DISHES OF HISTORY

History and cookery are linked together so closely that a study of the one science implies, or should imply, a study of the other. For the best part of a century and a half the notable names of contemporary history are allied to dishes which perpetuated their glory and have come down to us as ornaments alike of the monarchy and the menu.

The period is of course that of the fourteenth and fifteenth Louis of France, and for several (mainly esoteric) reasons that brilliant and fascinating age produced most of the classic dishes of high cookery, dishes which have become, so to say, standardized, and which every chef who respects the traditions of his art serves, or ought to serve, in precisely the same manner in which they were designed by their original inventors.

The average diner, when he sees on the menu of his Masonic banquet, his annual Mansion House dinner, or his City Company feast, the name of some historic celebrity tacked on to the roast, the entrée or the sweet, recks little of its origin and inner meaning. To him it is just something to be eaten, nothing more or less. And yet, if the chef be competent, properly trained, and alive to his educational responsibilities, these dishes have each their own story, their own interest, and their own special and peculiar virtue.

Take as an instance Côtelettes de Mouton à la Maintenon. These succulent dainties perpetuate for all time the memory of a lady, who, whatsoever her faults, was at least charming, interesting, and something more than passing fair. When the Grand Monarque became queasy and past his prime, Madame invented, out of her own powdered head, these cutlets, which in their envelopes of paper (en papillotes) guarded the royal digestion against the evils of too much grease. Again, Cailles à la Mirepoix owe their origin to the Marshal of that name; Poulardes à la Montmorency were actually first cooked by the Duke de Montmorency; Petites Bouchées à la Reine are called after Maria Leczinska, wife of Louis Quinze; and filets de Volaille à la Bellevue were evolved for the King by the Pompadour, who excelled in the dainty manipulation of her silver batterie de cuisine.

The Regent Orleans is responsible for pain à la d’Orléans, a very light and digestible form of bread; and his daughter, the Duchesse de Berri, first conceived and executed those delightful morsels filets de lapereau à la Berri. The Duchess de Villeroy, afterwards Maréchale de Luxembourg, a brilliant light of the Court of the fifteenth Louis, thought out, cooked, and christened the poulets à la Villeroy, which remain, and deservedly so, a toothsome and delightful dish, even unto this day. The Chartreuse à la Mauconseil is called after the Marquise of that name; and the Vol-au-Vent à la Nesle, which is still often met with, though not always classically cooked, derives its name from the Marquis de Nesle (not he of the Tower), who refused a peerage “to remain premier marquis of France.”

In rather earlier days the Marquis de Béchamel invented a cream sauce for turbot and cod which still, if somewhat perverted, perpetuates his name. Gigot à la Mailly was the result of profound study on the part of the first mistress of Louis XV, who by her culinary art attempted, and succeeded, in alienating the royal affection from her own sister, who was an undesirable rival. Soupe à la Condé was, in later years, called after the famous cousin of Louis XVIII; and the Prince de Soubise, notorious under Louis XV for giving great dinners, and paying nobody but his cooks and the young ladies of the opera, lent his name, through his cook, Bertrand, to the onion sauce which we still hold dear.

French cooks of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who did honour to their employers by christening magnificent creations after them only copied previous Apician artists, who, according to the “De Opsoniis,” named their inventions after Varro, Julius Matius, Julius Fronto, Celsinius, Vitellius, Commodus, and Didius Julianus. But the chefs of the golden age of cookery also delighted to honour men of comparatively humble station who took a keen and semi-professional interest in the art of la gueule, as Montaigne calls it.

There was, for instance, a certain petit abbé, le père Douillet, to whom much honour is done in those four delightful volumes of cook-lore entitled “Les Soupers de la Cour.” They were published in 1755, and were written or compiled by one Manon, a literary cook of the period to whom reference has already been made. The abbé appears to have been much appreciated by the author, for his books contain delectable recipes for Poulets, Brochet, Merlans, Cailles, and Champignons, all au Père Douillet, not, it will be noticed, à la (manière de) Père Douillet, but just au Père Douillet, a rare and great distinction.

The best-known official cooks of Louis XV were Moustier and Vincent de la Chapelle. The latter is responsible for a very serious and noteworthy cookery book which has never lacked honour in its own and other countries. De la Gorse mentions a dinner given by the King, at St. Hubert, where all the dishes were prepared by the distinguished guests, such as the Prince de Beaufremont, the Marquis de Polignac, the Duke de Goutant, the Duke d’Ayen, the Duke de Coigny, and the Duke de la Vallière; the King himself contributed a Poularde au Basilic.

Such a famous gourmet as Richelieu naturally has left his mark in culinary literature. We have the Chartreuse à la Cardinal, Boudin de poulet à la Richelieu, Gigot à la Richelieu, and many more. The rather famous potage à la Camerani, a most excellent concoction, is called after a notability of that name, to whom Grimod de la Reynière dedicated volume one of his immortal “Almanach des Gourmands,” as “one of the most erudite epicures of France.”

King Stanislas Leszcnyski of Poland invented the Baba to make amends for the harshness of his own name, which the French tongue found hard to pronounce. Its original ingredients were German yeast, flour, butter, eggs, cream, sugar, saffron, candied peel, raisins, currants, and Madeira, Malaga, or rum. According to Brillat-Savarin, the Baba is especially beloved by women; “it renders her more plastic, and man more expansive—only to look at it the eyes laugh and the heart sings.”

Who thinks nowadays of the battle when he degustates Poulet à la Marengo? And yet nothing is more authentic than its inception on that memorable occasion. The battle occurred, it may be remembered, on 14 June, 1800. Napoleon had, naturally, a somewhat hurried meal. There was no butter in camp, but plenty of sound olive oil. So the casserole was bottomed with oil, to which was added the garlic and the mignonette. The fowl was then moistened with white wine and garnished with sippets of toast, mushrooms, and morels, in default of truffles. The result was pronounced to be exquisite. Nowadays we omit the mignonette and substitute a bay leaf, thyme, and parsley; garlic is thought to be too strong, so we use shalot; the mushrooms are still permitted, but we ignore the morels. And so we have the Poulet à la Marengo.

Literature has been honoured by Carême in his Soupe à la Lamartine, history in Potage à la Dumesnil, philosophy in Purée Buffon, and just before the death of the great artist he invented a vegetable soup which he christened Soupe à la Victor Hugo. This same cook paid the doctor who cured him of indigestion by dedicating to him his Perche à la Gaubert. In rather later years we find a Poularde à la George Sand invented by Azèma, formerly chef at Prince’s. It is stewed in white wine, flavoured with crayfish, butter and tails, truffles and olives, with a garnishing of feuilletage.

The stage is ever prominent in gastronomic annals; it must suffice to mention Filets de Sole à la Belle Otèro, Pêche Melba, Croustades à la Coquelin, Salade Rachel, and Consommé Sarah Bernhardt, all of which are nowadays fairly standard dishes.

Although no man was ever more susceptible to flattery and adulation than Alexandre Dumas (père), yet there were marked degrees in the way in which he accepted such complimentary tribute and homage, varying from the mere merci, mon cher, in reply to congratulations on a recently published book, to a cordial embrace and the swearing of an everlasting friendship to the man who praised his cooking.

Dumas’s partiality for travelling and hunting developed his culinary instincts, and he has related in his “Journey through Spain” how dire necessity suggested to him the excellence of salad mixed without oil or vinegar. References to cookery are scattered here and there all through his works, particularly in his “Impressions de Voyage,” and again in his “Propos d’Art et de Cuisine,” wherein occurs the famous “Causerie Culinaire,” embodying the recipe for “macaroncello” and the delightful address to his readers, “Je prie Dieu qu’il vous tienne en bon appétit, vous conserve en bon estomac, et vous garde de faire de la littérature.”

The author of “An Englishman in Paris” describes how he watched Dumas cook a whole dinner, consisting of “soupe aux choux,” a wonderful carp, “ragout de mouton à la hongroise,” “rôti de faisans,” and a “salade japonaise.” He adds: “I never dined like that before or after—not even a week later, when Dr. Véron and Sophie made the amende honorable in the Rue Taitbout.”

In the kitchen, as in the theatre, the great novelist was master of all difficulties. He delighted to make a triumph of an opportunity of which others would only have made a failure. For himself he would have been content with a couple of eggs; but if, as he wrote, he heard the cook complaining, “What shall I do? There are twenty to dinner this evening, and I have only three tomatoes left for my sauce! It is impossible!” then the master would lift his head and cry, “Let me see what I can do!”

So saying, he would rush headlong into the kitchen just as he was in his usual working dress, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and calling everybody in the place round him to watch his prowess, he would labour among the stewpans for a good hour, ordering all those who had followed him to the kitchen to different menial tasks—one to slice the carrots, one to peel potatoes, one to chop up herbs—turning them all into scullions in fact.

The blustering, boisterous genius as easily dominated the kitchen as he did the literary world of the time. His cooking was energy and bustle personified. Meat and butter were mingled with fine wines in the saucepans, half a dozen sauces were being watched in the bain-marie, and all the while he was cracking jokes and laughing at them most loudly himself.

It was a wonderful and inspiring sight, and, as may be imagined, Dumas seasoned the conversation as well as the dishes with the spice of his wit and humour. No matter how serious his thoughts had been a few moments before, it seemed as if the atmosphere of the kitchen had the power to dissipate them. He forgot all his ever-present cares, and was radiant with grease and hilarity.

Then suddenly, without the slightest warning, he would utter a melodramatic scream and rush out of the kitchen to his study. He had remembered the final dénoûment of a scene he had left unfinished. He would reinstate himself at his writing-table and take up the thread of the story as if no interruption whatever had occurred. Many a dish that delighted his guests was cooked in this extraordinary fashion, between two thrilling chapters, and the wonderful part about his culinary work was that the very dishes and ingredients seemed in some unaccountable way to accommodate themselves to his casual and erratic manner. What would have been utterly ruined under any other chef seemed to succeed even extra well under his neglect.

Lacroix (le bibliophile Jacob) said of him: “Assuredly it is a great attainment to be a romancist, but it is by no means a mediocre glory to be a cook. Romancist or cook, Dumas is a chef, and the two vocations appear in him to go hand in hand, or, rather, to be joined in one.”

Dumas often said, “When I have time I shall write a cookery book.” This was to be the crowning work of his literary career. He was constantly enumerating the vast sums which he alleged had been offered to him by various publishing houses for the right to produce this magnum opus.

It is not generally known that in the agreement which he made with the brothers Michael Lévy, in connexion with the rights of reproduction of his works already written and those that he had contracted to write in the future, he made the single exception of the famous forthcoming cookery book.

The great work “La Grande Dictionnaire de la Cuisine,” of 1152 pages, was eventually written in 1869; the manuscript was delivered to the publisher, Alphonse Lemerre, in 1870, and whilst the book was in the press the author died and the Franco-Prussian War broke out.

Its publication was therefore delayed until 1873, when it appeared with a dedication to D. J. Vuillemot, a noted hôtelier, who had managed the Café de la France, and had then opened on his own account, in 1862, a restaurant near the Madeleine, which proved a most disastrous failure. He had been previously the proprietor of the Hôtel de la Cloche et de la Bouteille at Compiègne. Dumas had made his acquaintance when hunting in the vicinity, and was afterwards in the habit of taking refuge with him when he wanted to be undisturbed in his literary work.

The arrest of some of the personages in “Monte Cristo” takes place at Vuillemot’s hotel, and Dumas christened after him the famous Lapin à la Vuillemot, which, he says, “You must absolutely have killed yourself.”

The great dictionary is perhaps something of a disappointment. It is laboured, unspontaneous, and, save in the characteristic preface, hardly worthy of its illustrious author. Nevertheless it is vast in its comprehensiveness, for, besides every imaginable dish, old and new, of the so-called legitimate cuisine, it includes receipts for lambs’ tails glacées à la chicorée, elephants’ feet, fillets of kangaroo flesh, snails à la Provençale, and directions as to the right treatment of the babiroussa, or wild Asian pig.

Contrary to his usual custom elsewhere, Dumas gives full credit to the other culinary authors whom he quotes, and he includes recipes from such acknowledged authorities as Brébant, Grimod de la Reynière, Magny, Grignon, Carême, Véfour, and others.

He gives thirty-one methods of cooking carp, and sixteen for treating artichokes. There is to be found also the Javanese formula for cooking halcyons’ nests, and an elaborate essay on the hocco.

The appendix consists of the celebrated “Etude sur la Moutarde,” which is a most flagrant réclame of la maison Bornibus, but is amusing for its sheer effrontery and impudence. There was always something colossal about the man, even when he wrote about mustard.

In Molière’s “Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme” (Act iv. sc. 1), in the scene between Dorante and Dorimène, we find this delightful passage:—

From this dinner-programme the taste of the day may fairly be gauged, and it will not be forgotten that it is in this immortal play that the famous line occurs:—

Je vis de bonne soupe, et non de beau langage;

which is so often quoted and misquoted.

But cooks are a trying and troublesome race, with extraordinarily perverse traditions of their own, a frequent antipathy to learn anything new, and an absolutely ridiculous partiality to “improve” old-fashioned dishes according to their own ideas. There ought to be condign punishment meted out to any cook who makes any so-called alteration or improvement to any well-known standardized dish, of which the composition, flavour, and artistic completeness have been settled once and for all, and to touch which is something akin to sacrilege.

Really good, intelligent, careful cooks get on in their profession, and often end up by opening establishments of their own. Many a restaurant proprietor has qualified as a first-class chef.

Does any one, by the way, know the origin of the word “restaurant”? You may search your encyclopædia in vain; but the matter is really as simple as shelling peas. The first public eating-house, as distinct from the rôtisseur, who cooked food “to be eaten off the premises,” was opened in Paris by a cook called Boulanger in 1750. Over his shop he displayed a sign bearing this inscription in kitchen Latin: “Venite omnes qui stomacho laboretis, et ego restaurabo vos.” This was taken up, gallicized, and passed into common parlance. Hence our modern use of the term, which, after all, is only a hundred and fifty years old.

In rereading an old book by the never-to-be-forgotten Guy de Maupassant I came across a delightful passage which so aptly describes the feelings of a true gourmet that I am tempted to transcribe it here for the benefit of all who belong to that noble fraternity. “To be wanting in the sense of taste is to have a stupid mouth, just as one may have a stupid mind. A man who cannot distinguish between a langouste and a lobster, between a herring—that admirable fish that carries within it all the savours and aromas of the sea—and a mackerel or a whiting, is comparable only to a man who could confound Balzac with Eugène Sue, and a symphony by Beethoven with a military march composed by some regimental bandmaster.”

This delicacy of taste was obviously denied to Mr. G. Bernard Shaw’s Uncle James in “Man and Superman,” of whom it is written:—

Another writer of to-day, of quite peculiar charm and knowledge, Mr. E. H. Cooper, in his novel “A Fool’s Year,” has a delightful description of a modern London dinner-party, of the sort too often met with in the houses of those who ought to know so much better.

“Mr. Hopper’s dinner was a thing to be remembered rather than eaten. ‘The things ought to be put into a museum of curiosities,’ said St. Ives, looking round him wearily; ‘not on a decent English dinner-table. I’ve had some turtle-soup and a bit of tongue smothered in jam, and now I’m hungry. Would there be a row if I sent for some bread and cheese? Strawberries as big as peaches, and peaches as big as young footballs, may be very remarkable to look at, but I’m not going to eat them. That waiter looks kind; I’m going to ask him to bring me a piece of Stilton hidden between two biscuits. Don’t give me away, Lady Merton. I’ll do you a good turn when I find you starving at a banquet of this kind. But you know better than to come to one without eating a couple of muffins and half a pound of plum-cake first.’”

The clamour as to the inefficiency of the typical “plain cook” is incessant and fully justified. The remedies suggested are usually futile or inexpedient. Nothing is more difficult than to get a simple meal well cooked. Nothing is more easy, in London at any rate, than to get a misdescribed semi-French dinner evilly cooked. Is there no way out of this quandary? Yes. It consists in the training and apprenticing of British-born boys to the profession of cookery.

For many years past all the leading men-cooks in clubs, restaurants, and large private establishments have been, practically without exception, foreigners, whether French, Swiss, or Italian.

In Braithwaite’s “Rules and Orders for the Government of the House of an Earl,” published in the seventeenth century, the author writes: “In ancient times noblemen contented themselves to be served with such as had been bred in their own houses, but of late times none could please some but Italians and Frenchmen.”

It is much the same in our own day. The profession of cookery among Britons has died out, and, as a result, we are fed, outside our own homes, by scores of intelligent, well-educated, practised foreign cooks, who do their work, for the most part, excellently, but who could be replaced in time by the genuine home-trained article.

Although France, and particularly the Midi, has produced the greatest cooks, there is no reason why England should lag behind. It is certain that many purely insular dishes, such as Irish stew, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, tripe and onions, and such-like, can never be properly cooked by foreigners. They have not the tradition, and are too anxious to impart their own personal touch to the dish.

It is quite true that a really great chef is as rare as a really great poet or a really great general. But there is a lesser grade of thoroughly competent chef who may most certainly be evolved from the well-educated middle-class boy of to-day. The efforts of the Food and Cookery Association of London towards this end should be actively supported by all those who are interested in the nationalization of the kitchen and the reform of our digestion.