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

<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> <h3>COMPOUND DRINKS</h3> <div class="poetry-container"> <div class="stanza"> “Flow wine! Smile woman! And the universe is consoled.” </div> </div> <blockquote> Derivation of punch—“Five”—The “milk” brand—The best materials—Various other punches—Bischoff or Bishop—“Halo” punch—Toddy—The toddy tree of India—Flip—A “peg”—John Collins—Out of the guard-room. </blockquote> The subject of Punch is such an important one that it may be placed first on the list of dainty beverages which can be made by the art or application of man or woman. First, let us take the origin of the word. Doctor Kitchener, an acknowledged authority, during his lifetime, on all matters connected with eating and drinking, has laid it down that punch is of West Indian origin, and that the word when translated, means “five”; because there be five ingredients necessary in the concoction of the beverage. But Doctor Kitchener and his disciples (of whom there be many) may go to the bottom of the cookery class; for although from the large connection which rum and limes have[Pg 207] with the mixture, there would seem to be a West Indian flavour about it; the word “five,” when translated into West Indianese, is nothing like “punch.” Having satisfied themselves that this is a fact, modern authorities have tried the East Indies for the source of the name, and have discovered that panch in Hindustani really does mean “five.” “Therefore,” says one modern authority, “it is named punch from the five ingredients which compose it—(1) spirit, (2) acid, (3) spice, (4) sugar, (5) water.” Another modern authority calls punch “a beverage introduced into England from India, and so called from being usually made of five (Hindi, panch) ingredients—arrack, tea, sugar, water, and lemon juice.” This sounds far more like an East Indian concoction than the other; but at the same time punch—during the latter half of the nineteenth century at all events—was as rare a drink in Hindustan as bhang in Great Britain. The panch theory is an ingenious one, but there are plenty of other combinations (both liquid and solid) of five to which the word punch is never applied; and about the last beverage recommended by the faculty for the consumption of the sojourner in the land of the Great Mogul, would, I should think, be the entrancing, seductive one which we Britons know under the name of punch. Moreover it is not every punch-concoctor who uses five ingredients. In the minds of some—youthful members of the Stock Exchange, for the most part—water is an altogether unnecessary addition to the alcoholic mixture which is known by the above name. And what manner of man would add spice to[Pg 208] that delight of old Ireland, “a jug o’ punch?” On the other hand, in many recipes, there are more than five ingredients used. But after all, the origin of the name is of but secondary importance, as long as you can make punch. Therefore, we will commence with a few recipes for <h4>Milk Punch.</h4> <blockquote> 1. Three bottles of rum. The most delicately-flavoured rum is the “Liquid Sunshine” brand. One bottle of sherry. 13 lbs of loaf-sugar. The rind of six lemons, and the juice of twelve. One quart of boiling skimmed milk. Mix together, let the mixture stand eight days, stirring it each day. Strain and bottle, and let it stand three months. Then re-bottle, and let the bottles lie on their sides in the cellar for two years, to mature. The flavour will be much better than if drunk after the first period of three months. </blockquote> It is not everybody, however, who would care to wait two years, three months, and eight days for the result of his efforts in punch-making. Therefore another recipe may be appended; and in this one no “close time” is laid down for the consumption of the mixture. <blockquote> 2. Put into a bottle of rum or brandy the thinly-pared rinds of three Seville oranges, and three lemons. Cork tightly for two days. Rub off on 2 lbs of lump sugar the rinds of six lemons, squeeze the juice from the whole of the fruit over the 2 lbs of sugar, add three quarts of boiling water, one of boiling milk, half a teaspoonful of nutmeg, and mix all thoroughly[Pg 209] well together until the sugar is dissolved. Pour in the rum or brandy, stir, and strain till clear; bottle closely. </blockquote> There is more than one objection to this recipe. (1) Rum, and not brandy (by itself), should be used for milk punch. (2) There is an “intolerable amount” of water; and (3) the nutmeg had better remain in the spice-box. <blockquote> 3. Cut off the thin yellow rind of four lemons and a Seville orange, taking care not to include even a fragment of the white rind, and place in a basin. Pour in one pint of Jamaica rum, and let it stand, covered over, twelve hours. Then strain, and mix with it one pint of lemon juice, and two pints of cold water, in which one pound of sugar-candy has been dissolved; add the whites of two eggs, beaten to a froth, three pints more of rum, one pint of madeira, one pint of strong green tea, and a large wine-glassful of maraschino. Mix thoroughly, and pour over all one pint of boiling milk. Let the punch stand a little while, then strain through a jelly-bag, and either use at once, or bottle off. </blockquote> Here let it be added, lest the precept be forgotten, that the <h4>Very best Materials</h4> are absolutely necessary for the manufacture of punch, as of other compound drinks. In the above recipe for instance by “madeira,” is meant “Rare Old East Indian,” and not marsala, which wine, in French kitchens, is invariably used as the equivalent of madeira. There must be no inferior sherry, Gladstone claret, cheap champagne, nor potato-brandy, used for any of[Pg 210] my recipes, or I will not be responsible for the flavour of the beverage. The following is the best idea of a milk punch known to the writer:— <blockquote> 4. Over the yellow rind of four lemons and one Seville orange, pour one pint of rum. Let it stand, covered over, for twelve hours. Strain and mix in two pints more of rum, one pint of brandy, one pint of sherry, half-a-pint of lemon juice, the expressed juice of a peeled pine-apple, one pint of green tea, one pound of sugar dissolved in one quart of boiling water, the whites of two eggs beaten up, one quart of boiling milk. Mix well, let it cool, and then strain through a jelly-bag, and bottle off. </blockquote> This punch is calculated to make the epicure forget that he has just been partaking of conger-eel broth instead of clear turtle. <h4>Cambridge Milk Punch.</h4> <blockquote> This a fairly good boys’ beverage, there being absolutely “no offence in’t.” Put the rind of half a lemon (small) into one pint of new milk, with twelve lumps of sugar. Boil very slowly for fifteen minutes, then remove from the fire, take out the lemon rind, and mix in the yolk of one egg, which has been previously blended with one tablespoonful of cold milk, two tablespoonfuls of brandy, and four of rum. Whisk all together, and when the mixture is frothed, it is ready to serve. </blockquote> <h4>Oxford Punch.</h4> There is no milk in this mixture, which sounds like “for’ard on!” for the undergraduate who for the first time samples it. [Pg 211] <blockquote> Rub off the yellow rind of three lemons with half-a-pound of loaf sugar. Put the result into a large jug, with the yellow rind of one Seville orange, the juice of three Seville oranges and eight lemons, and one pint of liquefied calf’s-foot jelly. Mix thoroughly, then pour over two quarts of boiling water, and set the jug on the hob for thirty minutes. Strain the mixture into a punch-bowl, and when cool add one small bottle of capillaire (an infusion of maidenhair fern, flavoured with sugar and orange-flower water); one pint of brandy, one pint of rum, half-a-pint of dry sherry, and one quart of orange shrub—a mixture of orange-peel, juice, sugar, and rum. </blockquote> After drinking this, the young student will be in a fit state to sally forth, with his fellows, and “draw” a Dean, or drown an amateur journalist. I have a very old recipe, in MS., for “Bischoff,” which I take to be the original of the better known beverage called “Bishop,” for the manufacture of which I have also directions. For the sake of comparison I give the two. <h4>Bischoff.</h4> <blockquote> Cut into four parts each, three Seville oranges, and slightly score the rinds across with a sharp knife. Roast the quarters lightly before a slow fire, and put them into a bowl with two bottles of claret, with a little cinnamon and nutmeg. Infuse this mixture over a slow heat for five or six hours, then pass it through a jelly-bag, and sweeten. It may be drunk hot or cold, but in any case must never be allowed to boil. </blockquote> [Pg 212] <h4>Bishop.</h4> <blockquote> Two drachmas each of cloves, mace, ginger, cinnamon, and allspice, boiled in half-a-pint of water for thirty minutes. Strain. Put a bottle of port in a saucepan over the fire, add the spiced infusion, and a lemon stuck with six cloves. Whilst this is heating gradually—it must not boil—take four ounces of loaf sugar, and with the lumps grate off the outer rind of a lemon into a punch-bowl. Add the sugar, and juice, and the hot wine, etc. Add another bottle of port, and serve either hot or cold. </blockquote> I am prepared to lay a shade of odds on the “op” against the “off.” Another old recipe has been quoted in some of my earlier public efforts, under different names. I have improved considerably upon the proportion of the ingredients, and now hand the whole back, under the name of <h4>Halo Punch.</h4> <blockquote> With a quarter pound of loaf sugar rub off the outer rind of one lemon and two Seville oranges. Put rind and sugar into a large punch-bowl with the juice and pulp, mix the sugar well with the juice and one teacupful of boiling water, and stir till cold. Add half-a-pint of pine-apple syrup, one pint of strong green tea, a claret-glassful of maraschino, a smaller glassful of noyeau, half-a-pint of white rum, one pint of brandy, and one bottle of champagne. Strain and serve, having, if necessary, added more sugar. </blockquote> Note well the proportions. This is the same beverage which some Cleveland friends of mine, having read the recipe, thought boiling would[Pg 213] improve. The result was—well, a considerable amount of chaos. <h4>Glasgow Punch.</h4> The following is from Peter’s Letters to his Kinsfolk, and is from the pen of John Gibson Lockhart:— <blockquote> The sugar being melted with a little cold water, the artist squeezed about a dozen lemons through a wooden strainer, and then poured in water enough almost to fill the bowl. In this state the liquor goes by the name of sherbet, and a few of the connoisseurs in his immediate neighbourhood were requested to give their opinion of it—for in the mixing of the sherbet lies, according to the Glasgow creed, at least one-half of the whole battle. This being approved of by an audible smack from the lips of the umpires, the rum was added to the beverage, I suppose, in something about the proportion from one to seven. </blockquote> Does this mean one of sherbet and seven of rum, or the converse? <blockquote> Last of all, the maker cut a few limes, and running each section rapidly round the rim of his bowl, squeezed in enough of this more delicate acid to flavour the whole composition. In this consists the true tour-de-maitre of the punch-maker. </blockquote> Well, possibly; but it seems a plainish sort of punch; and unless the rum be allowed to preponderate, most of us would be inclined to call the mixture lemonade. And I do not believe that since Glasgow has been a city its citizens ever drank much of that. A few more punches, and then an anecdote. [Pg 214] <h4>Ale Punch.</h4> <blockquote> One quart of mild ale in a bowl, add one wine-glassful of brown sherry, the same quantity of old brandy, a tablespoonful of sifted sugar, the peel and juice of one lemon, a grate of nutmeg, and an iceberg. N.B.—Do not insert old ale, by mistake. And for my own part, I think it a mistake to mix John Barleycorn with wine (except champagne) and spirits. </blockquote> <h4>Barbadoes Punch.</h4> <blockquote> A tablespoonful of raspberry syrup, a ditto of sifted sugar, a wine-glassful of water, double that quantity of brandy, half a wine-glassful of guava jelly, liquid, the juice of half a lemon, two slices of orange, one slice of pine-apple, in a long tumbler. Ice and shake well and drink through straws. </blockquote> <h4>Curaçoa Punch.</h4> <blockquote> Put into a large tumbler one tablespoonful of sifted sugar, one wine-glassful of brandy, the same quantity of water, half a wine-glassful of Jamaica rum, a wine-glassful of curaçoa, and the juice of half a lemon; fill the tumbler with crushed ice, shake, and drink through straws. </blockquote> <h4>Grassot Punch.</h4> <blockquote> This has nothing to do with warm asparagus, so have no fear. It is simply another big-tumbler mixture, of one wine-glassful of brandy, a liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, a squeeze of lemon, two teaspoonfuls sugar, one of syrup of strawberries, one wine-glassful of water, and the thin rind of a lemon; fill up the tumbler with crushed ice, shake, and put slices of ripe apricots atop. Drink how you like. </blockquote> [Pg 215] Most of the above are hot-weather beverages, and the great beauty of some of them will be found in the small quantity of water in the mixture. Here is a punch which may be drunk in any weather, and either hot or cold. <h4>Regent Punch.</h4> <blockquote> Pour into a bowl a wine-glassful of champagne, the same quantities of hock, curaçoa, rum, and madeira. Mix well, and add a pint of boiling tea, sweetened. Stir well and serve. </blockquote> Apropos of the derivation of “punch,” I was unaware until quite recently that Messrs. Bradbury’s & Agnew’s little paper had any connection therewith. But I was assured by one who knew all about it, that such was the case. “What?” I exclaimed. “How can the London Charivari possibly have anything to do with this most seductive of beverages?” “My dear fellow,” was the reply, “have you never heard of Mark Lemon?” I turned to smite him hip and thigh; but the jester had fled. And now a word or two as to “Toddy.” One of the authorities quoted in the punch difficulty declares that toddy is also an Indian drink. So it is. But that drink no more resembles what is known in more civilised lands as toddy than I resemble the late king Solomon. The palm-sap which the poor Indian distils into arrack and occasionally drinks in its natural state for breakfast after risking his neck in climbing trees to get it, can surely have no connection with hot whisky and water? Yet the authority[Pg 216] says so; but he had best be careful ere he promulgates his theory in the presence of Scotsmen and others who possess special toddy-glasses. This is how I make <h4>Whisky Toddy.</h4> <blockquote> The Irish call this whisky punch. But do not let us wrangle over the name. Into an ordinary-sized tumbler which has been warmed, put one average lump of sugar, a ring of thin lemon peel, and a silver teaspoon. Fill the tumbler one quarter full of water as near boiling point as possible. Cover over until the sugar be dissolved and peel be infused. Then add one wine-glassful—not a small one—of the best whisky you can find—the “Pollok” brand, and the “R.B.” are both excellent. Then drink the toddy, or punch; for should you attempt to add any more water you will incur the lifelong contempt of every Irishman or Scotsman who may be in the same room. If Irish whisky be used, of course you will select “John Jameson.” ’Twixt ale-flip and egg-flip there is not much more difference than ’twixt tweedledum and tweedledee. Both are equally “more-ish” on a cold evening; and no Christmas eve is complete without a jug of one or the other. </blockquote> <h4>Ale-flip.</h4> <blockquote> Pour into a saucepan three pints of mild ale, one tablespoonful of sifted sugar, a blade of mace, a clove, and a small piece of butter; and bring the liquor to a boil. Beat up in a basin the white of one egg and the yolks of two, mixed with about a wine-glassful of cold ale. Mix all together in the saucepan, then pour into a jug, and thence into another jug, from a height, for some minutes, to froth the flip thoroughly but do not let it get cold. </blockquote> [Pg 217] <h4>Egg-flip.</h4> <blockquote> Heat one pint of ale, and pour into a jug. Add two eggs, beaten with three ounces of sugar, and pour the mixture from one jug to the other, as in the preceding recipe. Grate a little nutmeg and ginger over the flip before serving. </blockquote> Were I to ask What is <h4>A Peg?</h4> I should probably be told that a peg was something to hang something or somebody else on, or that it was something to be driven through or into something else. And the latter would be the more correct answer, for at the time of my sojourn in the great continent of India, a peg meant a large brandy-and-soda. At that time whisky was but little known in Punkahland, and was only used high up in the Punjaub during the “cold weather”—and it is cold occasionally in that region, where for some months they are enabled to make ice—but that is une autre histoire. Rum I once tasted at Simla, and gin will be dealt with presently. But since the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, a peg has always signified a whisky-and-soda. And yet we have not heard of any particular decrease in the death-rate. Despite what those who have only stayed a month or two in the country have committed to print, alcohol is not more fatal in a tropical country than a temperate one. But you must not overdo your alcohol. I have seen a gay young spark, a fine soldier, and over six feet in height, drink eight pegs of a morning, ere he got[Pg 218] out of bed. There was no such thing as a “split soda”—or a split brandy either—in those days. We buried him in the Bay of Bengal just after a cyclone, on our way home. By the way, the real meaning of “peg” was said to be the peg, or nail, driven into the coffin of the drinker every time he partook. And the coffin of many an Anglo-Indian of my acquaintance was all nails. A <h4>John Collins</h4> is simply a gin-sling with a little curaçoa in it. That is to say, soda-water, a slice of lemon, curaçoa—and gin. But by altering the proportions this can be made a very dangerous potion indeed. The officers of a certain regiment—which shall be nameless—were in the habit of putting this potion on tap, after dinner on a guest night. It was a point of honour in those evil, though poetical, times, to send no guest empty away, and more than one of those entertained by this regiment used to complain next morning at breakfast—a peg, or a swizzle, and a hot pickle sandwich—of the escape of “Private John Collins” from the regimental guard-room. For towards dawn there would not be much soda-water in that potion—which was usually served hot at that hour. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 219] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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