Part 1 (2/2)
”Keep a good table,” he told them; ”if you get into debt for it I will pay.” And later, one of his most devoted adherents, the Marquis de Cussy, out of favor with Louis XVIII. on account of that very devotion, found his reputation as a gourmet very serviceable to him. A friend applied for a place at court for him, which Louis refused, till he heard that M. de Cussy had invented the mixture of cream, strawberries, and champagne, when he granted the pet.i.tion at once. Nor is this a solitary instance in history where culinary skill has been a pa.s.sport to fortune to its possessor. Savarin relates that the Chevalier d'Aubigny, exiled from France, was in London, in utter poverty, notwithstanding which, by chance, he was invited to dine at a tavern frequented by the young bucks of that day.
After he had finished his dinner, a party of young gentlemen, who had been observing him from their table, sent one of their number with many apologies and excuses to beg of him, as a son of a nation renowned for their salads, to be kind enough to mix theirs for them. He complied, and while occupied in making the salad, told them frankly his story, and did not hide his poverty. One of the gentlemen, as they parted, slipped a five-pound note into his hand, and his need of it was so great that he did not obey the prompting of his pride, but accepted it.
A few days later he was sent for to a great house, and learned on his arrival that the young gentleman he had obliged at the tavern had spoken so highly of his salad that they begged him to do the same thing again.
A very handsome sum was tendered him on his departure, and afterwards he had frequent calls on his skill, until it became the fas.h.i.+on to have salads prepared by d'Aubigny, who became a well-known character in London, and was called ”_the fas.h.i.+onable salad-maker_.” In a few years he ama.s.sed a large fortune by this means, and was in such request that his carriage would drive from house to house, carrying him and his various condiments--for he took with him everything that could give variety to his concoctions--from one place, where his services were needed, to another.
The contempt for this art of cooking is confined to this country, and to the lower middle cla.s.ses in England. By the ”lower middle cla.s.ses” I mean, what Carlyle terms the gigocracy--_i.e._, people sufficiently well-to-do to keep a gig or phaeton--well-to-do tradesmen, small professional men, the cla.s.s whose womenkind would call themselves ”genteel,” and many absurd stories are told of the determined ignorance and pretense of these would-be ladies. But in no cla.s.s above this is a knowledge of cooking a thing to be ashamed of; in England, indeed, so far from that being the case, indifference to the subject, or lack of understanding and taste for certain dishes is looked upon as a sort of proof of want of breeding. Not to like curry, macaroni, or parmesan, _pate de foie gras_, mushrooms, and such like, is a sign that you have not been all your life accustomed to good living. Mr. Hardy, in his ”Pair of Blue Eyes,” cleverly hits this prejudice when he makes Mr.
Swancourt say, ”I knew the fellow wasn't a gentleman; he had no acquired tastes, never took Worcesters.h.i.+re sauce.”
Abroad many women of high rank and culture devote a good deal of time to a thorough understanding of the subject. We have a lady of the ”lordly line of proud St. Clair” writing for us ”Dainty Dishes,” and doing it with a zest that shows she enjoys her work, although she does once in a while forget something she ought to have mentioned, and later still we have Miss Rose Coles writing the ”Official Handbook of Cookery.”
But it is in graceful, refined France that cookery is and has been, a pet art. Any bill of fare or French cookery book will betray to a thoughtful reader the attention given to the subject by the wittiest, gayest, and most beautiful women, and the greatest men. The high-sounding names attached to French standard dishes are no mere caprice or homage of a French cook to the great in the land, but actually point out their inventor. Thus _Bechamel_ was invented by the Marquis de Bechamel, as a sauce for codfish; while _Filets de Lapereau a la Berry_ were invented by the d.u.c.h.ess de Berry, daughter of the regent Orleans, who himself invented _Pain a la d'Orleans_, while to Richelieu we are indebted for hundreds of dishes besides the renowned mayonnaise.
_Cailles a la Mirepois_, _Chartreuse a la Mauconseil_, _Poulets a la Villeroy_, betray the tastes of the three great ladies whose name they bear.
But not in courts alone has the art had its devotees. Almost every great name in French literature brings to mind something its owner said or did about cooking. Dumas, who was a prince of cooks, and of whom it is related that in 1860, when living at Varennes, St. Maur, dividing his time, as usual, between cooking and literature (_Lorsqu'il ne faisait pas sauter un roman, il faisait sauter des pet.i.ts oignons_), on Mountjoye, a young artist friend and neighbor, going to see him, he cooked dinner for him. Going into the poultry yard, after donning a white ap.r.o.n, he wrung the neck of a chicken; then to the kitchen garden for vegetables, which he peeled and washed himself; lit the fire, got b.u.t.ter and flour ready, put on his saucepans, then cooked, stirred, tasted, seasoned until dinner time. Then he entered in triumph, and announced, ”_Le diner est servi_.” For six months he pa.s.sed three or four days a week cooking for Mountjoye. This novelist's book says, in connection with the fact that great cooks in France have been men of literary culture, and literary men often fine cooks, ”It is not surprising that literary men have always formed the _entourage_ of a great chef, for, to appreciate thoroughly all there is in the culinary art, none are so well able as men of letters; accustomed as they are to all refinements, they can appreciate better than others those of the table,” thus paying himself and confreres a delicate little compliment at the expense of the non-literary world; but, notwithstanding the nave self-glorification, he states a fact that helps to point my moral, that indifference to cooking does not indicate refinement, intellect, or social pre-eminence.
Brillat-Savarin, grave judge as he was, and abstemious eater, yet has written the book of books on the art of eating. It was he who said, ”Tell me what you eat, I will tell you what you are,” as pregnant with truth as the better-known proverb it paraphrases.
Malherbe loved to watch his cook at work. I think it was he who said, ”A coa.r.s.e-minded man could never be a cook,” and Charles Baudelaire, the Poe of France, takes a poet's view of our daily wants, when he says, ”that an ideal cook must have a great deal of the poet's nature, combining something of the voluptuary with the man of science learned in the chemical principles of matter;” although he goes further than we care to follow when he says, that the question of sauces and seasoning requires ”a chapter as grave as a _feuilleton de science_.”
It has been said by foreigners that Americans care nothing for the refinements of the table, but I think they do care. I have known many a woman in comfortable circ.u.mstances long to have a good table, many a man aspire to better things, and if he could only get them at home would pay any money. But the getting them at home is the difficulty; on a table covered with exquisite linen, gla.s.s, and silver, whose presiding queen is more likely than not a type of the American lady--graceful, refined, and witty--on such a table, with such surroundings, will come the plentiful, coa.r.s.e, commonplace dinner.
The chief reason for this is lack of knowledge on the part of our ladies: know how to do a thing yourself, and you will get it well done by others. But how are many of them to know? The daughters of the wealthy in this country often marry struggling men, and they know less about domestic economy than ladies of the higher ranks abroad; not because English or French ladies take more part in housekeeping, but because they are at home all their lives. Ladies of the highest rank never go to a boarding or any other school, and these are the women who, with some few exceptions, know best how things should be done. They are at home listening to criticisms from papa, who is an epicure perhaps, on the shortcomings of his own table, or his neighbors'; from mamma, as to what the soup lacks, why cook is not a ”_cordon bleu_,” etc., while our girls are at school, far away from domestic comments, deep in the agonies of algebra perhaps; and directly they leave school, in many cases they marry. As a preparation for the state of matrimony most of them learn how to make cake and preserves, and the very excellence of their attainments in that way proves how easy it would be for them, with their dainty fingers and good taste, to far excel their European cousins in that art which a French writer says is based on ”reason, health, common sense, and sound taste.”
Here let me say, I do not by any means advocate a woman, who can afford to pay a first-rate cook, avoiding the expense by cooking herself; on the contrary, I think no woman is justified in doing work herself that she has the means given her to get done by employing others. I have no praise for the economical woman, who, from a desire to save, does her own work _without necessity for economy_. It is _not_ her work; the moment she can afford to employ others it is the work of some less fortunate person. But in this country, it often happens that a good cook is not to be found for money, although the raw material of which one might be made is much oftener at hand. And if ladies would only practice the culinary art with as much, nay, half as much a.s.siduity as they give to a new pattern in crochet; devote as much time to attaining perfection in one dish or article of food, be it perfect bread, or some French dish which father, brother, or husband goes to Delmonico's to enjoy, as they do to the crochet tidies or embroidered rugs with which they decorate their drawing-rooms, they could then take the material, in the shape of any ambitious girl they may meet with, and make her a fine cook. In the time they take to make a dozen tidies, they would have a dozen dishes at their fingers' ends; and let me tell you, the woman who can cook a dozen things, outside of preserves, in a _perfect_ manner is a rarity here, and a good cook anywhere, for, by the time the dozen are accomplished, she will have learned so much of the art of cooking that all else will come easy. One good soup, bouillon, and you have the foundation of all others; two good sauces, white sauce and brown, ”_les sauces meres_” as the French call them (mothers of all other sauces), and all others are matters of detail. Learn to make one kind of roll perfectly, as light, plump, and crisp as Delmonico's, and all varieties are at your fingers' ends; you can have kringles, Vienna rolls, Kreuznach horns, Yorks.h.i.+re tea cakes, English Sally Lunns and Bath buns; all are then as easy to make as common soda biscuit. In fact, in cooking, as in many other things, ”_ce n'est que le premier pas que coute_;” failures are almost certain at the beginning, but a failure is often a step toward success--if we only know the reason of the failure.
CHAPTER II.
ON BREAD.
OF all articles of food, bread is perhaps the one about which most has been written, most instruction given, and most failures made. Yet what adds more to the elegance of a table than exquisite bread or breads, and--unless you live in a large city and depend on the baker--what so rare? A lady who is very proud of her table, and justly so, said to me quite lately, ”I cannot understand how it is we never have really fine home-made bread. I have tried many recipes, following them closely, and I can't achieve anything but a commonplace loaf with a thick, hard crust; and as for rolls, they are my despair. I have wasted eggs, b.u.t.ter, and patience so often that I have determined to give them up, but a fine loaf I will try for.”
”And when you achieve the fine loaf, you may revel in home-made rolls,”
I answered.
And so I advise every one first to make perfect bread, light, white, crisp, and _thin-crusted_, that rarest thing in home-made bread.
I have read over many recipes for bread, and am convinced that when the time allowed for rising is specified, it is invariably too short. One standard book directs you to leave your sponge two hours, and the bread when made up a _quarter of an hour_. This recipe strictly followed must result in heavy, tough bread. As bread is so important, and so many fail, I will give my own method from beginning to end; not that there are not numberless good recipes, but simply because they frequently need adapting to circ.u.mstances, and altering a recipe is one of the things a tyro fears to do.
I make a sponge over night, using a dried yeast-cake soaked in a pint of warm water, to which I add a spoonful of salt, and, if the weather is warm, as much soda as will lie on a dime; make this into a stiff batter with flour--it may take a quart or less, flour varies so much, to give a rule is impossible; but if, after standing, the sponge has a watery appearance, make it thicker by sprinkling in more flour, beat hard a few minutes, and cover with a cloth--in winter keep a piece of thick flannel for the purpose, as a chill is fatal to your sponge--and set in a warm place free from draughts.
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