads of celery, sliced thin, put
into a saucepan with equal quantities of sugar and
salt, a dust of white pepper, and two or three ounces
of butter. Stew your celery slowly till it becomes
pulpy, but <i>not brown</i>, add two or three ounces of flour,
and a good half-pint of milk, or cream. Let it
simmer twenty minutes, and then rub the mixture
through a sieve.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>The carp as an item of food is, according to
my ideas, a fraud. He tastes principally of the
mud in which he has been wallowing until
dragged out by the angler. The ancients loved
a dish of carp, and yet they knew not the only
sauce to make him at all palatable.</p>
<h4><i>Sauce for Carp.</i></h4>
<blockquote>
<p>One ounce of butter, a quarter pint of good beef
gravy, one dessert-spoonful of flour, a quarter pint
of cream and two anchovies chopped very small.
Mix over the fire, stir well till boiling, then take off,
add a little Worcester sauce, and a squeeze of lemon,
just before serving.</p>
</blockquote>
<h4><i>Christopher North’s Sauce.</i></h4>
<blockquote>
<p>This is a very old recipe. Put a dessert-spoonful
of sifted sugar, a salt-spoonful of salt, and rather
more than that quantity of cayenne, into a jar. Mix
thoroughly, and add, gradually, two tablespoonfuls of
Harvey’s sauce, a dessert-spoonful of mushroom
ketchup, a tablespoonful of lemon juice, and a large
glass of port. Place the jar in a saucepan of boiling
water, and let it remain till the mixture is very hot,
but not boiling. If bottled directly after made, the
sauce will keep for a week, and may be used for
duck, goose, pork, or (Christopher adds) “any broil.”
But there is but <i>one</i> broil sauce, the <span class="smcap">Gubbins Sauce</span>,
already mentioned in this work.</p>
</blockquote>
<h4><i>Sauce for Hare.</i></h4>
<p>What a piece of work is a hare! And what
a piece of work it is to cook him in a laudable
fashion!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</SPAN></span></p>
<blockquote>
<p>Crumble some bread—a handful or so—soak it
in port wine, heat over the fire with a small lump
of butter, a tablespoonful of red-currant jelly, a
little salt, and a tablespoonful of Chili vinegar.
Serve as hot as possible.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Mackerel is a fish but seldom seen at the tables
of the great. And yet ’tis tasty eating, if his
Joseph’s coat be bright and shining when you
purchase him. When stale he is dangerous to
life itself. And he prefers to gratify the human
palate when accompanied by</p>
<h4><i>Gooseberry Sauce</i>,</h4>
<blockquote>
<p>which is made by simply boiling a few green gooseberries,
rubbing them through a sieve, and adding a
little butter and a suspicion of ginger. Then heat
up. “A wine-glassful of sorrel or spinach-juice,”
observes one authority, “is a decided improvement.”
H’m. I’ve tried both, and prefer the gooseberries
unadorned with spinach liquor.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Now for a sauce which is deservedly popular
all over the world, and which is equally at home
as a salad dressing, as a covering for a steak off a
fresh-run salmon, or a portion of fried eel; the
luscious, the invigorating</p>
<h4><i>Sauce Tartare</i>,</h4>
<p>so called because no tallow-eating Tartar was
ever known to taste thereof. I have already
given a pretty good recipe for its manufacture,
in previous salad-dressing instructions, where the
yolks of hard-boiled eggs are used. But chopped
chervil, shallots, and (occasionally) gherkins, are
added to the <i>Tartare</i> arrangement; and frequently<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</SPAN></span> the surface is adorned with capers, stoned olives,
and shredded anchovies.</p>
<p>In the chapters devoted to dinners, no mention
has been made of the sucking pig, beloved of
Charles Lamb.<SPAN name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</SPAN> This hardened offender should
be devoured with</p>
<h4><i>Currant Sauce</i>:</h4>
<blockquote>
<p>Boil an ounce of currants, after washing them
and picking out the tacks, dead flies, etc., in half a
pint of water, for a few minutes, and pour over
them a cupful of finely grated crumbs. Let them
soak well, then beat up with a fork, and stir in about
a gill of oiled butter. Add two tablespoonfuls of the
brown gravy made for the pig, a glass of port, and a
pinch of salt. Stir the sauce well over the fire. It
is also occasionally served with roast venison; but
not in the mansions of my friends.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>What is sauce for Madame Goose is said to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</SPAN></span> be sauce for Old Man Gander. Never mind
about that, however. The parents of young
Master Goose, with whom alone I am going to
deal, have, like the flowers which bloom in the
spring, absolutely nothing to do with the case.
This is the best</p>
<h4><i>Sauce for the Goose</i></h4>
<p>known to civilisation:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Put two ounces of green sage leaves into a jar with
an ounce of the thin yellow rind of a lemon, a
minced shallot, a teaspoonful of salt, half a ditto of
cayenne, and a pint of claret. Let this soak for a
fortnight, then pour off the liquid into a tureen;
or boil with some good gravy. This sauce will keep
for a week or two, bottled and well corked up.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>And now, having given directions for the
manufacture of sundry “cloyless sauces”—with
only one of the number having any connection
with <i>Ala</i>, and that one a sauce of world-wide
reputation, I will conclude this chapter with a
little fancy work. It is not probable that many
who do me the honour to skim through these
humble, faultily-written, but heartfelt gastronomic
hints are personally acquainted with the cloyless</p>
<h4><i>Sambal</i>,</h4>
<p>who is a lady of dusky origin. But let us quit
metaphor, and direct the gardener to</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Cut the finest and straightest cucumber in his
crystal palace. Cut both ends off, and divide the
remainder into two-inch lengths. Peel these, and
let them repose in salt to draw out the water, which<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</SPAN></span> is the indigestible part of the cucumber. Then
take each length, in succession, and with a very
sharp knife—a penknife is best for the purpose—pare
it from surface to centre, until it has become
one long, curly shred. Curl it up tight, so that it
may resemble in form the spring of a Waterbury
watch. Cut the length through from end to end,
until you have made numerous long thin shreds.
Treat each length in the same way, and place in a
glass dish. Add three green chilies, chopped fine,
a few chopped spring onions, and some tiny shreds
of the Blue Fish of Java. Having performed a fishless
pilgrimage in search of this curiosity, you will
naturally fall back upon the common or Italian
anchovy, which, after extracting the brine and bones,
and cleansing, chop fine. Pour a little vinegar over
the mixture.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Sambal” will be found a delicious accompaniment
to curry—when served on a salad plate—or
to almost any description of cold meat and
cheese. It is only fair to add, however, that the
task of making the relish is arduous and exasperating
to a degree; and that the woman who
makes it—no male Christian in the world is
possessed of a tithe of the necessary patience,
now that Job and Robert Bruce are no more—should
have the apartment to herself. For the
labour is calculated to teach an entirely new
language to the manufacturer.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</SPAN></span></p>
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