Twenty-four Little French Dinners and How to Cook and Serve Them

by Cora Moore

TRUE TRAILS TOWARD ECONOMY

In the first place, no trail toward economy in conducting the cuisine of a household lies through the delicatessen store or the “fancy” grocery. It is an unflattering comment on the spirit of thrift of American housewives that the delicatessen store has settled down to such a flourishing existence, particularly in Eastern cities. Any woman who possesses a stove and a kitchen of her own should be ashamed to admit the laziness that more than a semi-occasional visit to these “delicate eating” places predicates. There are few things to be had in them that she shouldn't be able to make better at home and at a cost that is but a fraction of what she has to pay for the usually inferior, impersonal messes that come ready-made.

If the housewife has read some of the very excellent instructions that were printed to help her conduct her household adequately amid the necessary limitations of wartime, she already knows that there is absolutely no excuse for ever throwing away a crust or crumb of bread. As for that, neither is there any excuse for ever disposing of what is left of the morning cereal except to the advantage of some later made dish, or of consigning meat scraps or bits of fat or even bones to the garbage pail. It is not only that, in the interests of economy, she should use them; it is rather that if she is a good cook she will be very glad to have them to use.

Stale bread and breadcrumbs are the bases of a score of the most delicious puddings on the French cook's card; cooked cereal is one of the best thickenings for soups and gravies, as well as being far more wholesome than flour for this purpose; meat scraps, trimmings and bones should go into the stock pot. When a soup made of these is served as the introductory course at dinner it will be found that the family will be fully satisfied with much less meat, and it is in the lessening dependence of Americans on meat that will make for the greatest item in economy.

A French cook of parts would tear his hair if he could see how fats and drippings from meats are thrown away in many an American kitchen. They are poured into the sink till the drain pipes clog and, to complete the little serial of extravagance, the plumber has to be called. The French cook knows that this is the finest grease for frying in the world and that its use would save many a pound of butter. He strains it all carefully and keeps the different sorts in labelled jars or crocks. He knows by experience what particular fats give the best flavors to certain things, and he knows that vegetables, fish, eggs, pancakes and what not are far better fried in these natural fats. Who that ever ate an egg fried in bacon drippings will ever want one cooked in butter, even at a dollar a pound!

One will not find the delicatessen flourishing in France—one will not find it at all—and the fancy grocery, above mentioned, is another pitfall for the American housewife. She likes the sight of food done up in fancy containers, in glass, perhaps, and buys them, not realizing that she is paying a large price for perfectly unnecessary and totally unnourishing “pretties.” If she is fearful of the handling some loose food stuffs may be subjected to in the stores, why does she not practice the most practical economy, go to the fountain-head of supplies in the city, the large market, and buy in quantity, so far as she can? A few ounces of bacon, already sliced, and sealed in a glass dish are, indeed, appetising even in their raw state, while a side of bacon is not, unless looked upon through the eyes of imagination, yet the latter method of purchasing this commodity is two or three hundred per cent cheaper, and when it arrives at the breakfast table it will be found every bit as appealing to a happy morning appetite.

Any consideration of economy in the cuisine must include the meat problem. Meat is the most expensive item on the menu and the true solution of the question is not only to conserve all the uses of it but to eat much less. That would make not only for economy, but for better health as well.

It has been estimated that 186 pounds of dressed meat is—or was prior to the war—the yearly average of consumption for every American; the Englishman being a good second with his 120 pounds, while the Frenchman remained perfectly contented and healthy with 79 pounds, the Italian with 72 pounds, and the Swiss, anything but a nation of invalids, managed very well on 60 pounds per person.

This is no plea for vegetarianism, though it may be said in passing for the benefit of those who think that good red blood and hardy muscle are to be obtained only by absorbing the red blood and muscle of the beasts of the field, that there is as much, if not more, of this building power in the beans, the peas, the lentils that we regard too often as mere secondary foods.

Most of all the American should take advantage of the great stores of fish which are equally as nourishing as meat and may easily be made as appetising with simple sauces that French cookery will teach us. Fish are cheap; at least, many neglected kinds are; they are easy to cook and they are one of the best foods in the world.