The Feasts of Autolycus Part 5

It is because of the rare excellence of the pretty bird, in autumn making a feathered frieze in every poulterer's window, that too much consideration cannot be given to its treatment in the kitchen. Its virtues can be easily marred by the indifferent, or unsympathetic _chef_. Left hanging too short a time, left cooking too long, and it will sink into commonplace, so that all might wonder wherefore its praises have been ever loudly sung. Hang it in a cool place, and leave it there until the last moment possible--you understand? Now that winds are cold, and a feeling of frost is in the air, to banish it a fortnight would not be unwise.

To roast a partridge may seem a sadly simple device when so many more ingenious schemes are at your disposal. But for all that, none can be recommended with enthusiasm more keenly felt. For in the roasting none of its sweet savour is lost, none of its natural tenderness sacrificed on the one hand, exaggerated on the other. The process requires less intelligence than an artistic touch. Truss your birds in seemly fashion, when, as if in birdlike emulation of Hedda Gabler, they cry for vine leaves on their breast. Over the vine leaves tie less romantic, but more succulent, bacon, cut in slices of the thinnest.

Then, in front of a quick, clear fire baste prodigally with b.u.t.ter. A little flour, judiciously sprinkled, will add richness to the nut-brown colour the susceptible birds develop in the roasting. Now they are ready to serve, remember that "partridges should have gravy in the dish, and bread-sauce in a cup"--it is Mrs Gla.s.se who has said it. It would be no crime to add watercress, or parsley, as garniture, or toast as a soft bed for the happy victims. And to eat with them, prepare a crisp lettuce salad, to which the merest suspicion of tarragon leaves, well chopped, has been added. And the G.o.ds themselves might envy you your joy and gladness in the eating.

A word as to the carving, or "dissection of the partridge," as it was called in days when England understood and gloried in the arts of the kitchen. Thus was the _Grand Escuyer Tranchant_--the Great Master carver, that is--instructed: "A partridge is for the most part carved and served whole, like a pigeon; but yet he may be served in pieces; but when you will carve him to serve whole, you must only cut the joints and lay them abroad; but if you serve him by pieces, you must begin to serve with a wing." Why not carve and serve according to tradition, and so lend new dignity to your feasting?

If of roast partridge you weary, and from France would take a hint, seek novelty and happiness in _Perdrix aux choux_. For this, birds of an older generation will answer as well as their more tender young, since for two hours, in a wrapping of bacon and b.u.t.tered paper, they must simmer gently on their couch of cabbage. To evolve the required flavour, into the same pot must go a saveloy, and perhaps salt pork in slices, a bunch of fragrant herbs, onions and carrots and cloves and salt and b.u.t.ter _a discretion_. The birds must be drained before they pa.s.s from the pot to the dish; around them the cabbage, likewise drained, must be set as a garland, and the saveloy, in pretty pieces, may be placed here and there. Behold another of the many good gifts France has presented to us.

_Perdrix a l'Espagnole_ may again vary anew the delicious monotony. In this variety the partridges are boiled, covered with a rich gravy, and plentifully adorned with green peppers. It was in a moment of divine inspiration the Spaniard invented so piquant an arrangement. But the resources of boiled partridges, apt to be forgotten or overlooked, are well-nigh limitless, and as charming as they are many. Very important is it that the birds be well boiled, quickly, in much water. The rest depends upon the sauce. This may be of cream and b.u.t.ter alone; or else of celery and cream, seasoned with mace and pepper. Or else of mushrooms and cream, or of the livers and parsley and b.u.t.ter; or of white wine; or of any and every good thing that goes to the making of superlative sauce. What a chance, too, to exercise your imagination, to reveal your ingenuity! Five long months are before you; see that you make the most of them.

If your soul delight in the fantastic, let few days pa.s.s before you have tested the quaint joys of _Partridge Mettenes_. The recipe shall be printed word for word as written by the Master Cook, Giles: "Take Partridges and roast them, then take Cream"--these with capitals, observe--"and Grapes, with Bread, scorched against the Fire, and beat all this together; but first steep your Bread in Broth or Claret-Wine; then strain all this through a strainer with Spice, Cinnamon, and a little Mustard; set all a-boyling with a pretty deal of Sugar, but take heed that it doth not burn too, and when you would serve away your Partridge, put them into a Dish, and your Sauce under them, and garnish your Dish with Sweetmeats and Sugarplums."

Here is another device, fantastic chiefly in name: "Partridges _a l'eau beniste_ or Holy Water." It has the virtue of simplicity. "Take partridges and rost them, and when they are rosted, cut them into little pieces, and put them into a Dish with a little fair Water and Salt, and make them boyl a little, and so serve them away." Or else, O pleasant alternative! "you may make a Sauce with Rose-water and Wine, the Juice of Apples and Oranges, but there must be three times as much Rose-water as Wine."

Reading this, who will dare deny that Master Cook Giles is an authority to be respected, of whose recipes the poor prosaic modern kitchen may not receive too many? s.p.a.ce, therefore, must be yielded to at least one more: "Partridges a la Tonnelette." "Take a partridge and rost it, then put it into a Pot; this done, take white Bread and scortch or toste it very brown, but not burn it, and put it a-steeping in good Claret-wine, and when it is well steep'd strain it through a strainer with some good Broth, and a few Onions fryed in Lard, with a little Cinnamon, Cloves, and Nutmegs, and other small Spices, and a little Sugar, and put into it a handful of Currants, and make that which you have strained out boyl all together, and when it is time to serve your Partridges, put your Sauces into a Dish, and lay your Partridges upon it, and so serve it."

Such pretty fancies, it were a shame to follow with bald prose. Yet, bear in mind that partridges may be braised with mushrooms or truffles; that they may be broiled or baked; that they disgrace neither pie nor pudding; and that they offer welcome basis for a _salmi_ and _puree_. Lay this to heart.

THE ARCHANGELIC BIRD

Michaelmas is a season of sad a.s.sociations. The quarter's rent is due, alas! The quarter's gas, alas! and, alas a hundred times! the half-yearly rates. Bank accounts dwindle; spirits sink; life seems but a blank and dreary desert.

Into the gloom, settling down thicker and more throttling than November's fog, there flutters and waddles a big white bird, a saviour of men. It is the n.o.ble goose, the goose, ridiculed and misunderstood, that comes chivalrously and fearlessly to the rescue; the goose that once saved Rome's Capitol, the goose still honoured as most alert of sentinels within Barcelona's cathedral precincts, the goose that, followed by a goose-girl, is the beloved of artists. Because of its n.o.bility of character, its devotion, wherein it rivals benevolent mastiff and kindly terrier, its courage, its strength, St Michael, glorious and effulgent archangel, took it for his own bird of birds, to be so intimately connected with him that now to show respect to the Saint is to eat the goose. The Feast of Michaelmas, to the right-minded and the orthodox, means roast goose and apple sauce.

Soulless authorities, burrowing in mouldy records, can find no better reason for this close relationship than that, at September's close, great is the number of geese cackling in homely barnyard, great their perfection. Numerous generations since England's fourth Edward sat upon the throne (and who can say how many before his time?), have held the cooking of the goose for dinner as no less sacred a ceremony on the Angel's feast day than the morning's service in church. And this, would the pugnacious Michael have permitted for such gross material considerations? Never; let it be said once and for all: never. He knew the goose for the bird that lays the golden egg; he knew full well its dignity and might that make it still a terror to be met on lonely common by them who use its name as symbol of silliness; he knew that strong as well as faint hearted hesitate to say "Bo" discourteously to any goose, whether it be a wanderer in French pastures or one of the dust-raising flock, in the twilight, cackling homeward over Transylvanian highways. In a word, Michael knew his bird; and our duty it is to believe in it a dish for Michaelmas with the blind, unquestioning allegiance of perfect faith. Coa.r.s.e its flesh may be in comparison with the dainty duck and tender chicken; commonplace in comparison with the glorious grouse and proud partridge. The modest, respectable _bourgeois_ it may seem among poultry. And yet, if the Archangel has chosen it for his own, who shall say him nay? Study rather to disguise its native coa.r.s.eness, to enliven its excellent dulness.

To roast it is the simplest form the Michaelmas celebration allows.

See first that your fire be very good; take care to singe the sacrificial goose with a piece of white paper, and baste it with a piece of b.u.t.ter; drudge it (the word is Mrs Gla.s.se's) with a little flour, and when the smoke begins to draw to the fire, and it looks plump, baste it again and drudge it with a little flour, and take it up. In sober mood, stuff it with sage and onion; in more flamboyant moments, let your choice rest upon chestnuts. Tradition insists upon a little good gravy in a basin by itself, and some apple-sauce in another; but sauce of gooseberries, not to be had fresh, however, for Michaelmas, is the _gourmet's_ choice.

A hint as to carving. How many a beautiful bird, or majestic joint, has been shamelessly insulted by ill-trained carver! Of old the master of the household accepted the "dissection of a goose" after the High Dutch fashion and the Italian both, his own predilections leaning rather toward the High Dutch, "for they cut the breast into more pieces, and so by consequence fill more Plates"--good thrifty burghers that they were. Learn then, and master "the order how they carve and how they send it away; as (1), on the first Plate a thigh; (2), another thigh; (3), a side of the rump, with a piece of the breast; (4), the other side of the rump, with another piece of the breast; (5), a wing; (6), the other wing; (7), the rest of the stomach, upon which, if there be little of the brawn left, you may joyn the two small forked bones; to the eighth, the merry-thought, with the rest of the rump, and any else, at your discretion. If you will, you may join some of the breast with the best piece which you always present to the most considerable person at the table first, and take notice too, by the bye, the brawn of the breast ought to be for the most part served out first." Give heed unto these directions, and far wrong you may not go.

Days are when simple expression of faith is all too inadequate. The devout yearns for something more ornate, something more elaborate. Let the outcome of this yearning be _oie a la chipolata_, and Michael in Paradise will smell the sweet savour and smile. It is difficult, but delicious. Cover the bottom of your stew-pan with lard; place upon it two or three slices of beef and ham, a bouquet of parsley and chives, three carrots and two or three onions, a touch of garlic, a few cloves, thyme, laurel leaves, basil, and salt, and thus you will have prepared a sweet, soft bed for your goose. Immediately disturb the bird's slumbers by pouring over it a gla.s.s of good Madeira, a bottle of white wine, a gla.s.s of cognac, and two or three spoonfuls of strong bouillon made of fowls. Now put your pan on the fire, stew your goose for an hour, lift it out, arrange it on a fair dish, and envelop it in the very richest _chipolata_ it is in your power to make. And what is a _chipolata_? An Italian creation half sauce, half _ragout_; fashioned of carrots and turnips, and chestnuts and onions, and sausage and mushrooms, and artichokes and celery, and strong veal gravy.

Archangelic smiles must broaden into silent laughter at the mere mention of "a Potage of Green Geese." It is a conceit redolent of the olden time, when gaiety was still ranked among the cardinal virtues, and men ate their fill with no fear of a dyspeptic to-morrow. Since it is an ancient masterpiece, in the ancient words must it be explained, or else it will be dishonoured in the telling. "Take your Green-geese and boyl them the usual way, and when they are boyled take them up and fry them whole in a frying-pan to colour them, either with the fat of bacon or hog's-lard, called nowadays _manege de pork_; then take ginger, long pepper, and cloves; beat all this together, and season them with this spice; a little parsley and sage, and put them into a little of the same broth that they were boyled in, and sprinkle a little grated cheese over them, and let them have a little stew, and then dish them up with sipets under them." A brave disguise, truly, for humblest goose.

In a pie likewise--unless the fashioning thereof be entrusted to the indiscreet cook--it presents a brave appearance. Walls of crust line a s.p.a.cious dish; a pickled dried tongue is boiled; a fowl and a goose are boned; seasoning is wrought of mace, beaten pepper, and salt; and then, Oh the marvel of it! fowl is lain in the goose, tongue in the fowl, goose in the dish. A half a pound of b.u.t.ter separates bird from pastry cover. And, hot or cold, pleasure may be had in the eating. Not the highest pleasure, perhaps, but still pleasure not to be scorned.

If you would boil a goose, see, as you respect your stomach, that it be first salted for a week. With onion sauce it may be becomingly adorned, or again, with simple cabbage, boiled, chopped small, and stewed in b.u.t.ter. Or, plunge gaily into the _rococo_ style, and decorate it _a l' Arlesienne_; stuffed with onions and chestnuts, boiled in company with carrots and celery and onions and parsley and cloves, floated in tomato sauce, it is as chock full of playful surprises as the _Cartuja_ of Granada. Another device to be recommended is the grilling of the legs and the serving them with _laitues farcies_--and Michael will laugh outright; or _a la Provencale_, and words fail; or _aux tomates_, the love-apples that not the hardest heart can resist. Of the great and good Careme these are the suggestions; treasure them up, therefore, where memory may not rust or aspiration decay, for the dinner may come when you will be glad to have them at hand.

Of the giblets and liver of the goose is there not a long, exultant chapter yet to be written? In far Strasburg geese, in perpetual darkness and torture, fatten with strange morbid fat, that the sensitive, who shrink from a bull fight and cry out against the cruelty of the c.o.c.kpit, may revel in _pate de foie gras_. So long as the world lives, may there still be this delectable _pate_ to delight.

But why not be honest: admit that between the torture of the bull that we may see, and the torture of the goose that we may eat, difference there is none? Give sensitiveness full play, and sordid vegetarianism is the logical result.

SPRING CHICKEN

Gluttony, it has been written--and with wisdom--deserves nothing but praise and encouragement. For two reasons. "Physically, it is the result and proof of the digestive organs being perfect. Morally, it shows implicit resignation to the commands of nature, who, in ordering man to eat that he may live, gives him appet.i.te to invite, flavour to encourage, and pleasure to reward." But there is a third reason, too often overlooked even by the professional glutton: love of good eating is an incentive to thought, a stimulus to the imagination. The man of the most active mind and liveliest fancy is he who eats well and conscientiously considers each dish as it is set before him.

The test seldom fails. Run through the list of poets and painters of your acquaintance; do not they who eat best write the finest verse and paint the strongest pictures? Those who pretend indifference and live on unspeakable messes are betrayed in the foolish affectation and tedious eccentricity of their work; those who feel indifference are already beyond hope and had better far be selling tape across counters or adding up figures in loathsome ledgers. Memory, borrowing from her store-house of treasures, lingers with tender appreciation and regret upon one unrivalled breakfast, exquisitely cooked, exquisitely served, and exquisitely eaten, when lilacs were sweet and horse-chestnuts blossoming in the boulevards and avenues of Paris. And he upon whose table the banquet was spread is an artist who towers head and shoulders above the pigmies of his generation. It were rash, indeed, to maintain that because he eats daintily therefore he paints like the master he is; but who, on the other hand, would dare aver that because he paints supremely well therefore is he the prince of _gourmets_?

Here cause and effect are not to be defined by cold logic, not to be labelled by barren philosophy. One thing alone is certain; if love of good eating will not create genius it can but develop it.

Consequently, it would be impossible to think too much of what you are eating to-day and purpose to eat to-morrow. It is your duty above all things to see that your food is in harmony with place and season. The question now is, what beast or bird is fitting holocaust for the first warm months of spring? Beef is too heating, too substantial; mutton too monotonous, veal too prosaic. Lamb hath charm, but a charm that by constant usage may be speedily exhausted. Does not mint sauce, pall at times? Place, then, your trust in the poultry-yard that your pleasure may be long in the spring.

To begin with, poultry pleases because of its idyllic and pastoral a.s.sociations. The plucked birds, from shop windows, flaunting their nakedness in the face of the world, recall the old red-roofed farmhouse among the elms, and the pretty farmer's daughter in neat, fresh gingham, scattering grain in the midst of her feathered favourites; they suggest the first cool light of dawn and the irrepressible c.o.c.k crowing the glad approach of day; in a word, they are reminders of the country's simple joys--unendurable at the time, dear and sacred when remembered in town.

The gentle little spring chicken is sweet and adorable above all its kindred poultry. It is innocent and guileless as Bellini's angels, dream-like and strange as Botticelli's. It is the very concentration of spring; as your teeth meet in its tender, yielding flesh, you think, whether you will or no, of violets and primroses, and hedgerows white with may; you feel the balmy breath of the south wind; the world is scented for you with lilac and narcissus; and, for the time being, life is a perfect poem. But--why is there always a but?--your cook has it in her power to ruin the rhythm, to make of melodious lyric the most discordant prose. No less depends upon the being who cooks the chicken than upon the hen who laid the egg. If hitherto you have offended through heedlessness, see now that you approach the subject with a determination to profit.

Of all ways of cooking a spring chicken, frying is first to be commended; and of all ways of frying the American is most sympathetic.

Fried chicken! To write the word is to be carried back to the sunny South; to see, in the mind's eye, the old, black, fat, smiling _mammie_, in gorgeous bandana turban, and the little black piccaninnies bringing in relays of hot m.u.f.fins. Oh, the happy days of the long ago! It is easy to give the _recipe_, but what can it avail unless the _mammie_ goes with it? Another admirable device is in broiling. One fashion is to divide your chicken down the back and flatten it, seeing, as you have a heart within you, that no bones be broken. Set it lovingly on a trivet placed for the purpose in a baking-tin into which water, to the depth of an inch, has been poured.

Cover your tin; bake the sweet offering for ten minutes or so; take it from the oven; touch it delicately with the purest of pure olive oil, and for another ten minutes broil it over a good brisk fire. And if in the result you do not taste heaven, hasten to the hermit's cell in the desert, and, for the remainder of your days, grow thin on lentils and dates.

Or, if you would broil your chicken after the fashion of infallible Mrs Gla.s.se, slit it as before, season it with pepper and salt, lay it on a clear fire at a great distance, broil first the inside, then the out, cover it with delicate bread-crumbs, and let it be of a fine brown, but not burnt. And keep this note carefully in your mind: "You may make just what sauce you fancy."

To roast a spring chicken will do no harm, but let it not be overdone.

Twenty minutes suffice for the ceremony. Bacon, in thinnest of thin slices, gracefully rolled, is not unworthy to be served with it. In boiling, something of its virginal flavour may be sacrificed, but still there is compensating gain; it may be eaten with white mushroom sauce, made of mushrooms and cream, and seasoned with nutmeg and mace.

Here is a poem, sweeter far than all songs of immortal choirs or the weak pipings of our minor singers.

As the chicken outgrows the childish state, you may go to Monte Carlo in search of one hint at least, for its disposal. There you will learn to cut it into quarters, to stew it in wine and shallots, to add, at the psychological moment, tomatoes in slices, and to serve a dish that baffles description. Or you may journey to Spain, and find that country's kitchen slandered when you eat _poulet au ris a l'

Espagnole_, chicken cooked in a _marmite_ with rice, artichokes, green and red chillies, and salad oil, and served, where the artist dwells, in the blessed _marmite_ itself--in unimaginative London, even, you may buy one, green or brown, whichever you will, at a delightful shop in Shaftsbury-avenue. Again, you may wander to Holland--it is a short journey, and not disagreeable by way of Harwich--and be ready to swear that no fashion can surpa.s.s the Dutch of boiling chickens with rice or vermicelli, spicing them with pepper and cloves, and, at table, subst.i.tuting for sauce sugar and cinnamon. But to omit these last two garnishments will not mean a mortal sin upon your conscience. In more festive mood hasten at once to France, and there you will be no less certain that the way of ways is to begin to broil your chicken, already quartered, but, when half done, to put it in a stew-pan with gravy, and white wine, salt and pepper, fried veal b.a.l.l.s, onions, and shallots, and, according to season, gooseberries or grapes. Do you not grow hungry as you read? But wait: this is not all. As the beautiful mixture is stewing--on a charcoal fire if possible--thicken the liquor with yolks of eggs and the juice of lemon, and for ever after bless Mrs Gla.s.se for having initiated you into these n.o.ble and enn.o.bling mysteries.

Braise your chicken, frica.s.see it, make it into mince, croquettes, krameskies; eat it cold; convert it into galantine; bury it in aspic; do what you will with it, so long as you do it well, it can bring you but happiness and peace.

THE MAGNIFICENT MUSHROOM

From remote ages dates the triumph of the mushroom--the majestic, magnificent mushroom. Glorious Greeks feasted on it and were glad.

What say Poliochus and Antiphanes? What Athenaeus? In verse only, could be duly praised those fragrant mushrooms of old, which were roasted for dinner and eaten with delicate snails caught in the dewy morning, and olives tenderly pounded; washed down with wine, good if not over strong or of famous vintage. O the simple, happy days of long ago!

There are times when the cla.s.sic simplicity and dignity of the Greek you may emulate, and your amus.e.m.e.nt find in mushrooms dressed with vinegar, or honey and vinegar, or honey, or salt. But then, all other courses must be in keeping. The snails and olives must not be omitted.

Maize there must be, well winnowed from the chaff, and rich, ripe purple figs. And, who knows? the full flavour thereof might not be yielded to the most earnest adventurer were couches not subst.i.tuted for stiff, ungainly chairs. By many a lesser trifle has digestion been, if not ruined, influenced for ill.

But the cla.s.sic experiment, if repeated too often, might seem very odious. The modern _gourmand_, or artist, is a romanticist, whether he will or no. No screaming red waistcoat marks the romantic movement in the kitchen, and yet there it has been stronger even than in art and literature. The picturesque must be had at any cost. Simplicity is not spurned, far from it; but it must be seasoned with becoming sprinkling of romance. What could be simpler than the common mushroom grilled, so self-sufficient in its chaste severity that it allows but salt and pepper and b.u.t.ter to approach it, as it lies, fragrant and delicious, on its gridiron, calling, like another St Lawrence, to be turned when one side is fairly done. And yet when, ready to be served, its rich brown beauty is spread upon the paler brown of the toast, and above rests b.u.t.ter's brilliant gold, have you not an arrangement as romantic in conception as the "Ernani" of the master, or the pastoral of Corot? Paltry meats and undesirable vegetables should not be allowed to dispute supremacy with it. Serve it alone, as you respect yourself. Do not make your breakfast or dinner table as preposterous a blunder as the modern picture gallery.

Should simplicity pall upon you--and moments there are when it cannot fail to pall--enrich your grilled mushrooms with a sauce of melted b.u.t.ter and onions and parsley, and a single note of garlic, and the result will be enchanting mushrooms _a la bourdelaise_. If _au beurre_ you would eat them, to accord with your pa.s.sing mood of suave serenity, stew them gently and considerately in daintiest stew-pan your kitchen can provide, and let cayenne and powdered mace exult, as the romantic elements of the stirring poem.

A still more poetic fancy may be met and sweetly satisfied by _ragout_ of mushrooms. Listen reverently, for it is food fit to be set before the angels. Over the mushrooms, first boiled on a quick fire, pour a gill of pure red wine--and the best Burgundy thus used will not be wasted; then scatter spices, mace, and nutmeg, with a discreet hand; boil once more; pour the marvellous mixture upon five or six--or more, if wanted--yolks of eggs, hard-boiled; garnish the dish with grilled mushrooms, and bless the day that you were born, predestined, as you were, from all eternity for this one interval of rapture.

Possibility of rapture there is likewise in a white _frica.s.see_ of mushrooms, which, if you have your own happiness at heart, you cannot afford to despise. Secure then, without delay--for who would play fast and loose with happiness?--a quart of fresh mushrooms. Clean them with hands as tender as if bathing a new-born babe. In three spoonfuls of water, and three of milk, let them boil up three times. See that temptation leads you not to violate the sanct.i.ty of this thrice-three.

Nutmeg, mace, b.u.t.ter, a pint of rich thick cream alone, at this juncture, will appease the saucepan's longings. Shake well; and all the time, mind you. Be careful there is no curdling, or else--d.a.m.nation. The masterpiece once triumphantly achieved and set upon a table covered with a fair white cloth, great will be the rejoicing in the Earthly Paradise of your dining-room.

Another sensation, another thrill awaits you in mushrooms _au gratin_.