Blackwood's Magazine/Volume 150/Issue 910/Cookery

“Dis moi que tu manges, et je te dirai ce que tu es”—tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are—says Brillat Savarin, the high-priest of gastronomy. Such a doctrine, if it could be carried into practice, would doubtless be a most useful one; but it must be confessed that it is at least as difficult to tell a man’s character from his favourite dish as from his handwriting, and requires an experience in the science of the table which is rarely given to ordinary diners-out. What conclusions, for instance, would be drawn from the fact that Queen Elizabeth liked roast goose; that James I. preferred cock-a-leekie, and William III. asparagus; or that Lord Eldon’s favourite dish was liver and bacon; or that George III., again, loved boiled mutton and turnips beyond all other dishes; or that the Duke of Wellington was so utterly indifferent to what he ate and drank that his cook—one of the best in Europe—resigned his office in despair?

Brillat Savarin, however, is not alone in his opinion; for a famous bon vivant of the time of the First Empire, the Marquis de Cussy, went even further, and maintained that the genius and character not only of a man, but of a nation, could be learned from a study of its cookery, and that history might thus be rewritten on strictly gastronomical principles. From this point of view characteristic dishes—such as sauerkraut, caviare, maccaroni, pillau, and roast beef—would each of them have their separate historical value; and important conclusions might be drawn from the familiar pot au feu, which is, we suppose (though M. de Cussy does not tell us so), the national dish of France.

This ingenious theory opens out for us an almost boundless field of inquiry and conjecture; and some historian of the future—the Niebuhr or Mommsen of gastronomy—will no doubt trace the close connection of cause and effect between cookery and history, from Belshazzar’s feast to a modern Lord Mayor’s banquet. Nay, he might begin his work from the time of Adam; for, after all, what caused the fall of man? It was not, as people vainly suppose, mere feminine curiosity on the part of Eve, but la gourmandise, which tempted her to eat the forbidden fruit in Paradise, just as it tempted Persephone to eat the pomegranate in Hades. This, at least, is the opinion of M. Alexandre Dumas; and he further tells us that the destinies of the chosen people were entirely changed by the insatiable appetite of Jacob’s elder brother. With such authorities to support him, our historian would go boldly on to show how time after time the fate of nations has been decided by the gastronomic failings of the master-spirit of the age; how the progress of great conquerors has been checked by their ignorance or violation of the first principles of cookery; how the career of Alexander was cut short by his inordinate love of the table; and how Napoleon I. lost the decisive battle of Leipsic owing to a fit of indigestion caused by his dining off a shoulder of mutton and onion sauce. After all, it may be further argued, what is Diplomacy itself—the great peace-preserving machine of modern ​times? Nothing but a series of good dinners, judiciously blended with the delights of wine and conversation. “Tenez bonne table et soignez les femmes,” was Napoleon’s parting advice to his ambassador—advice as sound as it was successful. History, in fact, shows that the triumphs of diplomacy fall to the ambassador who has the strongest head, the largest appetite, and the best cook. Talleyrand’s dinners at the beginning of this century were the best in Europe; Prince Metternich’s cellars and cuisine were equally admirable; while Prince Bismarck is almost as famous for his gastronomic performances as for his political successes. “It is the manner of the great Chancellor,” says Dr Russell, “ridendo dicere—fumando, too, the very largest and strongest cigars, and to sit up till and after all hours. So that average diplomatists with weak constitutions had little chance with him in protracted negotiations.”

Leaving, however, these theories to take care of themselves, let us pass to the proper history of what has been called the master-art. Of Greek cookery we know, perhaps fortunately, very little beyond what can be gathered from scattered notices in Athenæus, the Deipnosophist; while of Roman cookery we know almost too much, for the long work attributed to Apicius (said by some to be the most useful thing the Romans have left us, next to the Pandects of Justinian) gives us ample opportunity for judging of its merits. But after giving it all the attention it deserves—which is not a great deal—what can be thought of the culinary taste of a nation who put sugar on their oysters, preferred roast parrot to pheasant, stuffed geese with rue and assafœtida, and whose favourite sauce was a detestable compound of wine, saffron, and rotten shell-fish? Those, however, who are curious on the subject might refer to Trimalchio’s banquet in Petronius Arbiter, where a dinner given by a rich parvenu is described in the fullest detail, and in the most amusing style. The dishes, which were many and various, would hardly find favour in the eyes of a modern epicure, though he might have appreciated the “Opimian Falernian, a hundred years old,” which was produced towards the end of the evening.

Fortunately for mankind, the Roman cuisine, with all its strange dishes and recipes, perished with the Empire. It was from Italy, however, that the revival of cookery came with the rest of the arts and sciences in the middle ages, and passed thereon to France with Catherine de Medici; but even before her time French cooks had made considerable progress in their art, if we may trust the picture given us by Sir Walter Scott of the meal set before Quentin Durward by Maitre Pierre in the Hotel de Fleur-de-lys at Tours.

Meantime, in England, the French conquerors had introduced many refinements into the coarse though abundant banquets of the Anglo-Saxons; and in the time of Richard II. appeared the first English cookery-book, known as the ‘Forme of Cury,’ which gives us considerable insight into medieval dishes. It is observable that there is a great use of vegetables, of honey and saffron as condiments (probably a vicious relic of Roman cookery), of strongly seasoned soups and broths, and every variety of minces, hashes, stews, and pasties. The dinner usually consisted of three courses, each of which included on State occasions some eight or ten dishes, varied by such royal joints as a haunch of venison, a peacock, or a sturgeon.

Fish-dinners were a feature of these Catholic times; for all through Lent, as well as on Wednesdays and Fridays throughout the year, the use of meat was forbidden by the Church. There does not appear to have been much penance involved in this, for the menus of fast-days, although they consist wholly of fish, are in every respect as abundant as those on festivals; in fact, there is no other form of food which lends itself to such infinite variety in the hands of a good cook, especially of a medieval chef, who apparently made use of everything that had fins or swam in sea or river and did not scruple to serve up powdered lampreys, and fried leeches.

Certainly, one of the best dinners ever eaten by the writer of these pages was on Ash-Wednesday at a Roman Catholic club in Savile Row some years since, and he has even now a pleasant remembrance of the bisque, the filets de sole aux truffes, the omelette, the beignets d'abricot, the tomates ou gratin, and the “Roederer ’68,” which formed part of this penitential feast. One of the longest and most elaborate menus in existence is that composed by the late Mr Hayward for a fish-dinner that might be given to the Pope in case his Holiness should ever visit England, and which will be found in the Appendix to the ‘Art of Dining.’

In the Tudor period dinners seem to have become more substantial: large joints appear more frequently in the bills of fare, and table decorations come into favour, as well as cunning devices in the way of pastry and confectionery. Pepys' Diary gives us frequent glimpses of middle-class cookery in the time of the Stuarts; and the Admiralty clerk was himself no mean judge of good cheer. Here, for example, is a dinner which he considers an unusually good one: “Fricassee of rabbits and chickens, a leg of mutton boiled, three carps in a dish, a great dish of a side of lamb, roasted pigeons, four lobsters, three tarts, a lamprey-pie (a most rare pie), a dish of anchovies, good wine of several sorts, and all things mighty noble, and to my great content.”^[1] Sir Walter Scott, again, gives us an account of a little dinner prepared by “M. Chaubert” for two epicures of the Court, on their way to Martindale Castle, the refinements of which were wasted on the unsophisticated Julian Peveril: “Squab pigeons, wild-fowl, young chickens, ​venison cutlets, and a space in the centre wet, alas! by a gentle tear from Chaubert’s eye, where should have been the soupe aux écrivinges.”

In France, cookery took a new departure under Louis XIV., who had (in his younger days at least) a prodigious appetite. “I have often,” writes Madame de Bavière, “seen the king eat four plates of different soups, a whole pheasant, a partridge, a large plate of salad, two good slices of ham, a plate of pastry, and then be helped more than once to fruits and sweet-meats.” The expenses of the royal kitchen in those days were almost fabulous, and the courtiers seem to have vied with the king in the extravagance of their banquets. Some of the most famous sauces, such as Béchamel and Soubise, date from this reign; and one of Madame de Sévigné’s most eloquent letters describes how Vatel, the Prince of Condé’s cook, killed himself in despair at the non-arrival of the fish on which he had been depending—a contretemps which a modern female cook would probably be more likely to accentuate by first going into hysterics, and then spoiling the rest of the dinner.

Louis XV. inherited his grandfather’s taste, if not his appetite; and his petits soupers, tables volantes, and silver kitchen apparatus are all historical. It was he, too, who first gave the distinction of cordon bleu to a female cook,—for this title, the blue ribbon of the kitchen, is never properly applied to a chef. It was on the occasion of a dinner of superlative excellence being served up by an unknown artist. “Come now, France!” said Madame Dubarry; “I demand a reward worthy of your Majesty. You have made my negro a governor, and I cannot accept less than a cordon bleu for my cuisinière.”

In the next reign came the Revolution, and there seemed some danger of the science of cookery being swept away with the nobles and chefs of the old régime; but it survived the storm, and gained fresh life and vitality under the Republic and the First Empire. Napoleon himself was no great epicure, eating hurriedly at all times, and whenever his appetite prompted him; but his Chancellor, Cambacérès, kept a splendid table, and was fortunate in having the illustrious Caréme as his chef de cuisine.

Like others of his class, Caréme has left his memoirs behind him—an amusing record of his vanity and caprices. In one passage he complains bitterly of the meanness of Cambacérès, who took careful notes during dinner of such entrées as had not been touched by his guests, and insisted on their reappearance in the menu of the following day. “Quel diner! juste ciel!” writes the indignant chef. “Je ne veux pas dire que la déserte ” (i.e., the remains of the dinner) “ne puisse être utilisée, mais qu’elle ne peut pas donner un diner de prince et de gastronome éminent. Quel parcimonie! Quel pitié! Quel maison!” And he contrasts such conduct with that of M. de Talleyrand,—“un grand seigneur dans la plus belle accepte,”—who was on the most cordial terms with his cook, and devoted more time to the consideration of entrées and soufflés than to the affairs of Europe.

It is to be feared that such base economies as those on which Caréme is so justly severe are not unknown in modern kitchens, especially where the pâtés and jellies are supplied by a neighbouring pastry-cook, and probably (if un​touched) do duty at several dinners in succession. Words are not strong enough to condemn the practice—for such réchauffés destroy the original flavour and quality of the dish, however excellent, and, what is worse, they destroy a guest's confidence in the good faith of his host. No man likes to be asked to dine off the remains of yesterday’s banquet, and he probably feels, if he does not express, the same indignation as Mr Osborne after a dinner at his married daughter’s house. ‘“So Russell Square is not good enough for Mrs Maria, hey?” said the old gentleman, rattling up the carriage-windows; “so she invites her father and sister to a second day’s dinner (if those sides, or ongtrys, as she calls them, weren’t served yesterday, I'm d——d), and to meet City folks and littery men!”

Caréme was bribed by the offer of £1000 a-year to become chef to George IV, and for a few months he officiated at Carlton House; but the fogs of England affected his spirits, and he felt that his merits were not appreciated at their proper value by his master. “Je lui ai composé une langue de veau en surprise. Il I'a mangé, mais il n’a pas su de la comprendre.” So he composed a last sauce—“la dernière pensée de Caréme”—and returned to Paris, where he became cook to Baron Rothschild. There is an eloquent passage (too long to be quoted here) in one of Lady Morgan’s letters describing a dinner cooked by Caréme at the Baron's villa, which gives us a high idea both of the artist’s excellence and of the lady’s taste in such matters.^[2]

A little previously to the time of which we have been speaking—the time, that is, of Caréme and Beauvilliers, when French cookery may be said to have reached its zenith—there appeared the famous ‘Almanach des Gourmands,’ which is as well known, by name at all events, as the ‘Almanach de Gotha’; yet it may be questioned if one reader out of twenty knows anything of the book beyond its name, and still less knows anything of its author, the famous gastronomist, Grimod de la Regniére. As a matter of fact, however, there is little in his life that is either interesting or edifying. He was rich, eccentric, and a great epicure, and his dinners and his knowledge of cookery were equally famous. The first part of his celebrated ‘Almanach,’ which has been ever since a household word among bon vivants, was written in 1803, and from the day of its first appearance the book has been widely popular, not so much for its practical hints on the science of the table, or from the menus of famous dinners or the recipes for soups and entrées, which form a large portion of the eight volumes, as from the charming language in which the merest platitudes and commonplaces are set out, so as to interest and amuse the reader almost in spite of himself. As such, the book has had its admirers among men of every type of character—from the late Duke of York, who considered that, next to the Bible, it was the best book in the world, down to Macaulay, who, reading, as he did, everything, from Photius to the last twopenny ballad, was a diligent student of the ‘Almanach,’ and used to tease his nephew, Sir George Trevelyan, then a Harrow boy, with long quotations from its pages. ​We have no wish to inflict any such long quotations on our readers, but a few examples of the style and spirit of the author will not be out of place. Grimod is speaking of popular superstitions, such as spilling salt at table or being one of thirteen guests, and he adds a comforting reflection. “This number,” he says “need cause you no anxiety except the fear that there may not be enough to eat for more than twelve. As to the salt-cellar, the essential point is not to upset it into a good dish.” He denounces general invitations: “The only acceptable invitations are those given for a fixed day, and it is better they should be in writing.” In another passage he lays down a rule which some of the selfish diners-out of the modern school might well take to heart: “You should never speak badly of a man who has just been your host, and your forbearance should be proportioned to the excellence of the dinner he gave you. For an ordinary dinner eight days would be a sufficient limit for your patience; but it need never exceed six months, after which date your tongue regains full liberty of speech. But,” he adds, “your Amphitryon has always the power of binding you afresh by another invitation given at the proper moment.” Again: “Indigestion is the most ordinary form of death which befalls princes of the Church, and, without doubt, is the pleasantest and most honourable for a true gourmand.” As to the argument against eating robin-redbreasts on the ground of cruelty, he sagely remarks that “if one were to have compassion on all the world, one would eat nothing; and, putting the question of pity aside, it must be confessed that this amiable bird makes an excellent roast.” Some of his phrases have become almost classical, such as “the turbot is the pheasant of the sea,” and “veal is the chameleon of cookery,” because it can assume so many forms in an entrée.

But we must leave the ‘Almanach’ and pass to another work on cooking, which appeared a few years later, and is perhaps even more celebrated, or at least more widely read. This is ‘La Physiologie du Goût,” by Brillat Savarin, which has had the somewhat doubtful honour of being translated into English in recent years. This book, like its predecessor, abounds in aphorisms and philosophical reflections on matters connected with the table, but it is more amusing because it is more personal; indeed nothing can be more charming in its way than the delightful egotism of the writer, his candid avowal of his likes and dislikes, and the sincerity of his faith in gastronomy as being the highest of the arts and sciences, Added to this, the purity and picturesqueness of the language make it a model of literary style.

One has only to glance at the headings of the chapters in the ‘Physiologie du Goût’ to see that almost every subject connected with the art of dining has its place among them: taste, appetite, digestion, food, good living, sleep, corpulence, fasting, and other kindred topics, are discussed in turn, and the writer’s convictions are supported by numerous personal anecdotes and experiences. Yet, if we may believe Caréme and others who knew the writer of these charming essays, he was not a gourmand in the proper sense of the word, but simply a gros mangeur, talked little at table, was wanting in ease of manner, had a lourd air, and looked like a country ​parson. Be this as it may, there is no appearance of dulness or want of taste in the book itself.

The first condition of gastronomic enjoyment is undoubtedly a good appetite, and Brillat Savarin gives us several stories of heroic performances at the table. One of his friends devoured thirty-two dozen oysters before sitting down to dinner, and then ate his meal with the vigour of a man who had been fasting for some time: another, the vicar of Bregnier, disposed of the following dishes at a single meal,—soup, bouilli, a leg of mutton, a capon, a large bowl of salad, a large slice of cheese, a bottle of wine, and a decanter of water. Brillat Savarin was present, and assures us that “nothing was left of the mutton but the bone, nothing of the capon but the skeleton, and nothing of the salad but the bowl—apres quoi il se reposa”—as well, indeed, he might.

Nothing that we have read in history equals this Gargantuan feat, except, perhaps, the performance of the “glutton of Kent,” whom Fuller places among his worthies, and who devoured, at a single meal, “fourscore rabbits and eighteen black puddings, London measure.” Coming down to more recent times, there is the probably apocryphal story of a Scotsman who ate a solan goose by way of a whet for dinner; and of a Welsh nobleman who devoured a covey of partridges for breakfast every morning. There is also a well-known legend, which found its way into ‘Punch,’ of a certain eminent politician who entered an eating-house near the Old Bailey, and after putting away seven pounds and a half of cold boiled beef, observed cheerfully to the landlord, “Capital beef this! One may cut and come again here.” To which the landlord, regarding him grimly, made reply,—“Sir, you may cut, but I'm d——d if you shall come again!”

We are tempted to add one more story, which we believe has not as yet found its way into print. On the Derby day, a few years ago, a well-known man of business—let us call him Mr X.—went down to Epsom with the rest of the world, and, after the great race was over, bethought himself of lunch. It was then four o’clock, and he was ravenously hungry. Seeing no friendly coach or carriage at hand, he entered one of the refreshment-booths, where a three-and sixpenny meal was provided for all comers. He attacked some ribs of beef, and soon cleared them to the bone; then he “went for” a chicken, which also disappeared; finally, he espied a pigeon-pie at the other end of the table, which had not yet been touched, and ordered the waiter to bring it to him. But the waiter, after a whispered conference with an individual in black, who had been observing Mr X.’s performances with suspicion and alarm, came and said confidentially, “If you please, sir, the governor says as how he won’t charge you nothing for anything, if you'll go away at once.” Mr X., however, insisted on his rights, and declined this obliging offer; then he proceeded to make a vigorous onslaught on the pigeon-pie.

From Brillat Savarin it is a natural transition to Alexandre Dumas, who, great in all he did—beau mangeur as well as beau conteur—has left us his ‘Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine,’ a large and sumptuous volume. Dumas knew the principles of the art as well as most professional cooks, ​and could himself cook an admirable dinner of many courses; he had studied the subject long and deeply; and finally, in his green old age, he set himself down to write this great dictionary, which proved to be the last of the thousand volumes which bear his name, and which was given to the world after his death in 1870.

In the introductory chapter, Dumas tells us a good deal about the restaurants of his day, which had increased so rapidly in Paris since their introduction in 1770, that at the beginning of this century there were more than five hundred of them. The most famous were those of Beauvilliers, the Rocher de Cancale, and Verys, the last of which supplied the table of the Allied Sovereigns in 1814 for the moderate sum of £120 a-day, exclusive of wine. On the death of one of the partners in this firm, a sumptuous monument was erected to his memory in Père-la-Chaise, recording the fact that “his whole life was consecrated to the useful arts.”

Later on, Dumas gives us a list of the restaurants most in vogue in the middle of this century: some of them are still flourishing, though in many cases their fame is a thing of the past. Among their names we read Verdier, Maison d’Or, Bignon, Brébant, Riche, Le Café Anglais, Peters, Véfour, Frères Provenceaux. But he adds (and every one who knows Paris will agree with him in this) that it is not always at the most famous restaurant that one gets the best dinner. “On dine mieux chez Maire, chez Philippe, ou chez Magny” (these were traiteurs in those days) que chez les premiers restaurateurs de Paris.” It was at Philippe’s that a historical dinner took place in 1850, the guests including Dumas, Count d’Orsay—who ordered the dinner—Lord Brougham, Lord Dufferin, and Mr Hayward. We are told that the banquet was worthy of the occasion, and was crowned with Clos Vougeot of almost priceless value.

From this date may be traced the decline and fall of French cookery, so far as the restaurants are concerned, which certainly did not maintain under the Second Empire the high standard of perfection which they had reached in the days of Caréme and Beauvilliers. Many of the best chefs were attracted to London by the high salaries offered by the English nobility and club committees; others were enticed by American millionaires. Fashion changed, and the school of great epicures like Brillat Savarin passed out of date: again, men dined more at home, or if they dined at a restaurant, they no longer cared to pay the fabulous prices which their grand-fathers had paid without a murmur. And as the demand for first-class dinners fell off, so the supply began to cease. Then came the Franco-German war, which ruined many of the chief restaurateurs and thoroughly demoralised the French cuisine. “The best tables,” writes Dumas, “have been overturned by death, or revolutions worse than death; cellars have been broken up, and the most celebrated wines sold by public auction.” Lastly, of recent years there have been the two great Exhibitions, and the plethora of visitors, the ceaseless crowd of hungry and unappreciative guests, filled the pockets of the restaurateurs, but at the same time gave a final blow to French cookery, from which it has never recovered.

No Englishman knows his Paris ​so well, or is more skilled in the science of the table than Mr Sala, and during the Exhibition of 1878 he made it his special business to go the round of the chief restaurants. He candidly acknowledges that, while prices have risen, the art of cookery has deteriorated, and that it is impossible in these days to dine well at any restaurant under 20 francs a-head, exclusive of wine. He specifies the Café Anglais, which was then, and is probably still, one of the best restaurants in Paris, as a place where the dinner was good and the prices “high but not extortionate.” But it must be confessed that the figures quoted by him—16 francs for a pheasant, 8 francs for a perdrix aux choux, and the same sum for a bottle of Pontet Canet—would be called dear even at the Bristol or Continental.

Mr Sala gives a pathetic description of the agonies he suffered during what he calls “the Diner Burnand” in the Palais Royal, which lasted an hour and a half, and was remarkable for its exceeding badness; but why he should give to such a repast the name of the genial editor of ‘Punch’ does not seem clear, until he explains to us that his first words on descending the staircase which led to the restaurant were those of the author of ‘Happy Thoughts,’—“Joy, joy, but never again with you, Robin!” And probably “never again” has been echoed by others of his countrymen who, in an evil hour, have been induced by the low price of the alluring menu chalked outside the restaurant to ascend some of those ill-omened staircases in the Palais Royal.

These cheap restaurants have, however, a large clientèle among English and German visitors, and it is interesting to watch the spirit and abandon with which young Englishmen, probably set down for the first time in a Paris restaurant, plunge into the heart of a menu which they can neither read nor understand, and with the utmost confidence order dish after dish, which they have never before seen or tasted. In this respect, if in no other, they certainly show themselves worthy descendants of the adventurous youths who made the grand tour in the last century—

Nothing comes amiss to these dauntless young epicures: they drink the sourest petit bleu as gaily as if it was the choicest Latfitte; they eat strange morsels of fish or poultry disguised in stranger sauces with apparent gusto and satisfaction; and their appetites and digestions are proof against unsavoury messes which have apparently come straight from the kitchen of Canidia. Only once have we seen one of these youths fairly baffled and disconcerted at the unexpected shape taken by what he supposed was a familiar dish. He had in his innocence ordered moules à la marinière; but instead of the red mullet he expected, there was brought to him an uncanny mess of shell-fish of all colours—black, yellow, and green—served in a silver basin. These mussels were too much even for his hardened appetite; his heart failed him, and the waiter was ordered to remove the dish.

Passing to the subject of English restaurants, it may be remarked that Mr Innes Shand, in his excellent account of the progress of England during the last half-century, has omitted what would have been a most interesting chapter—namely, “Dining​houses, old and new”; for in no other part of our social system has such a real and rapid advance been made in the right direction during the last fifty years. In the earlier part of this century English cookery, both in middle-class households and in public places of entertainment, was a byword among the nations for its coarseness and insipidity; and we were still open to Voltaire’s reproach of having fifty religions and only one sauce—that sauce apparently being melted butter, as the bread sauce, on which our English cook so justly prides herself, is regarded by our French neighbours as an unwholesome form of poultice. The taverns and coffee-houses, which bad been such an agreeable feature of London life in the preceding century, had degenerated into dingy cook-shops and forlorn dining-rooms, resembling that in which Mr Pickwick and his friends waited for the Bath coach, and which is described as “the last resource of human dejection, divided into boxes for the solitary confinement of travellers, and furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a live waiter, the latter article being kept in a small kennel for washing glasses in a corner of the apartment.” Few of the modern clubs were then in existence; and though a rich man could then, as now, dine off turtle and venison at the Albion, or eat fish-dinners at Greenwich, there were few places where a man of moderate means—the clerk from the public offices, the lawyer, or the country visitor—could get a tolerable meal at a reasonable price. There was a cluster of old-fashioned houses near Temple Bar—the Cock, the Mitre, the Rainbow, and the Cheshire Cheese; there was Simpson’s in the Strand, there were the Blue Posts in Cook Street, and later on the Wellington, built on the site of Crockford’s and now the Devonshire Club; and there were some French houses of indifferent repute in the neighbourhood of Soho Square; but the modern restaurant with its table d’hôte dinner and luxurious appointments was almost unknown.

At present there are probably over a hundred establishments where you can dine cheaply and with comfort—in fact, il n'y a qu'un embarras de choix. There are dinners off the joint, dinners from the grill and dinners of five courses at a fixed price; and there are also diners Français and diners Parisiens, as to which it can only be said that you get a great deal for your money, and that the quantity is more remarkable than the quality. Again, if you prefer dining à la carte, there are at least three restaurants (let us select Kettner’s, the Café Royale, and Romano’s, though there are probably several others) where the wine and the cooking are equally good, and where, if you make a judicious selection from the menu, aided by the head waiter’s counsel and experience, you can get almost as good a dinner for your money as at the Café Anglais itself.

After all that has been said on the shortcomings and demerits of English cookery, it is at least curious that two of the most famous chefs of modern times—Ude, who was at one time head cook at Windsor, and Urbain Dubois, chef to the Emperor of Austria—should have expressed their deliberate opinion that English cookery, when well done, was better than that of any other country in the world. The material, they maintained, and quite rightly, was far superior—the English beef and mutton having ​a finer flavour, and requiring no adjuncts in the way of sauce, provided that it was properly cooked; and they might have added that, owing to the distance of Paris from the sea-coast, fresh fish, especially salmon, is rarely procurable, and still more rarely served up, even in the first-class restaurants. Certainly there are some standard English dishes which in their own way are difficult to beat; and Lord Dudley (the grandfather of the present earl) used to declare that “turtle-soup, a small turbot, a neck of venison, ducklings and green peas, and apricot tart, formed a dinner fit for an emperor.” All these are distinctly national dishes, and so far we may pride ourselves upon having material which (unless it is deliberately spoiled in the cooking) is of the highest merit in the eyes of a gastronomist, and adds strength and dignity to the most elaborate menu. But when it comes to a question of entrées, and réchauffés, and petits plats, the case is different; and this is just where an English cook breaks down and a French cook excels; and the lower we go in the social scale the more evident does this difference become. A French labourer’s wife will make a capital croûte au pot from a little stock, a few vegetables, and a crust or two of bread—from materials, in fact, which an Englishwoman would probably consign to the dust-bin. With a few eggs, some flour, butter, and a slice or two of bacon, she will turn out a very fair omelette au jambon; she will convert a few morsels of coarse fish, stewed with herbs, onions, and a little rough wine, into an appetising matelotte; and she will probably complete the repast with a salade de légumes, made of some cold cooked vegetables, with oil and vinegar. Nowhere was this difference in the culinary talent of the two nations in making use of poor materials more clearly shown than in the Crimean war, when the French and English were encamped side by side. The English troops had, if anything, the better rations of the two; but while our men were content to toast their slices of pork or beef at the end of their ramrods, the Zouaves and Chasseurs made excellent soups and bouillis in their camp kettles.

Of late years there has undoubtedly been an improvement in our middle-class kitchens. The National School of Cookery at South Kensington and Mrs Marshall’s practical lectures on the subject have done much to educate the rising generation of cooks; and while the number of cookery-books published of late years would stock a small library, some of them (and these are by no means the worst) are written by ladies, who have gone far to disprove Dr. Johnson’s opinion of their incapacity in such a matter. “Women,” he assured Boswell, “can spin very well, but they cannot write a good book of cookery. I could write a better book of cookery than has ever yet been written. It should be a book on philosophical principles.” Merely as a matter of curiosity, it is a pity that the great Doctor never found time to carry out his theories, for his tastes in gastronomy were scarcely those of a Brillat Savarin. His favourite delicacy was an over-boiled leg of pork, or a veal-pie stuffed with Plums and sugar; and he was accustomed to give additional flavour to the plum-pudding on his plate by pouring a tureen of lobster sauce over it.

One of the numerous cookery-books, which have recently appeared, deserves a word of praise for the writer’s excellent idea of arranging a series of bills of fare, written in French and English, for every month of the year.^[4] They must be a perfect boon to an uninventive housekeeper. The recipes, which follow the menus, are both varied and suggestive, especially in the important matters of fish entrées and quenelles. Every one who has hunted with the Pytchley knows the genial Major L——, and his practical knowledge of all things connected with the art of dining; and it is an open secret, we believe, that he has been assisted by the suggestions and advice of M. Béguinot of St James's Street, formerly Lord Spencer’s chef at Althorp.

But though cookery-books have multiplied and our English cooks have improved, they still have much to learn in the way of economising their materials and varying their bills of fare; and in his admirable little book on ‘Food and Feeding,’ Sir Henry Thompson has shown us how many French dishes are within the capacity of an ordinary cook, who will take the time and trouble to prepare them from a proper recipe. There are those excellent vegetable soups, for instance, croûte au pot and paysanne, so rarely seen on our English tables; then there are the manifold ways in which cold meat may be braised or stewed: a greater use of vegetables, especially of haricots and tomatoes, is strongly recommended, as well as of fish of the second class, such as the dory, sea-bream, basse, and halibut, to ​say nothing of maccaroni and salads.

Then, again, there are certain old-fashioned but succulent dishes which our forefathers delighted in, but which are now considered unfashionable. What can be better, for instance, than a kidney-dumpling, a home-made partridge-pie, broad beans and bacon, or a boiled edge-bone of beef? And, above all, what has this world to offer that is more delectable than the roast sucking-pig immortalised by Elia?—

There is no circumstance connected with dining for which we have all of us more reason to be thankful, than that the ponderous dinner-parties, long since satirised by Dickens, and recently condemned by Sir Henry Thompson, are rapidly becoming things of the past. Who has not groaned over the interminable length of these dreary banquets—the hot room, the crowded table, the hired waiters, the vulgar profusion, the greasy soups and indigestible entrées, the fiery sherry and the dubious champagne. Such dinners have long been banished from London society, and if they still linger, it is among the doctors and attorneys of provincial towns, who give a dinner-party once a-year after the manner of their forefathers, and sacrifice both comfort and good taste to an ostentatious display.

The conditions and accessories of a dinner, as it should be, are well laid down by Sir Henry Thompson, whose “octaves” in Wimpole Street are as famous as his blue-and-white china; but he must forgive us for observing that Brillat Savarin anticipated many of his suggestions some eighty years ago, in the fourteenth chapter of his famous ‘Physiologie.’ Taking hints from both of these high authorities, we may sum up the laws and requirements of a dinner which shall combine simplicity with excellence. The number of guests should never exceed twelve; the room should be warm, but not unduly close; the table well lighted; waiting quiet and unobtrusive; the dishes choice, but few in number; the wines of the first quality, each in its degree; “the men should be spirited without pretension, and the women pleasant without coquetry;” “nobody should leave before eleven, but everybody should be in bed before twelve: whoever,” Brillat Savarin concludes, “has been a guest at a dinner combining all these conditions, may be said to have assisted at his own apotheosis.”