MENUS

According to the old Greek authorities, the original Seven Sages of the kitchen were: Agris of Rhodes, who first taught the bone method of dressing fish; Nereus of Corinth, who made the conger a dish for the gods; Orion, who invented white sauce; Chariades, who achieved yellow sauce; Lampriadas, who discovered brown sauce; Atlantus, who made the most perfect restorative; and Euthynus, who cooked vegetables so exquisitely that he was named Lentillus.

These several gentlemen, combined into one, would not be all too learned in the niceties of gastronomy to be able to put together a modern dinner menu. Nowadays we want something more than mere quantity. The Gargantuan repasts of our forefathers are not for us. In those days, maybe (or perhaps not), unlimited exercise, hunting, and the like made these gross meals comparatively digestible; but we live in more delicate times, and want our viands fewer in number and more carefully cooked, with less added flavour and more of their own natural juices.

It is very true that one-half of the world does not know how the other half dines. We follow one another in sheep-like fashion round the few better-known restaurants, eating the same dinners, drinking the same wines, and seeing the same people week after week, in a dull monotony of sameness.

And yet there are a few quite nice, respectable, meetable sort of folk, who, with the cosmopolitan habit strong upon them, know their London well enough to be able to dine every night in a different country, and remain all the time within a shilling cab-fare of Piccadilly.

How is it done, you will ask? It is really very simple.

Say you want a French dinner, light, delicate, and appetizing, go to Kettner, in Church Street, Soho, or to Dieudonné, in Ryder Street, and you will find un petit diner très-fin, as good as you will obtain anywhere in Paris. If you patronize the former very old and very quaint establishment, ask to look over the kitchens; they are as neat and clean as those in a painting by an old Dutch master. As to the menu, you cannot do better than leave yourself in the hands of the maître d’hôtel.

If you are inclined to dine à l’Italienne, go to Pagani’s, in Great Portland Street, and order Minestrone; Sôle à la Pagani; Pollio alla Contrabandista, and macaroni; take plenty of Parmesan cheese with everything, and imagine yourself in Florence. Do not forget to drink the special Lacrima Christi, and inspect the “autograph-room” on the second floor.

Again, suppose you desire to spend a Teutonic evening and regale yourself on German delicacies. Hie then to the old Gambrinus, in Regent Street, run by the excellent Oddenino of the Imperial. Call the Ober Kellner and bestell yourself Fleisch Brühe, Karpfe in Bier, Kalbskotlette mit Celeri salat, and Dampfnudeln. As the American critic remarked: “If you like that sort of thing that’s just the sort of thing you’ll like.”

I have lunched Turkishly in the City off Kabobs, kid stuffed with pistachio, and most excellent rice-milk and cinnamon. There used to be a Spanish restaurant in Soho, where they gave you Escudella, Estofado, and the world-renowned Gaspacho; but I rather think that this place came to an untimely end, owing to lack of patronage. Many Russian dishes, such as Bortsch, Blinis, Koulbiac, and Shtshi, are to be met with on the ordinary menus of the best restaurants; and the Swedish Smorgasbord, or exaggerated Zakouska of the Russians, is occasionally put before one as hors d’œuvre à la Suédoise, which is, of course, quite wrong, because the real thing ought to be eaten standing up at a side-table, and not sitting down at the dinner-table. However, these are the necessary tributes to convention.

“Œufs à la coque! Of course not! I want hens’ eggs, ordinary barn-door fowls’. What silly people these foreigners are!”

The average Englishman travelling abroad has really not got much beyond that stage of insular and ignorant prejudice. But why should he go abroad at all, when here in his native London he can, if he so desires, get a dinner cooked after (sometimes very much after) the fashion of almost any country in the world?

A dining tour in London, covering the cuisines of a score of different nationalities, is not difficult, and, moreover, it is vastly instructing. Properly approached, the cooks will be found to be only too glad to show what they can do in serving dishes of their own homeland. They appreciate the compliment of being asked to illustrate their national bill of fare, and, as practically everything can be procured in London, it is an interesting experiment to spend ten days in dining in foreign countries—and going home to one’s own bed every night.

Do you wish to cross that ridiculously disappointing ocean called the Atlantic and try an American dinner? Come with me to the Criterion and instruct the American chef to prepare the dinner on the lines shown below:—

Chicken Okra.  Clam Broth.
Salt Cod and Hash.  Oyster Fritters.
Mixed Turkey and Corn.
Stuffed Red Peppers.
Terrapin Maryland.  Chipped Beef.
Scalloped Sweet Potatoes.  Cold Slaw.
Graham Pudding.
New England Indian Pudding.
Temperance Punch.

This programme calls for little explanation. The okra cooked with the chicken gives it a peculiar and quite delicious flavour. The clam is a dulcet combination of the oyster, the mussel, and the scallop.

One of the most valuable products of the United States (gastronomically speaking), the terrapin must be eaten to be believed. It must also be specially imported. It is a species of turtle—but even more so—and quite exquisite in its subtlety. New England Indian pudding, according to the recipe of Mrs. Henry W. Blair, wife of the now or former Senator for New Hampshire, is compounded as follows:—

There are a dozen Chinese restaurants in London, but they are in the East—the very far East—and you must make paradoxically for the West India Dock Road and then inquire of a policeman—who probably will not know. This Chinese menu given is a typical one.

MENU

Bow Ha Mai. (Boiled Prawns in Oil.)
Chow Chop Suey. (Bits of Pork Chops.)
Ham ob Dan.
(Preserved Eggs with Ducks’ Gizzards.)
Ob Gan Bow Vo Toway.
(Ducks’ Livers and Boiled Ham.)
Chow Ju Aw. (Boiled Pork.)
Bow Ny Gwei. (Cuttle Fish.)
Yen Wo Gong.
(Pigeon Eggs and Birds’ Nest Soup.)
Bow Hai. (Boiled Crabs.)
Yuen Tsyai. (Rice Cakes.)
Bow Ob. (Duck Tongues and Mushrooms.)
Ju Tow Ny Gow.
(Fried Roofs of the Mouths of Pigs.)
Chow ob Jun. (Ducks’ Feet.)
Lein Chi Gong. (Lily-seed Soup.)
Hong Yin Gong. (Almond Soup.)
Dein Som. (Sweetmeats.)
Yueh Biung. (Mincemeat.)
Gwoy Zoo. (Fruits.)
Kwoh Zuh. (Seeds.)
Cha Sam Soo. (Tea and Rice Whisky.)

From China to Japan is not a far cry, but I fear you cannot dine Japanesily in the East; you must come West, and even then engage a special cook from the Legation or the Japanese Club. Still it is to be done, and this menu gives a series of titbits which are in themselves most appetizing. You may feel inclined afterwards to go elsewhere and eat a chop, but that is not the fault of the Japanese cuisine, but of your own large appetite.

MENU

Luimano.  (Fish Soup.)
Shira.  (Bean Soup.)
Ohira.  (Vegetable Soup.)
Sashimi.  (Raw Sliced Fish.)
Nizakana.  (Boiled Fish.)
Teriyaki.  (Roast Fish.)
Shiwoyaki.  (Roast Fish.)
Muchitori.  (Vegetables.)
Umani.  (Fish and Vegetables.)
Trubonomoni.  (Vegetables.)
Gozen.  (Rice.)
Tsukemono.  (Pickles.)
Shoyu.  (Sauce.)
Saki.

In Scandinavian restaurants, which are to be found in the neighbourhood of the docks, where Danes, Swedes, and Norwegian sailors mostly congregate, the food is quite excellent. Simple, well cooked, and very toothsome. The Swedish menu which I have given is not, of course, the sort of dinner that a Dalarne peasant would get, but the sort of thing that, if you give proper notice, can be prepared for you by a knowledgeable Scandinavian cook.

MENU

Kraftor.  (Crayfish.)
Korvel Soppa.  (Chervil Soup.)
Kokt Halmstad Lax.  (Boiled Salmon.)
Stekt Sjotunga.  (Roasted Soles.)
Kalfbrass Arter.
(Stewed Veal and Peas.)
Brytbonor.  (Broad Beans.)
Farska Carotter.  (Fresh Carrots.)
Kyckling.  (Chicken.)
Ungorre.
Tomatsallad.
Blandad Fruvt.  (Fruit Salad.)
Jordgubbar.  (Strawberries.)
Glacemarenger.  (Ice Pudding.)

For those who do not object to oil and garlic there is much that is attractive in the Spanish cuisine. There is only one place—as yet—in London where a real Spanish dinner is to be had, and then it must be specially ordered; but there are several Spanish chefs who, on persuasion, can be bribed to cook a dinner on the lines indicated.

MENU

Entremeses variados.  (Hors d’œuvre.)
Sopa.  (Soup.)
Ostras a la Espanola.  (Oysters.)
Pescado Chambord.  (Fish.)
Pichones a la Provenzal.
Jamon y Pavo con Jalea de Grosellas.
(Ham and Gooseberry Jelly.)
Salomillo de ternera con trufas.
Ensalada.  (Salad.)
Esparragos.  (Asparagus.)
Quesos Variados.  (Sweets.)

The Italian style of cookery must not be judged by the examples of it in the thousands of cheap restaurants scattered throughout London. As a matter of fact they are mostly run by Swiss, either French-Swiss, German-Swiss, Italian-Swiss, or Swiss-Swiss. The real Italian style of feeding is quite excellent, and at most of the best West End restaurants they have at least one Italian cook, who, if the dinner be intelligently ordered, will be only too delighted to show his skill.

MENU

Antipasto.
Vermicelli al Brodo.
Minestrone alla Milanaise.
Rombo, salsa Olandese.
Gnocchi alla Piemontese.
Medaglione di Manso all’ Italiana.
Patate Novelle.
Anitra arrosto.
Insalata.
Pere al Nebiolo.
Gelato alla Vaniglia.

There is an Indian restaurant in Stafford Street which appeals to all Anglo-Indians—and to many others who appreciate a real curry, either dry or wet, Madras, Ceylon, Bombay, or any other style. The menu as follows can be cooked to perfection, and it is quite quaint to be greeted by white-robed, blue-turbaned attendants with a polite “Salaam, sahib!” They make good waiters, too; silent, quick, and deft.

MENU

Bhurta.  (Hors d’œuvre.)
Shorwa.  (Soup.)
Muchee Salna.  (Fish Curry.)
Hulvan Kabbab.  (Lamb Cutlets.)
Teeter Pallow.  (Partridge Pilaff.)
Subzie Chichkey.  (Vegetable Curry.)
Mithau.  (Sweets.)
Meva.  (Fruit.)
Kava.  (Coffee.)

Where so many are good it would be invidious to say which is the best German restaurant in London, and it would also be a gross mistake to imagine that a German dinner is all sauerkraut and sausage. On the contrary, good German cookery (whether north or south) is as good as in any other part of Europe, and in some respects better. It can be sampled in several German restaurants in London. I would advise all visitors at a German restaurant to try the Prinz Pückler, an ice-pudding, which may be singled out as being especially worthy of imitation.

About French cookery there is nothing new to be said, because every one knows—or ought to know—that when it is good it is very good indeed, and when it is bad—it is horrid. In London it is not difficult to obtain examples both of the good and the horrid French styles. The horrid will not be needed twice! The real cuisine bourgeoise, which does not attempt to disguise the true flavour of the meats with unholy sauces, is nearly the very best in the world.

Last, but not least, of all, in all probability best of all, is a real English menu, and it is really difficult to say where it may best be ordered, for the maître d’hôtel of a big restaurant looks askance at a bill of fare without one single French word in it, not even an à la.

A dear lady whose wit was better than her French pronunciation once said at a little dinner, “It is not so much the menu that matters, as the men you sit next to.” And really the programme is not by any means as important as the cooking thereof.

Old-fashioned Christmas cookery was, no doubt, of a heavier and more serious nature than ours of to-day, although the compounding of the historic plum-pudding seems to have been much the same. Here is the recipe of Mr. Richard Briggs, “many years cook at the Globe Tavern, the White Hart, and now at the Temple Coffee House.” It appears in his “English Art of Cookery,” published in 1788:—

This is a curious recipe, which, I think, might work out very well. My copy of this old book bears the following quaint inscription on the fly-leaf: “The gift of Andrew Newton, Esquire, to the Dean and Chapter of Lichfield for the use of the Library of that Cathedral.” What can the Dean and Chapter have wanted with a cookery book?

“You can’t please everybody,” as the old fisherman remarked to the grumbling angler who brought up a red-herring at the end of his line, and there are doubtless some—many, maybe—who prefer a less seasonable dinner than the stereotyped Christmas meal. For such this dainty and simple menu is humbly suggested:—

• Potage poule au pot Henri IV.
• Merlans à la Bretonne.
• Filet de Bœuf à la Provençale.
• Chapons du Mans rôtis.
• Ragout de truffes.
• Fonds d’Artichauts demi-glace.
• Bombe Chantilly.

As a matter of fact, this was the dinner given a short while ago in Paris by the Société des Amis des Livres, who know as much about cookery as they do about bookery. It is worthy of record for its simplicity and completeness.

For those who like to be thoroughly conventional, and yet at the same time to let sweet reasonableness attend their feasts, let me recommend a Christmas dinner fashioned on somewhat the following lines:—

• Consommé with Italian paste.
• Oyster soup.
• Turbot, Hollandaise sauce with capers.
• Brill and Tartare sauce.
• Turkey stuffed with chestnuts or fresh truffles.
• Fillet of beef, horse-radish sauce.
• Soufflé of fowl.
• Westphalian goose breast with winter spinach.
• Stewed celery.
• Plum pudding, brandy sauce.
• Mince pies.
• Chartreuse of oranges.
• Welsh rabbit.
• Devilled biscuit.

This is a special Christmas dinner prepared by the late Sir Henry Thompson, whose views on food and feeding are well known. It is most certainly a very happy combination of the necessities and the delicacies of the season, and as such needs no further recommendation. It is perhaps especially applicable to country-house parties, where both sexes are wont to have a pretty appetite.

“Science can analyse a pork chop, and say how much of it is phosphorus and how much is protein, but science cannot analyse any man’s wish for a pork chop, and say how much of it is hunger, how much nervous fancy, how much a haunting love of the beautiful. The man’s desire for the pork chop remains literally as mystical and ethereal as his desire for heaven.” Now, who wrote that ingenuous passage? Je vous le donne en trois. Charles Lamb? No. G. A. Sala? No. Mr. Lecky? Certainly not! It is by that inimitable humorist, G. K. Chesterton. And it’s quite true.

There is a most delectable little part of the turkey which the French euphoniously call le sot l’y laisse. Grimod de la Reynière, the celebrated gourmet, was wont to say that it was the most exquisite morsel of flesh in the world.

Travelling one day some miles from his country-seat, he pulled up at a roadside inn for dinner. The host regretted that he had nothing to offer the stranger. “But,” said the latter, “I see five turkeys hanging up there. Why not give me one of them?” The innkeeper was sorry, but they were all ordered by a gentleman staying in the house. “Surely he cannot want them all himself. Ask him to permit me to share his meal.” Again the innkeeper had to refuse. The gentleman in question was very particular. He only ate one tiny little piece from each bird—le sot l’y laisse, in fact. More anxious than ever to know who this rival gourmet was who had the same tastes as himself, de la Reynière insisted on making his acquaintance. He found it was his own son.

This is the menu of the Queen’s Guard Dinner, St. James’s Palace, for Friday, 23 March, 1855. Considering that it is only fifty years old, and therefore well within the memory of many living men, it makes curiously quaint reading.

MENU

Les Huîtres.
Potage à la Crécy aux croûtons.
Potage de Macaroni au consommé.
La Merluche sauce aux œufs.
Les truites grillées à la Tartare.
Saddle of Mutton.
Les Poulets garnis d’une langue.
Les Côtelettes de mouton à la Soubise.
Le vol au vent aux écrévisses.
Les Kromeskys de ris de veau.
Les filets de bœuf piqués sauce poivrade.
Les pigeons and la pintade piquée.
Les Pommes au riz.
Les fondus en caisses.
La gelée au noyeau.
Les meringues à la Chantilly.
Les Epinards au jus.
La moëlle aux croûtons.

Such a deal of fine, confused feeding would be deemed vulgar and ostentatious to-day. The dinner could not have been served and eaten in less than a couple of hours, and there is an appalling ponderosity of substantials which must have tried the mid-Victorian digestion to the uttermost.

In pleasing contrast to the foregoing, I will quote a charming little dinner given in Paris by a hostess who understands the art of menu-fashioning in the highest degree.

MENU

Huîtres de Marennes.
Potage Bonne Femme.
Filets de Soles Joinville.
Selle d’agneau bouquetière.
Salmis de bécasses aux truffes.
Foie gras à la Souwaroff.
Poulardes à la Parisienne.
Cœurs de laitues à la Russe.
Pointes d’asperges à la crème.
Glace Lavallière.
Gauffrettes.

Few people know why an extra thick fillet of beef is called a Chateaubriand, and fewer still know how it ought to be cooked. You may ask all the chefs in town, and it is about thirty-three to one against your getting any historically precise information on the subject.

The story of the matter is briefly this. The dish was first cooked in the year 1802 at Champeaux Restaurant, in the Place de la Bourse. It was just at the period when Chateaubriand published his most brilliant work, “Le Génie du Christianisme.” “The profane wits of the kitchen” thought that a good steak sent to the fire between two malefactor steaks was a fair parody of the title of the book. The fillet or steak was cut so thick that by the ordinary method of cooking it might be burned on the surface whilst quite raw inside, and therefore—although the original and authentic method is ignored nowadays—it was put upon the fire between two other slices of beef, which, if burned, could be thrown away. Thus only is the Chateaubriand properly cooked.

The title has really nothing to do with the garnishing or the sauce, although the average maître d’hôtel will insist otherwise. Nevertheless the true story is as above. Chateaubriand was French Ambassador at the Court of St. James in 1822.

It may be of interest to put on record here His Majesty the King’s Derby Day dinner at Buckingham Palace to the members of the Jockey Club. Here it is:—

MENU

Tortue Claire.
Crême de Pois Comtesse.
Whitebait au Naturel et à la Diable.
Suprêmes de Truites à la Valenciennes.
Zéphires de Cailles à la Montagne.
Hanches de Venaison, Sauce Aigredoux.
Selle d’Agneau froide à la Niçoise.
Pommes de Terre à la Jaucourt.
Ortolans Rôtis.
Poussins sur Canapés.
Salade de Cœurs de Romaines.
Asperges d’Argenteuil, Sauce Mousseline.
Pêches à la Reine Alexandra.
Patisseries à la Parisienne.
Cassolettes à la Jockey Club.
Petites Glaces Printanières.
Friandises.
Dessert.

From trustworthy accounts I am constrained to believe that royal banquets are like many other mundane things. They look well, they read well, possibly they taste well, but there is inevitably the sub-acid flavour of Dead Sea apples, and the thoughtful observer may echo Talleyrand’s remark that whenever he perused a royal menu his thoughts involuntarily turned to pot-au-feu.

Although some kings (and queens too) were undoubtedly valiant trenchermen (and women), yet it is an ascertained fact that the more luxury appears on the bill of fare, the more frugal is the repast of majesty. The third Napoleon, towards the end of his reign, was forced to be so abstemious that, when the most tempting plats jostled one another on his table, he found himself obliged to dine off a cutlet and a cup of rice.

Nowadays it is said that guests at a royal banquet refuse the most artistic creations, and ask boldly for a cut of mutton.

However this may be, it can be taken for granted that royal banquets are much like other meals in so far as anticipation, appetite, realization, and digestion are concerned. The great Carême resigned his position as Maître de Bouche to George IV, after only a few weeks’ service, and at an honorarium of one thousand guineas a year (guineas, mark you, there speaks the artist!), because His Majesty showed no appreciation of his finest efforts, but was continually asking for boiled beef.

Nevertheless, the royal cooks always rise to the occasion, as the following interesting document will show. The chef at Windsor in 1858 was M. Pierre Mouret. This is the menu of the wedding dinner of the (then) Crown Prince of Prussia, father of the present Kaiser, to our own Princess Royal, given by Queen Victoria at Windsor Castle on 18 January, 1858.

MENU

Her Majesty’s Dinner

Potages.

A la Tortue.  A la Jardinière.
Crème de riz à la Reine.

Poissons.

Saumons bouillis.  Turbots bouillis.
Filets de sole frits.

Relevés.

Pièces de Bœuf braisées, garnies de légumes.
Chapons truffés à la Périgueux.

Entrées.

Kromeskis de Crevettes.
Ris de Veau piqués à la Macédoine.
Timbales de Macaroni à la Milanaise.
Côtelettes de Mouton à la purée de haricots.
Petites Croustades à la purée de volaille.
Côtelettes de Poulets à la Tartare.
Perdreaux à la financière.
Quenelles de Lièvre garnies d’escalopes.

Contre-flancs.

Poulets à la royale.

Rôts.

Bécasses.  Poulardes.

Relevés.

Gâteaux de Compiègne.  Poires au riz.
Puddings de gingembre.

Entremets.

Epinards au velouté.  Œufs brouillés aux truffes.
Salade de Volaille.  Aspic de Galantine.
Biscuits et plombière.
Dauphines à la fleur d’orange.
Gelée de Vanille.  Blanc-manger rubané.

Buffet.

Sirloins of Beef.  Saddles of Mutton.
Haunches of Venison.

Among the cleverest and most spirituel of menus d’occasion is that of a French-Italian déjeuner at the Carlton Hotel, composed, arranged, and designed by M. Escoffier.

MENU

L’Italie et la France à Table

F	ritot d’œufs à la Verd	I
R	ouget de roche à la Loube	T
A	mourettes a’agneau à la Tosc	A
N	onnettes de poulet Agnès Sore	L
C	èpes à la Rossin	I
E	ugénie crême Italienn	E

The double acrostic is most skilfully introduced, and the lunch, as such, is quite a little work of art.

In the columns of the “Academy,” some little while ago, an ingenious contributor elaborated a menu without the use of a single French word. It is doubtful, however, whether it will ever come into the realms of practical gastronomic usage. It ran thus:—

MENU	BILL OF FARE
(Old style, obsolete)	(New style)
Hors d’œuvres.	Raw Bits.
Pot au Feu.	Pot on the Fire.
Purée de petits pois.	Mash of Little Peas.
Bouchées aux Huîtres.	Mouthfuls of Oysters.
Chaud-froid de Saumon.	Hot-cold of Salmon.
Vol-au-vent de Volaille.	Fowl Fly-to-Wind.
Petits Filets mignons à la Maître d’Hotel.	“Ducksy” little Fillets to the Butler.
Noix de Veau à la Jardinière.	Nut of Veal in the way of the Gardener’s wife.
Pommes de terre sautées.	Jumped Potatoes.
Asperges en branches:	Asparagus in branches;
Sauce Mousseline.	Muslin Sauce.
Timbales de Fruits.	Mugs of Fruit.
Crème renversée.	Turned-up Cream.
Petits Soufflés de Foie gras.	Little Blow-outs of fat Liver.

Such a meal as this, to be thoroughly appreciated, would no doubt have to be prepared by a Chief or a Blue Cord.

A purely English dinner, however, is not so difficult to describe in plain straight-forward language. Such a one, for instance, as the Festival Dinner of the Royal Society of St. George, which ran thuswise:—

Appetizers.
Imperial “Clear” Soup.
Boiled Hampshire Salmon and Cucumber.
Thames Whitebait devilled.
Norfolk Sweetbreads
and Truffles.
The Roast Beef of Old England
(Devon Baron).
Yorkshire Pudding.
English New Potatoes and Beans.
Royal Navy Iced Punch.
Roast Buckinghamshire Duckling and
Apple Sauce.
Peas. Lettuce Salad.
Colchester Asparagus.
Braised Berkshire Ham.
Trafalgar Pudding.
Colonial Ice Pudding.
Dessert.
Coffee.

The menu of a Japanese luncheon given by the Mikado at Tokio makes curious reading, although I am assured that its purely local features are assuaged by a leaven of European delicacies.

MENU

Suimono (Soup).
Night Heron and Shimeji (a species of Champignon).
Kuchitori (Hors d’Œuvres).
Wild Duck.
Awabi (Haliotis, etc.).
Iashami (uncooked Fish).
Tai, Kawatsukuri and Arai (two modes of preparing uncooked Fish).
Sunomono (Mixed Salad).
Iced Whale and Mustard Sauce.
Yakimono (Entrées).
Baked Ai Fish (chawaninushi Eel Soup).
Fried Chicken and String Beans.
Anago and Imo (a species of Eel and Potato).
Rice Soup and Quail.
Pickles.  Cake.
Fruit.

A friend has sent me a curiosity from Havana in the shape of a menu, into the composition of every dish of which the banana entered in some shape or form. As a triumph of skill and ingenuity I respect the menu, but am thankful that I was not invited to partake of the repast. Here it is.

MENU

Soupe à la Banane avec Croûtons de Banane.
Crèpes de Banane avec Gelée de Banane.
Poulets à l’Etuvée avec Bananes Ciselées.
Poulets Rôtis avec Bananes Dressées.
Rôti de Bœuf avec Gelée de Banane.
Gâteau à la Gelée de Banane.
Galettes de Bananes.
Gâteau de Banane aux Fruits.
Café de Banane.

The subjoined menu is a quaint attempt to please adult lovers of “Alice in Wonderland,” and deserves notice in that it really does contain a number of references, more or less apt, to that perennially delightful work.

MENU

Hors d’œuvres.

Huîtres, Larmes Amères.
Snickersnacks.

Potages.

Manxommé.
Jabberwock’s-tail.

Poisson.

Walrus à la Charpentier.
Snark, sauce Boojumoise.

Entrées.

Momerath de lait.
Tweedledum aux Tum-tumatoes

Roti.

Aloyau de Jabberwock.
Selle de Gryphon.

Volaille.

Bandersnatch, sauce évitée.
Jubjub sauté.
Salade: Feuilles de Tumtum tulgeuses.

Entremets.

Crême au Jour Frabjoise.
Omelette Whifflée.
Glace à la Duchesse.

Savory.

Œufs de Borogove Gimblées.

The following menu is that of a dinner given in Paris by Prince Léon Galitzine, and deserves to be placed on record as an example of a real diner fin, elaborate, but not too elaborate, cleverly designed, and thoroughly well executed.

MENU

Bisque d’écrevisse et Exly frais à la Russe.
Melon glacé. Crevettes de Dieppe.
Hareng frais de Hollande.
Soles à la Maréchale.
Noisettes d’agneau avec crème d’Argenteuil.
Foie gras à la Rossini.
Quenelles d’esturgeon à la Joinville.
Sorbets au Porto blanc.
Granite grande fine Champagne.
Canetons de Rouen flanqués d’ortolans en brochettes.
Chaudfroid de Paons en Bellevue.
Flageolets nouveaux au beurre.
Pois à la Française.
Ecrevisses de la Meuse au vin de Saumur.
Bombe Galitzine.
Poires Cressanes.
Dessert.

This is really a rather noble dinner. Observe the dignity of the sturgeon and the peacock. There is very good precedent for the serving of the hors d’œuvre after the soup. It is done at many of the best French tables.

There are two or three interesting points about the following Savoy Hotel menu which are worth consideration.

MENU DU DINER

Hors d’Œuvres.
Melon Cantaloup Rafraîchi.
Poule-au-Pot Henri IV.
Crême Santé.
Truite d’Ecosse à la Nantua.
Filets de sole en Goujon.
Cailles en Terrines aux petits pois.
Selle de Pré-Salé à la Favorite.
Haricots verts au Beurre.
Mousse de Volaille en Bellevue.
Caneton de Rouen à la Rouennaise.
Salade Victoria. Aubergines Parisiennes.
Bombe Pralinée. Pêches Cardinal.
Canapés Pompadour.

The poule-au-pot Henri IV recalls, of course, one of the most charming kings in history, who wished that every one of his subjects might have a fowl in his pot every Sunday all the year round. The fillets of sole en goujon are a clever variation of the same thing en blanchailles to which one is somewhat accustomed. They are rather larger, but equally crisp and succulent. The cailles en terrines are very seasonable, and contrast remarkably well with the following saddle of mutton.

There has been much discussion lately in France as to the healthiness or otherwise of the hitherto justly esteemed and much-eaten Canard à la Rouennaise. Certain it is that some little while ago a few people became very ill after eating it; but, on the other hand, the preparation of the bird is so simple that there hardly seems room for anything deleterious.

Anyhow, the matter has been set at rest once and for all by the appointment under the auspices of La Société Scientifique d’Hygiène Alimentaire et de l’Alimentation Rationnelle de l’Homme (heavens, what a name!) of a committee which thoroughly tested and examined the question of the delinquent duck. This committee consisted of M. A. Dastre, membre de l’Institut; M. Lapicque, maître de Conférences à la Sorbonne, M. S. de Raczkowski, chémiste principal au Laboratoire Municipal, and M. E. Kohn-Abrest, du Laboratoire de Toxicologie. These eminent authorities were well able to give a definite and reassuring reply.

Those who are interested in the duck question may remember a delightful little sketch by the brilliant Alfred Capus, entitled “Emile,” in which a Canard à la Rouennaise and a solemn maître d’hôtel played prominent parts.

The following menu of a ball supper which was served quite recently at a London dance is all that a self-respecting ball supper need be. It seems to me to be excellently designed and thought out, for it provides for all tastes and palates, and appeals to the débutante as well as the sapient middle-aged supper eater.

MENU DU SOUPER

Consommé de Volaille.
Suprême Truite Alexandra.
Médaillons de Homard Moscovite.
Côtelettes d’Agneau Princesse.
Chaudfroid de Mauviettes Carême.
Aspic de Foie Gras Lucullus.
Cailles à la Jeannette.
Galantine Volaille Périgourdine.
Bœuf Braisé à la Moderne.
Poularde du Mans à l’Andalouse.
Jambon d’York.
Langue à l’Ecarlate.
Salade Impériale.
Gelée Orientale. Charlotte Souveraine.
Crême Victoria.
Macédoine de Fruits aux Liqueurs.
Gâteau Fédora. Pâtisserie Parisienne.
Glaces Bouquetières. Friandises.
Dessert.

We all know, in a vague sort of way, that the best, in fact the only real pâté de foie gras comes from Strasburg. This succulent if somewhat dyspeptic dish claimed as inventor for a long time a certain Mathieu, chef in the Prince Bishop of Strasburg’s household (Cardinal Rohan). But this is an error. The real originator was one Close, chef to the Maréchal Saxe, who came to Strasburg in the train of his famous master and took up his permanent abode there, marrying Mathieu’s widow. It was he and none other who started the goose-liver tureen business in a small shop in the Meisengasse, where, according to comparatively recent reports, it is still carried on. His imitators, of course, are numberless, and some of them very good.

This menu from the Carlton Hotel practically explains itself. If it err at all, which is doubtful, it is on the right side, namely, that of lightness and digestibility:—

Royal Natives, Caviar, Blinis.
Stchi Germiny.
Mousseline de Merlans aux Ecrevisses.
Cailles au Nid.
Selle de Chevreuil à l’Allemande.
Haricots Verts.
Volaille Truffée.
Salade.
Asperges Vertes Sauce Hollandaise.
Biscuit Glaçé aux Perles des Alpes.
Dessert.

The Blinis served with the Caviar is annexed from the Russian cuisine, and is a kind of light sponge or yeast mixture, technically known as a “savarin” without sugar, baked in small pans, and sent to table hot with a sauce of sour cream. Stchi, or Tschi, is also Russian. It is primarily an army soup, or broth, made of beef, slightly thickened with a brown roux and flavoured with sour cream. It is usually served with small, fried choux paste-balls.

It is not usual to write the menu of a banquet in the language of ancient Rome, but it appears the practice survives in Bavaria. Witness the following in “Latin de Cuisine”:—

Epulum
paratum die Consecrationis
A.R.D. Baronis de Ow
Episcopi auxil. Ratisbonnensis in aula
Episcopali.
Sorbitio cum globulis jecoralibus et lucanicis,
Jes ex linguis bovinis factum cum panificio.
Caro bovina cum brassica capitata.
Assum vitulinum cum lactuca.
Coffea.
Potabimus cerevisiam ex hordeo bavarico coctam
in officina cerevisiae Episcopali.
Sit saluti!

This formidable-looking legend, on being translated, reads:—

Soup with liver and sausage.
Ox-tongue broth with bread.
Beef and cabbage.
Roast veal and lettuce.
Coffee.
We shall drink Bavarian barley beer
brewed in the episcopal brewery.
May it do us good!

It is not on record, I think, who the original inventor of picnics was; nor does it much matter. There may be mention of them in Shakespeare, and certainly Nebuchadnezzar would seem to be one of the earliest picnickers in history; but whosoever may first have suggested the unpacking of a heterogeneous collection of cold cates on a greensward, under a summer sun, must have had a good digestion, a pair of knees that bent both ways, and (it is to be hoped) a positive passion for washing up.

Anyhow, it behoves me to make one or two diffident suggestions as to how the usual monotony of the convivial basket may be varied. Take the conventional pigeon pie, for instance—a truly good thing in its way, but capable of improvement. Angel Pie, according to Mr. Gubbins, is an agreeable change, and his recipe in “Cakes and Ale” may very well be followed. Eliza Acton’s pigeon pie is very good too; and it is quite worth the trouble to note the directions carefully.

But picnics need not be all pigeon pie. Let me recommend a toothsome Chaudfroid de Foie-gras en caisses, which is just round or oval-shaped slices of foie gras masked with white or fawn chaudfroid sauce, set in soufflé cases, and decorated with slices of truffle. After the First, a Ballotine de Perdreau Souvaroff is a pleasant change. The dainty bird is stuffed with goose-liver farce and truffles, done up like galantine, and braised, pressed, and glazed.

Although personally I am of those who prefer the unadulterated partridge, there are many quite worthy folk who do not, and for such I quote the above. Other suitable picnic dishes, rather out of the usual run, are Cuisses de Volaille Belle Alliance (or Waterloo, if you will have it so); Filets de Bœuf en Chaudfroid; Pain de Volaille aux Truffes; and Ris d’Agneau à l’Amiral, which is lamb’s sweetbread in oval slices, masked with white sauce, decorated with slices of truffles, and dressed on a vegetable aspic border, with salad in the centre.

A new salad always adds lustre to the dullest picnic. Try this: Potatoes, cold, in slices, plentifully besprinkled with peas and a few broad beans. Or, again, red cabbage with cucumber. In either case the mixture must be carried separately in a bottle, and only poured out at the last moment; then “fatigue” the salad thoroughly, and see that all the liquid is absorbed from the bottom of the bowl. The following picnic menu is put up by Fortnum and Mason in convenient baskets, and when unpacked may be guaranteed to assuage the cravings of the hungriest.

MENU

Saumon, Salade de Concombres.
Homard à la Parisienne.
Chaudfroid de Mauviettes à la Chasseur.
Poularde à l’Ivoire.
Pigeon Pie.
Jambon d’York.
Pressed Beef.  Tongues.
Salade Panachée de Haricots Verts et Tomates.
Gâteaux Parisiennes.
Dessert.
Café.
Glaces Variées.

In addition to all these nice things, the baskets contain the necessary materials for tea, such as bread, butter, petits fours, cakes, and such-like.

The following menu is one of a dinner at Prince’s Restaurant, and calls for no special remark, save perhaps to emphasize the deft juxtaposition of the entrée, roast, and bird, which lead up to one another, so to say, in a subtle succession of delicately contrasted flavours.

MENU

Hors d’œuvre à la Parisienne.
Potage Bortsch à la Czarine.
Suprême de Saumon Crême d’anchois.
Aiguillette de Volaille des Bacchantes.
Noisette d’Agneau Edouard VII.
Pommes Nouvelles à la Menthe.
Bécasse rôtie à la Broche.
Salad Mimosa.
Salsifis à la Poulette.
Bombe glacée. Diable Rose.
Corbeille de Friandises.
Canapé Princesse.
Dessert.
Café.

One of our French friends who came over here to enjoy l’entente cordiale—and British hospitality—was returning to France with an English acquaintance. On landing at Dieppe, after rather a rough crossing, John Bull asked Jacques Bonhomme, “Well, did you lunch on board?” “Non, mon ami,” was the reply, “tout au contraire!”

One may always trust the cuisine at the Savoy. There is a thoroughness of conception about every specially ordered dinner which bespeaks the eye, the hand, the brain of the master. Take the following menu, for example, which, charmingly printed on a graceful little silk Japanese fan, formed an exquisite meal of some originality.

MENU

Melon Cantaloup. Petite Marmite.
Crême Portugaise. Truite à la Saatz.
Whitebait Diablé.
Caille Bridget. Medaillon de Béhague à l’Estragon.
Petits Pois à la Française. Pommes Savoyarde.
Soufflé de Jambon à la Hongroise. Neige au Kirsch.
Caneton au Sang.
Haricots verts et tomates en salade.
Fonds d’artichauts à l’Italienne.
Framboises glacées à la Vanille. Friandises.
Pailles de Parmesan. Corbeille de Fruits.

Note the graceful juxtaposition of the Hungarian ham and the Kirsch, followed by duck and French beans. It is touches such as these which in their poetic elegance and subtlety force one to recognize what the high art of cookery really means.

To whom hath it not fallen to take the female faddist in to dinner?—I speak, of course, from the masculine point of view. The plethoric dame, for instance, who says, “Thank you, I only eat toast, and I prefer it very crisp”; or the earnest spinster who talks for miles about proteids and other abominable scientific non-gastronomics; or the materfamilias who laments the absence of Benger from the dinner-party menu? Like the poor, such as these are always with us.

There are fashions in these things, as in everything else. Now and again one comes across a real Fletcherite, who chews his or her food eighty-seven times and allows it to disappear by a slow process of gradual deglutition. Mr. Horace Fletcher himself is, I am given to understand, a man of irreproachable morality, and the possessor, moreover, of a beautiful Palazzo on the Grand Canal at Venice; but, whether for good or ill, he has introduced a deal of dullness into the modern dinner party. It is obviously impossible to keep up a ready flow of brilliant conversation when every mouthful has to be masticated unto seventy times seven times. Such a salutary procedure puts a damper on prandial discourse, and makes a dinner only one degree less lively than a funeral. It would seem preferable to suffer tortures of indigestion rather than act as a dinner-party wet-blanket.

A former generation suffered from the Andrew Clark regime, and I can even remember a dinner menu divided into halves, one of which was headed “Clarkists,” and was confined to the dishes prescribed by that eminent medico, and the other half labelled “Just ordinary folk”—and it was much the better programme of the two. A little later one met the weird folk who produced from hidden recesses mysterious little silver boxes, from which they extracted little white pilules “to be taken between each course”—but I have noticed that these people usually ate a remarkably hearty dinner, despite, or perhaps because, of these same pilules.

One comes across, too, the Stokerites, with their peculiar antipathies, the “Natural Feeders,” the “Little Grangers,” and the maigre tous les jours sort of folk. As for the vegetarians, there is little to be said for or against them. They are, of course, fully justified in their opinions, but they do give a lot of bother at an ordinary dinner party. I may be unfortunate in my vegetarian friends, but it always appears to me that after a time they seem to assimilate certain characteristics of the food they eat, and eventually become very like their favourite vegetables; so much so that they might almost be accused of cannibalism. Certain it is that I can spot a carrot-eating man by his hair, an onion-lover by his breath, and a Brussels-sprout devotee by his whiskers.

Take it, however, by and large, the food faddist, be it a he or a she, is rarely a pleasant table-companion, and in these times of strenuous dining he, she, or it, is usually a poor conversationalist and a poorer critic; which is a pity.

It is quite a mistake to imagine that a good dinner can afford to despise the adjuncts of a well-decorated table. Nothing could be more fallacious. One’s sense of taste should not alone be titillated. One’s palate-gusto is distinctly enhanced by something pleasant to look upon, by something artistic to accompany the mere mechanism of mastication, by a general sense of beauty and non-flamboyant restfulness.

We have gone far in this direction during the past two or three decades. There are many happily still surviving among us who remember vividly, and not without a certain amount of awe, the vast erections which appeared on the dinner-tables of our forbears. The silver branch candelabra, the epergnes, the great piles of fruit, the towering “set-pieces,” the bushy and umbrageous plants and flowers, the plates of mixed biscuits, and the various impossible dishes of confectionery which nobody was expected to eat.

But all this has disappeared, and one is no longer obliged to talk to one’s opposite neighbour through a jungle of horticulture. Flowers are best shown in low bowls, either china or silver, there are no useless impedimenta, the tiresome trails of smilax have long since been relegated to Peckham dinner-tables, and we have at last arrived at an era of plenty of elbow-room, discreet floral decoration, and a clean sweep of ridiculous encumbrances.

Some hostesses, indeed, cultivate the Japanese grammar of the arrangement of flowers, which gives a particular and especial value to each leaf, branch, and stalk. Others again will have merely half a dozen blooms, all told, on the table, but each bloom perfect of its kind, and displayed to the best advantage. High vases are as obsolete as the dodo, and people are gradually becoming alive to the fact that four or five exquisite roses in a big flat Hawthorn dish are more decorative than all the miserable little white china cupids in Regent Street.

The choice of odours, too, is an important consideration. No hostess with any consideration for the olfactory nerves of her guests would put strongly perfumed flowers on the dinner-table. They would only destroy the flavour of the cates, and cause annoyance rather than pleasure. Even the lovely syringa, which a good lady once described as “a respectable gardenia,” is too strong, and at the most a purely neutral scent is permissible.

In the height of summer I have met a single water-lily floating in a copper dish in the middle of the table; the lily was so perfect in itself that any other decoration would have seemed superfluous and impertinent. The stalks of flowers seen through clear glass are as beautiful as the blooms, and an arrangement of green leaves only, with no flower at all, is, if rightly understood and designed, very difficult to beat.

Only recently, dining in an artist’s studio, I was delighted with a few sprays of medlar blossom on the table, and a mass of hydrangea on the sideboard, immediately below a shelf of old pewter. The harmony was wonderfully beautiful. Such touches of taste entirely alter the character of a dinner, and from a mere feeding party it becomes an artistic pleasure. For, after all, the mere act of eating is not in itself beautiful.

Reverting to the food-faddist, there are some who, quite apart from doctors’ reasons, have the most peculiar likes and dislikes. Some never touch soup; others positively like boiled veal; and it is on record that Dr. Johnson poured lobster sauce over his plum-pudding. It is not easy to understand this extraordinary combination of the great lexicographer, but the story has good authority.

Some folk, quite worthy folk too, like cold meat and pickles, even when abroad; others make a point of drinking the wine of the country. It is told of the great Duke of Wellington that when journeying through France with Alava, in 1814, on being asked at what time they should start next day, he invariably replied “At daybreak.” And to the question what they should have for dinner, he always answered, “Cold meat.” “Je les ai eu en horreur, à la fin,” Alava declared, “ces deux mots-là—‘daybreak’ et ‘cold meat.’”

The menu of a good summer dinner is always interesting. Here is one which should amply satisfy the most fastidious. It was cooked by one of the best chefs in London, and seems to me to contain some particularly interesting features.

MENU DU DINER

Zakuska.
Potage à la Dauphine.
Purée d’asperges à la St. Georges.
Filets de Sole Bagration.
Saumon froid à la Doria.
Ris de Veau en Caisses à la Périgueux.
Petites Croustades Glacés à la Montglas.
Selle de Mouton froid.
Courges farcies.
Cannetons Sautés.  Sauce Bigarade.
Salade de Choux Rouges.
Maïs à l’Américaine.
Macédoine de Fruits.
Bombe de Juillet.
Glace de Crème aux Truffes.

Another hot-weather menu is a comparatively simple luncheon, and is principally remarkable for the fact that it is entirely cold, from the prawns to the coffee. We have all of us, of course, had many cold lunches, racing, motoring, at Henley, or elsewhere, but as a rule these casual meals lack character and homogeneity; they are of a “chucked-together” sort of nature, and whilst serving a useful purpose of their own, can hardly be called perfect pictures of their kind. No such objection can, I think, be made to the subjoined.

MENU DU DÉJEUNER

Crevettes Roses.
Consommé en Gelée.
Salade de Poisson.
Truite froide.  Sauce Rémoulade.
Filet de Bœuf aux Légumes Glacés.
Poulet Provençale.
Salade Miladi.
Pêches Daisy Miller.
Coupe Jacques.
Café Glacé.

The following little story from Mr. G. W. E. Russell’s “Londoner’s Logbook” has a delightful gastronomical moral, which might be adopted, with advantage, by many hosts of to-day: “‘Come and dine at eight—pot-luck, you know. Don’t dress.’ That hospitable formula recalls a genial knight who dwelt in Berkeley Square, and, applying his whole mind to the subject of dinners, attained to high perfection in the art of giving them. Two benevolent practices of his invention linger pleasantly in the memory. He caused each course to begin at a different point at the table, so that every guest in turn got the first chance at a dish. He dealt out the asparagus like cards, an equal number of pieces to each guest; and if on completion of the deal he saw that any one had got smaller pieces than his neighbours, he used the residue to redress the inequality. Surely such are those actions of the just which smell sweet and blossom in the dust.”