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

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<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> <h3>SUPPER (continued)</h3> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="stanza"> “To feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it.” </div> </div> <blockquote> Old supper-houses—The Early Closing Act—Evans’s—Cremorne Gardens—The “Albion”—Parlour cookery—Kidneys fried in the fire-shovel—The true way to grill a bone—“Cannie Carle”—My lady’s bower—Kidney dumplings—A Middleham supper—Steaks cut from a colt by brother to “Strafford” out of sister to “Bird on the Wing.” </blockquote> The Early Closing Act of 1872 had a disastrous effect upon the old London supper-houses. What Mr. John Hollingshead never tired of calling the “slap-me-and-put-me-to-bed law” rang the knell of many a licensed tavern, well-conducted, where plain, well-cooked food and sound liquor were to be obtained by men who would have astonished their respective couches had they sought them before the small hours. <h4>Evans’s.</h4> The “Cave of Harmony” of Thackeray was a different place to the “Evans’s” of my youthful[Pg 182] days. Like the younger Newcome, I was taken there in the first instance, by the author of my being. But Captain Costigan was conspicuous by his absence; and “Sam Hall” was non est. I noted well the abnormal size of the broiled kidneys, and in my ignorance of anatomy, imagined that Evans’s sheep must be subjected to somewhat the same process—the “ordeal by fire”—as the Strasbourg geese. And the potatoes—zounds, sirs! What potatoes! “Shall I turn it out, sir?” inquired the attentive waiter; and, as he seized the tuber, enveloped in the snow-white napkin, broke it in two, and ejected a floury pyramid upon my plate, I would, had I known of such a decoration in those days, have gladly recommended that attendant for the Distinguished Service order. In the course of many visits I never saw any supper commodity served here besides chops, steaks, kidneys, welsh-rarebits, poached eggs, and (I think) sausages; and the earliest impression made upon a youthful memory was the air of extreme confidence which pervaded the place. We certainly “remembered” the waiter; but not even a potato was paid for until we encountered the head functionary at the exit door; and his peculiar ideas of arithmetic would have given Bishop Colenso a succession of fits. Who “Evans” was, we neither knew nor cared. “Paddy” Green, with his chronic smile, was enough for us; as he proffered his ever-ready snuff-box, inquired after our relatives—“Paddy,” like “Spanky” at Eton, knew everybody—and implored silence whilst the quintette Integer Vitæ was being sung by the choir. We[Pg 183] used to venerate that quintette far more than any music we ever heard in church, and I am certain “Paddy” Green would have backed his little pack of choristers—who, according to the general belief, passed the hours of daylight in waking the echoes of St. Paul’s Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, and therefore, at Evans’s, always looked a bit stale and sleepy—against any choir in the world. As for Harry Sidney, the fat, jolly-looking gentleman who was wont to string together the topics of the day and reproduce them, fresh as rolls, set to music, we could never hear enough of him; and I wish I had now some of the half-crowns which in the past were bestowed upon Herr Von Joel, the indifferent siffleur, who was “permanently retained upon the premises,” and who was always going to take a benefit the following week. “Kidneys and ’armony”—that was the old programme in the “Cave.” And then the march of time killed poor old Paddy, and another management reigned. Gradually the “lady element” was introduced, and a portion of the hall was set apart for the mixed assembly. And then came trouble, and, finally, disestablishment. And for some time before the closing of the Cave as a place of entertainment, it was customary to remove the fine old pictures (what became of them, I wonder), from the walls, at “Varsity Boat Race” time. For the undergraduate of those days was nothing if not rowdy. Youth will have its fling; and at Evans’s the fling took the form of tumblers. Well do I recollect a fight in “the old style” in the very part of the “Cave” where[Pg 184] eminent barristers, actors, and other wits of a past age, used to congregate. The premier boxer of Cambridge University had been exercising his undoubted talents as a breaker of glass, during the evening, and at length the overwrought manager obliged him with an opponent worthy of his fists in the person of a waiter who could also put up his fists. Several rounds were fought, strictly according to the rules of the Prize Ring, and in the result, whilst the waiter had sustained considerable damage to his ribs, the “Cambridge gent” had two very fine black eyes. Well do I remember that “mill,” also the waiter, who afterwards became an habitual follower of the turf. If Cremorne introduced the fashion of “long drinks,” sodas, and et ceteras, the suppers served in the old gardens had not much to recommend them. A slice or two of cold beef, or a leg of a chicken, with some particularly salt ham, formed the average fare; but those who possessed their souls with patience occasionally saw something hot, in the way of food—chiefly cutlets. The great virtue of the cutlet is that it can be reheated; and one dish not infrequently did duty for more than one party. The rejected portion, in fact, would “reappear” as often as a retiring actor. “I know them salmon cutlets,” the waiter in Pink Dominoes used to observe, “as well as I know my own mother!” In fact, Cremorne, like the “night houses” of old, was not an ideal place to sup at. But, per contra, the “Albion” was. Until the enforcement of the “slap-me-and-put-me-to-bed”[Pg 185] policy there was no more justly celebrated house of entertainment than the one which almost faced the stage door of Drury Lane theatre, in Great Russell Street. One of the brothers Cooper—another kept the Rainbow in Fleet Street—retired on a fortune made here, simply by pursuing the policy of giving his customers the best of everything. And a rare, Bohemian stamp of customers he had, too—a nice, large-hearted, open-handed lot of actors, successful and otherwise, dramatic critics ditto, and ditto journalists, also variegated in degree; with the usual, necessary, leavening of the “City” element. The custom of the fair sex was not encouraged at the old tavern; though in a room on the first floor they were permitted to sup, if in “the profession” and accompanied by males, whose manners and customs could be vouched for. In winter time, assorted grills, of fish, flesh, and fowl, were served as supper dishes; whilst tripe was the staple food. Welsh rarebits, too, were in immense demand. And I think it was here that I devoured, with no fear of the future before my plate, a <h4>Buck Rarebit.</h4> During the silent watches of the rest of the morning, bile and dyspepsia fought heroically for my soul; and yet the little animal is easy enough to prepare, being nothing grander than a Welsh rarebit, with a poached egg atop. But the little tins (silver, like the forks and spoons, until the greed and forgetfulness of mankind necessitated the substitution of electro-plate) which the Hebes[Pg 186] at the “Old Cheshire Cheese” fill with fragments of the hostelry’s godfather—subsequently to be stewed in good old ale—are less harmful to the interior of the human diaphragm. A favourite Albion supper-dish during the summer months was <h4>Lamb’s Head and Mince.</h4> I have preserved the recipe, a gift from one of the waiters—but whether Ponsford, Taylor, or “Shakespeare” (so-called because he bore not the faintest resemblance to the immortal bard) I forget—and here it is: <blockquote> The head should be scalded, scraped, and well washed. Don’t have it singed, in the Scottish fashion, as lamb’s wool is not nice to eat. Then put it, with the liver (the sweetbread was chopped up with the brain, I fancy), into a stewpan, with a Spanish onion stuck with cloves, a bunch of parsley, a little thyme, a carrot, a turnip, a bay leaf, some crushed peppercorns, a tablespoonful of salt, and half a gallon of cold water. Let it boil up, skim, and then simmer for an hour. Divide the head, take out the tongue and brain, and dry the rest of the head in a cloth. Mince the liver and tongue, season with salt and pepper, and simmer in the original gravy (thickened) for half-an-hour. Brush the two head-halves with yolk of egg, grate bread crumbs over, and bake in oven. The brain and sweetbread to be chopped and made into cakes, fried, and then placed in the dish around the head-halves. </blockquote> Ah me! The old tavern, after falling into bad ways, entertaining “extra-ladies” and ruined gamesters, has been closed for years.[Pg 187] The ground floor was a potato warehouse the last time I passed the place. And it should be mentioned that the actors, journalists, etc., who, in the ’seventies, possessed smaller means, or more modest ambitions, were in the habit of supping—on supping days—at a cheaper haunt in the Strand, off (alleged) roast goose. But, according to one Joseph Eldred, a comedian of some note and shirt-cuff, the meat which was apportioned to us here was, in reality, always bullock’s heart, sliced, and with a liberal allowance of sage and onions. “It’s the seasoning as does it,” observed Mr. Samuel Weller. Then there was another Bohemian house of call, and supper place, in those nights—the “Occidental,” once known as the “Coal Hole,” where, around a large, beautifully polished mahogany table, many of the wits of the town—“Harry” Leigh and “Tom” Purnell were two of the inveterates—sat, and devoured Welsh rarebits, and other things. The house, too, could accommodate not a few lodgers; and one of its great charms was that nobody cared a button what time you retired to your couch, or what time you ordered breakfast. In these matters, the Occidental resembled the “Limmer’s” of the “Billy Duff” era, and the “Lane’s” of my own dear subaltern days. <h4>Parlour Cookery.</h4> It was after the last-named days that, whilst on tour with various dramatic combinations—more from necessity than art, as far as I was concerned—that the first principles of parlour[Pg 188] cookery became impregnated in mine understanding. We were not all “stars,” although we did our best. Salaries were (according to the advertisements) “low but sure”; and (according to experiences) by no means as sure as death, or taxes. The “spectre” did not invariably assume his “martial stalk,” of a Saturday; and cheap provincial lodgings do not hold out any extra inducement in the way of cookery. So, whilst we endured the efforts of the good landlady at the early dinner, some of us determined to dish up our own suppers. For the true artist never really feels (or never used to feel, at all events) like “picking a bit” until merely commercial folks have gone to bed. Many a time and oft, with the aid of a cigar box (empty, of course), a couple of books, and an arrangement of plates, have I prepared a savoury supper of mushrooms, toasted cheese, or a kebob of larks, or other small fowl, in front of the fire. More than once have I received notice to quit the next morning for grilling kidneys on the perforated portion of a handsome and costly steel fire-shovel. And by the time I had become sufficiently advanced in culinary science to stew tripe and onions, in an enamel-lined saucepan, the property of the “responsible gent,” we began to give ourselves airs. Landladies’ ideas on the subject of supper for “theatricals,” it may be mentioned, seldom soared above yeast dumplings. And few of us liked the name, even, of yeast dumplings. But perhaps the champion effort of all was when I was sojourning in the good city of[Pg 189] Carlisle—known to its inhabitants by the pet name of “Cannie Carle.” A good lady was, for her sins, providing us with board and lodging, in return for (promised) cash. My then companion was a merry youth who afterwards achieved fame by writing the very funniest and one of the most successful of three-act farces that was ever placed upon the stage. Now there is not much the matter with a good joint of ribs of beef, roasted to a turn. But when that beef is placed on the table hot for the Sunday dinner, and cold at every succeeding meal until finished up, one’s appetite for the flesh of the ox begins to slacken. So we determined on the Wednesday night to “strike” for a tripe supper. “Indeed,” protested the good landlady, “ye’ll get nae tripe in this hoose, cannie men. Hae ye no’ got guid beef, the noo?” Late that night we had grilled bones for supper; not the ordinary <h4>Grilled Bones</h4> which you get in an eating house, but a vastly superior article. We, or rather my messmate, cut a rib from off the aforementioned beef, scored the flesh across, and placed the bone in the centre of a beautifully clear fire which had been specially prepared. It was placed there by means of the tongs—a weapon of inestimable value in Parlour Cookery—and withdrawn by the same medium. Some of the black wanted scraping off the surface of the meat, but the grill was a perfect dream. The Gubbins Sauce, already mentioned in this volume, had not at that time been invented; but[Pg 190] as I was never without a bottle of Tapp Sauce—invaluable for Parlour Cookery; you can get it at Stembridge’s—we had plenty of relish. Then we severed another rib from the carcase, and served it in the same manner. For it was winter time and we had wearied of frigid ox. Next morning the landlady’s face was a study. I rather think that after some conversation, we propitiated her with an order for two for the dress circle; but it is certain that we had tripe that evening. An ideal supper in miladi’s boudoir is associated, in the writer’s mind, with rose-coloured draperies, dainty china, a cosy fire, a liberal display of lingerie, a strong perfume of heliotrope and orris root—and miladi herself. When next she invites her friends, she will kindly order the following repast to be spread:— Clear soup, in cups. Fillets of soles Parisienne. Chaudfroid of Quails. Barded sweetbreads. Perigord pâté. By way of contrast, let me quote a typical supper-dish which the “poor player” used to order, when he could afford it. <h4>Kidney Dumpling.</h4> <blockquote> Cut a large Spanish onion in half. Take out the heart, and substitute a sheep’s kidney, cut into four. Season with salt and pepper, join the two halves, and enclose in a paste. Bake on a buttered tin, in a moderate oven, for about an hour. N.B.—Be sure the cook bakes this dumpling, as it is not nice boiled. </blockquote> [Pg 191] An artistic friend who at one time of his life resided near the great horse-training centre of Middleham, in Yorkshire, gave a steak supper at the principal inn, to some of the stable attendants. The fare was highly approved of. “Best Scotch beef I ever put tooth into!” observed the “head lad” at old Tom Lawson’s stables. “Ah!” returned the host, who was a bit of a wag, “your beef was cut from a colt of Lord Glasgow’s that was thought highly of at one time; and he was shot the day before yesterday.” And it was so. For Lord Glasgow never sold nor gave away a horse, but had all his “failures” shot. And then a great cry went up for brown brandy. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 192] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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