The Feasts of Autolycus Part 4

In antiquarian moments, _fricasey soals white_, and admit that your foremothers were more accomplished artists than you. What folly to boast of modern progress when, at table, the Englishman of to-day is but a brute savage compared with his ancestors of a hundred years and more ago! But take heart: be humble, read this golden book, and the day of emanc.i.p.ation cannot be very far distant. Make your _fricasey_ as a step in the right direction. According to the infallible book, "skin, wash, and gut your soals very clean, cut off their heads, dry them in a cloth, then with your knife very carefully cut the flesh from the bones and fins on both sides. Cut the flesh long ways, and then across, so that each soal will be in eight pieces; take the heads and bones, then put them into a saucepan with a pint of water, a bundle of sweet herbs, an onion, a little whole pepper, two or three blades of mace, a little salt, a very little piece of lemon peel, and a little crust of bread. Cover it close, let it boil till half is wasted, then strain it through a fine sieve, put it into a stew-pan, put in the soals and half a pint of white wine, a little parsley chopped fine, a few mushrooms cut small, a piece of b.u.t.ter as big as an hen's egg, rolled in flour, grate a little nutmeg, set all together on the fire, but keep shaking the pan all the while till the fish is done enough. Then dish it up, and garnish with lemon." And now, what think you of that?

If for variety you would present a brown _fricasey_, an arrangement in browns as startling as a poster by Lautrec or Anquetin, add anchovy to your seasoning, exchange white wine for red, and introduce into the mixture truffles and morels, and mushrooms, and a spoonful of catchup.

The beauty of the colour none can deny; the subtlety of the flavour none can resist.

Another step in the right direction, which is the old, will lead you to sole pie, a dish of parts. Eels must be used, as is the steak in a pigeon's pie for instance; and nutmeg and parsley and anchovies must serve for seasoning. It is a pleasant fancy, redolent of the days gone by.

"BOUILLABAISSE";

_A Symphony in Gold_

Hear Wagner in Baireuth (though illusions may fly like dust before a March wind); see Velasquez in Madrid; eat _Bouillabaisse_ in Ma.r.s.eilles. And eat, moreover, with no fear of disenchantment; the saffron's gold has richer tone, the _ail's_ aroma sweeter savour, under hot blue southern skies than in the cold sunless north.

How much Thackeray is swallowed with your _Bouillabaisse_? asks the cynical American, vowed to all eternity to his baked shad and soft-sh.e.l.led crab; how much Thackeray? echoes the orthodox Englishman, whose salmon, cuc.u.mberless, smacks of heresy, and whose whiting, if it held not its tail decorously in its bread crumbed mouth, would be cast for ever into outer darkness. Sentiment there may be: not born, however, of Thackeray's verse, but of days spent in Provencal sunshine, of banquets eaten at Provencal tables. Call for _Bouillabaisse_ in the Paris restaurant, at the Laperouse or Marguery's (you might call for it for a year and a day in London restaurants and always in vain); and if the dish brought back something of the true flavour, over it is cast the glamour and romance of its far southern home, of the land of troubadours and of Tartarin.

But order it in Ma.r.s.eilles, and the flavour will all be there, and the sunshine and the gaiety, and the song as well; fact outstrips the imagination of even the meridional; the present defies memory to outdo its charm.

And it must be in the Ma.r.s.eilles that glitters under midsummer's sun and grows radiant in its light. Those who have not seen Ma.r.s.eilles at this season know it not. The peevish finder of fault raves of drainage and dynamite, of dirt and anarchy. But turn a deaf ear and go to Ma.r.s.eilles gaily and without dread. Walk out in the early morning on the quays; the summer sky is cloudless; the sea as blue as in the painter's bluest dream; the hills but warm purple shadows resting upon its waters. The air is hot, perhaps, but soft and dry, and the breeze blows fresh from over the Mediterranean. Already, on every side, signs there are of the day's coming sacrifice. In sunlight and in shadow are piled high the sea's sweetest, choicest fruits: mussels in their sombre purple sh.e.l.ls; lobsters, rich and brown; fish, scarlet and gold and green. Lemons, freshly plucked from near gardens, are scattered among the fragrant pile, and here and there trail long sprays of salt, pungent seaweed. The faint smell of _ail_ comes to you gently from unseen kitchens, the feeling of _Bouillabaisse_ is everywhere, and tender antic.i.p.ation illumines the faces of the pa.s.sers-by. Great is the pretence of activity in the harbour and in the streets; at a glance, mere paltry traffic might seem the city's one and only end.

But Ma.r.s.eilles' true mission, the sole reason for its existence, is that man may know how goodly a thing it is to eat _Bouillabaisse_ at noon on a warm summer day.

But when the hour comes, turn from the hotel, however excellent; turn from the Provencal version of the Parisian Duval, however cheap and nasty; choose rather the native headquarters of the immortal dish.

Under pleasant awning sit out on the pavement, behind the friendly trees in tubs that suggest privacy, and yet hide nothing of the view beyond. For half the joy in the steaming, golden masterpiece is in the background found for it; in the sunlit harbour and forest of masts; in the cla.s.sic sh.o.r.es where has disembarked so many a hero, from ancient Phenician or Greek, down to valiant Tartarin, with the brave camel that saw him shoot all his lions! A _coup de vin_, and, as you eat, as you watch, with eyes half blinded, the glittering, glowing picture, you begin to understand the meaning of the southern _galejade_. Your heart softens, the endless beggars no longer beg from you in vain, while only the slenderness of your purse keeps you from buying out every boy with fans or matches, every stray Moor with silly slippers and sillier antimaca.s.sars; your imagination is kindled, so that later, at the gay _cafe_, where still you sit in the open street, as you look at the Turks and sailors, at the Arabs and Lascars, at the Eastern women in trousers and n.i.g.g.e.rs in rags, in a word, at Ma.r.s.eilles'

"Congress of Nations," that even Barnum in his most ambitious moments never approached, far less surpa.s.sed, you, too, believe that had Paris but its Canebiere, it might be transformed into a little Ma.r.s.eilles on the banks of the Seine. So potent is the influence of blessed _Bouillabaisse_!

Or, some burning Sunday, you may rise with the dawn and take early morning train for Martigues, lying, a white and shining barrier, between the Etangs de Berre and Caronte. And there, on its bridges and ca.n.a.l banks, idly watching the fishing-boats, or wandering up and down its olive-clad hill-sides, the morning hours may be gently loafed away, until the Angelus rings a joyful summons to M. Bernard's hotel in the shady _Place_. Dark and cool is the s.p.a.cious dining-room; eager and attentive the bewildered Desiree. Be not a minute late, for M.

Bernard's _Bouillabaisse_ is justly famed, and not only all Ma.r.s.eilles, but all the country near hastens thither to eat it on Sundays, when it is served in its _edition de luxe_. Pretty Arlesiennes in dainty fichus, cyclists in knickerbockers, rich Ma.r.s.eillais, painters from Paris join in praise and thanksgiving. And from one end of the world to the other, you might journey in vain in search of an emotion so sweet as that aroused by the first fragrant fumes of the dish set before you, the first rapturous taste of the sauce-steeped bread, of the strange fish so strangely seasoned.

But why, in any case, remain content with salmon alone when _Bouillabaisse_ can be made, even in dark and sunless England? Quite the same it can never be as in the land of sunburnt mirth and jollity.

The light and the brilliancy and the gaiety of its background must be ever missing in the home of fog and spleen. The gay little fish of the Mediterranean never swim in the drear, unresponsive waters that break on the white cliffs of England and the stern rocks of the Hebrides.

But other fish there be, in great plenty, that, in the absence of the original, may answer as praiseworthy copies.

After all, to cut turbot and whiting and soles and trout in small pieces, to cook them all together, instead of each separately, is not the unpardonable sin, however the British housewife may protest to the contrary. And as to the other ingredients, is not good olive oil sold in bottles in many a London shop? Are sweet herbs and garlic unknown in Covent Garden? Are there no French and Italian grocers in Soho, with whom saffron is no less a necessity than mustard or pepper? And bread? who would dare aver that England has no bakers?

It is not a difficult dish to prepare. Its cooks may not boast of secrets known only to themselves, like the maker of process blocks or patent pills. Their methods they disclose without reservation, though alas! their genius they may not so easily impart. First of all, then, see to your sauce: oil, pure and sweet, is its foundation; upon _ail_ and herbs of the most aromatic it depends for its seasoning. In this, place your fish selected and mixed as fancy prompts; a whiting, a sole--filleted of course--a small proportion of turbot, and as much salmon, if solely for the touch of colour it gives--the artist never forgets to appeal to the eye as to the palate. Boil thoroughly, sprinkling at the last moment sympathetic saffron on the sweet-smelling offering. Have ready thick slices of bread daintily arranged in a convenient dish; just before serving pour over them the greater part of the unrivalled sauce, now gold and glorious with its saffron tint; pour the rest, with the fish, into another dish--a bowl, would you be quite correct--and let as few seconds as possible elapse between dishing this perfect work of art and eating it. Upon its smell alone man might live and thrive. Its colour is an inspiration to the painter, the subtlety of its flavour a text to the poet. Montenard and Dauphin may go on, year after year, painting olive-lined roads and ports of Toulon: the true Provencal artist will be he who fills his canvas with the radiance and richness of _Bouillabaisse_.

Would you emulate M. Bernard and make a _Bouillabaisse de luxe_ it may prove a tax upon your purse, but not upon your powers. For when thus lavishly inclined, you but add lobster or crab or crayfish and the needed luxury is secured. It is a small difference in the telling, but in the eating, how much, how unspeakable is this little more! Easily satisfied indeed must be the prosaic mortal who, having once revelled in _Bouillabaisse de luxe_, would ever again still his cravings with the simpler arrangement.

THE MOST EXCELLENT OYSTER

If, in cruel December, the vegetable fails us, in another direction we may look for and find--if we be wise and liberal--novelty without stint. From the oyster, when it is understood aright, spring perpetual joy and rapturous surprises. But, sad to tell, in England men have slighted it and mis...o...b..ed its greatness. Englishmen eat it and declare it good; but, as with salad, they know not how to prepare it.

Because it is excellent in its rawness, they can imagine no further use for it, unless, perhaps, to furnish a rich motive for sauce, or sometimes for soup. Even raw--again like salad--they are apt to brutalise it. To drown it in vinegar is the height of their ambition; an imperial pint was the quant.i.ty needed by Mr Weller's friend to destroy the delicacy of its flavour, the salt sweetness of its aroma.

The Greeks knew better: according to Athenaeus, boiled and fried they served their oysters, finding them, however, best of all when roasted in the coals till the sh.e.l.ls opened. As early as the seventeenth century, the French, preparing them _en etuvee_ and _en frica.s.see_, included them in their _Delices de la campagne_. The American to-day exhausts his genius for invention in devising rare and cunning methods by which to extract their full strength and savour. Why should Englishmen tarry behind the other peoples on the earth in paying the oyster the tribute of sympathetic appreciation?

Its merit when raw, no man of sensibility and wisdom will deny.

Base-minded, indeed, must be he who thinks to enhance its value by converting it into a defence against influenza or any other human ill.

The ancients held it indigestible unless cooked; but to talk of it as if it were a drug for our healing, a poison for our discomforting, is to dishonour, without rhyme or reason, the n.o.blest of all sh.e.l.l-fish.

Who would not risk an indigestion, or worse, for the pleasure raw oysters have it in their power to give? Was there one, among the wedding guests at the "Marriage of Hebe," who feared the course of "oysters with closed sh.e.l.ls, which are very difficult to open but very easy to eat"?

Easy to eat, yes; but first you must decide which, of the many varieties of oyster the sea offers, you had best order for your own delight. There are some men who, with Thackeray, rank the "dear little juicy green oysters of France" above the "great white flaccid natives in England, that look as if they had been fed on pork." To many, the coppery taste of this English native pa.s.ses for a charm--poor deluded creatures! To others it seems the very abomination of desolation. But the true epicure, who may not have them, as had oyster-loving Greeks of old, from Abydus or Chalcedon, will revel most of all in the American species: the dainty little Blue-Point, or its long, sweet, plump brother of the north--to swallow it was like swallowing a baby, Thackeray thought.

Once your oysters are on the half sh.e.l.l, let not the vinegar bottle tempt you; as far as it is concerned, be not only temperate, but a total abstainer. A sprinkling of salt, a touch of Cayenne, a dash of lemon juice, and then eat, and know how good it is for man to live in a world of oysters. For a light lunch or the perfect midnight supper, for an inspiring _hors d'oeuvre_, without rival is this king of sh.e.l.l-fish. If for the midnight meal you reserve it, you may be kindled into ecstasy by the simple addition of a gla.s.s of fine old Chablis or Sauterne--be not led astray by vulgar praise of stout or porter--and brown bread and b.u.t.ter cut in slices of ethereal thinness.

Linger over this banquet, exquisite in its simplicity, long and lovingly, that later you may sleep with easy conscience and mind at rest.

With raw oysters alone it were folly to remain content. If you would spread a more sumptuous feast, fry the largest, plumpest grown in sea or river, and the gates of earthly paradise will be thrown wide open in the frying. No more familiar cry is there in American restaurants than that for "an oyster fry!" Dark little oyster cellars, reached by precipitous steps, there are, and friendly seedy little oyster shops in back streets, where the frying of oysters has been exalted into a holy cult. And if you will, in paper boxes, the long, beautiful, golden-brown masterpieces you may carry away with you, to eat with gayer garnishing and in more sympathetic surroundings. And in winter, scarce a beer saloon but, at luncheon time, will set upon the counter a steaming dish of fried oysters; and with every gla.s.s of no matter what, "crackers" at discretion and one fried oyster on long generous fork will be handed by the white-robed guardian. But mind you take but one: else comes the chucker-out. Thus, only the very thirsty, in the course of a morning, may gain a free lunch. But, in England, what is known of the fried oyster?

It requires no great elaboration, though much rare skill in the cooking. For this purpose the largest oysters must be selected: the fattest and most juicy. In the half-sh.e.l.l they may be fried, after seventeenth-century fashion, a touch of b.u.t.ter and pepper on each; verjuice or vinegar, and grated nutmeg added once they are served. Or else, taken from the sh.e.l.l, they may be dipped into a marvellous preparation of vinegar, parsley, laurel leaves, onion, chives, cloves, basil, and in the result the mighty imagination of the great Alexandre would rejoice. Or, again, in simpler American fashion, enveloped in unpretentious batter of eggs and bread crumbs, fry them until they turn to an unrivalled, indescribable golden-brown, and in the eating thereof the G.o.ds might envy you.

If a new sensation you court, grill or broil your oyster, and you will have cause to exult in a loud triumphant _magnificat_. No bread crumbs are needed, neither laurel nor sweet spice. With but a bit of b.u.t.ter for encouragement, it will brown gently in the grilling, and become a delicious morsel to be eaten with reverence and remembered with tenderness.

Or, stew them and be happy. But of rich milk, and cream, and sweet fresh b.u.t.ter, as Dumas would put it, must your stew be made: thickened, but scarce perceptibly, with flour, while bits of mace float in golden sympathy on the liquid's surface. It is the dish for luncheon, or for the pleasant, old-fashioned "high tea"--no such abomination as "meat tea" known then, if you please--of Philadelphia's pleasant, old-fashioned citizens. And a worse accompaniment you might have than waffles, light as a feather, or beaten biscuits, the pride of Maryland's black cooks. Men and women from the Quaker city, when in cruel exile, will be moved to sad tears at the very mention of Jones's "oyster stews" in Eleventh-street!

But the glory of Penn's town is the oyster croquette--from Augustine's by preference. A symphony in golden brown and soft fawn grey, it should be crisp without, within of such delicate consistency that it will melt in the mouth like a dream. Pyramidal in shape, it is of itself so decorative that only with the rarest blue and white china, or the most fairy-like Limoges, will it seem in perfect harmony. It would be discourteous, indeed, to serve so regal a creation on any stray dish or plate.

Exquisite pleasure lurks in scalloped oysters, or oysters _au gratin_, whichever you may choose to call this welcome variation of the oyster motive. Layers of judiciously seasoned bread-crumbs alternate with layers of the responsive sh.e.l.l-fish, and the carefully-studied arrangement is then browned until it enchants by colour no less than by fragrance. And, if you would seek further to please the eye, let the dish to hold so fine a work of art be a sh.e.l.l, with a suggestion of the sea in its graceful curves and tender tints. Or, if imagination would be more daring, let the same sh.e.l.l hold _huitres farcies_, cunningly contrived with eels and oysters, and parsley and mushrooms, and spices and cream, and egg and aromatic herbs. So fantastic a contrivance as this touches upon sublimity.

In more homely and convivial mood, roast your oysters, as the Greeks loved them. But to enjoy them to the utmost, roast them yourself in the coals of your own fire, until the ready sh.e.l.ls open. A dash of salt and cayenne upon the sweet morsel within, and you may eat it at once, even as you take it from off the coals, and drink its salt, savoury liquor from the sh.e.l.l. A dish of anchovy toast will not seem amiss. But let no other viands coa.r.s.en this ideal supper. For supper it should be, and nothing else. The curtains must be drawn close, while the fire flames high; one or two congenial friends--not more; a dim religious light from well-shaded lamps and candles; a bottle of good old Chablis, and others waiting in near wine-cellar or sideboard; and thus may you make your own such unspeakable happiness as seldom falls to the lot of mortals.

Or if to the past your fancy wanders, prepare your oysters, seventeenth century-fashion, _en etuvee_, boiled in their own liquor, flavoured with ingredients so various as oranges and chives, and served with bread-crumbs; or else, _en frica.s.see_, cooked with onion and b.u.t.ter, dipped in batter, and sprinkled with orange juice. Or again, in sheer waywardness, curry or devil them, though in this disguise no man may know the delicacy he is eating. Another day, bake them; the next, put them in a pie or a patty; the third, let them give substance to a _vol-au-vent_. Hesitate at no experiment; search the cookery-books, old and new. Be sure that the oyster, in its dictionary, knows no such word as fail. If in sheer recklessness you were, like young Mr Grigg in the Cave of Harmony, to call for a "mashed oyster and scalloped 'taters," no doubt the "mashed" would be forthcoming.

As basis of soup or sauce, the oyster is without rival. Who would not abstain on Fridays all the year round, if every Friday brought with it oyster soup to mortify the flesh! But alas! four months there be without an R, when oysters by the wise must not be eaten. And is not turbot, or boiled capon, or a tender loin-steak but the excuse for oyster sauce? in which, if you have perfection for your end, let there be no stint of oysters. Then, too, in the stuffing of a fowl, oysters prove themselves the worthy rival of mushrooms or of chestnuts.

It is a grave mistake, however, to rank the oyster as the only sh.e.l.l-fish of importance. The French know better. So did the Greeks, if Athenaeus can be trusted. Mussels, oysters, scallops, and c.o.c.kles led the list, according to Diocles, the Carystian. Thus are they enumerated by still another authority:--

A little polypus, or a small cuttle-fish, A crab, a crawfish, oysters, c.o.c.kles, Limpets and solens, mussels and pinnas; Periwinkles, too, from Mitylene.

The mussel is still the delight of the French _table d'hote_ breakfast. Charming to look at is the deep dish where, floating in parsley-strewn sauce, the beautiful purple sh.e.l.ls open gently to show the golden-grey treasures within. Well may the commercial in the provinces heap high his plate with the food he loves, while about him hungry men stare, wondering how much will be left for their portion.

But who in England eats mussels? Only a little lower the Greeks ranked periwinkles, which now, a.s.sociated as they are with 'Arriet and her pin, the fastidious affect to despise. It has been written of late, by a novelist seeking to be witty, that there is no poetry in periwinkles; but aeschylus could stoop to mention them in his great tragedies. The "degradation of the lower cla.s.ses" the same weak wit attributes to overindulgence in winkles. With as much reason might the art and philosophy of Greece be traced to "periwinkles from Mitylene."

Cooked in the good sauce of France, the humble winkle might take rank with the Whitstable native at three-and-six the dozen, and thus would the lowly be exalted. The snail, likewise, we might cultivate to our own immeasurable advantage.

THE PARTRIDGE

With September, the _gourmand's_ fancy gaily turns to thoughts of partridges. For his pleasure sportsmen, afar in autumn's cool country, work diligently from morn to eve; or, it may be, he himself plays the sportsman by day that he may prove the worthier _gourmand_ by night.

And the bird is deserving of his affections. It has been honoured alike in history and romance.

Among moderns, a Daudet is found to study and consider its emotions under fire; among ancients, few neglected it, from Aristophanes to Aristotle, who declared it "a very ill-disposed and cunning animal; much devoted, moreover, to amatory enjoyment." With such a character, its two hearts count for little; far gone, indeed, must be the sentimentalist of our moral age who would stay its slayer's hand. What if it be true, as Chamaeleon of Pontus said of old, that from listening to its singing in desert places man arrived at the art of music?

Alive it may have an aesthetic value; but if it be without morals should it not perish? In eating it, therefore, does not man perform a solemn duty? Nay, should not the New Woman exult in flaunting its sober feathers in her masculine hat?

So might reason the apostle of social purity. But the _gourmand_ questions nothing save the daintiness of the bird's flesh, the merit of its flavour. And the practical answer to this questioning silences all doubts. Clearly the partridge was created that he might eat it and find it good.