The book of The Cheese

by Unknown

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Serviettes are now provided as a matter of course.

[2] A more extensive menu is now provided.

CHAPTER V
ABOUT THE PUDDING

Now, good digestion wait on appetite

And health on both.—Shakespeare.

“How do you make it?” asked a fair American of the proprietor.

The answer is not recorded, for in the manner of making chiefly lies the speciality of the Old Cheshire Cheese. The hand of the proprietor himself compounds the ingredients in a secret room, secure from the gaze of even his most inquisitive attendants.

Yet when we look on the immense bowl from which sixty or seventy people are to be fed, one cannot wonder at the lady’s desire to know how such a Brobdingnagian dish could be so exquisitely prepared.

The proportions of the bowl are emblematic of the profusion with which its contents are dispensed, and even Gargantua would find himself vanquished in presence of the “Cheese” hospitality.

Old “William,” for many years the head-waiter, could only be seen in his real glory on Pudding Days. He used to consider it his duty to go round the tables insisting that the guests should have second or third, ay, and with wonder be it spoken, fourth helpings.

“Any gentleman say pudden?” was his constant query; and his habit was not broken when a crusty customer growled:

“No gentleman says pudden.”

William either never saw the point or disdained to make reply.

The narrow limits of this volume are all too small for a complete collection of the prose and verse written in praise of the pudding. A few examples must serve.

In “Ye Lay of Ye Lost Minstrel,” printed in the West London Observer (April, 1890), are a number of verses in praise of the “Cheese,” by Mr. William Henderson. We give the following extract from his poem:—

If you’d dine at your ease

Try “Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”

At this famous resort

In the Wine Office Court

Kickshaws, entrées or slops

You’ll not get, but the chops

Devil’d kidneys and steaks

He will say who partakes

Are all second to none—

To a turn they are done!

But the pudding!—oh my!

You look on with a sigh,

As it comes piping hot

From the cauldron or pot—

Oh the savour, the taste,

Of its lining, its paste!

How it wells! how it swells!

In its bosom there dwells

Food for gods, meat for men,

Who resort to Moore’s den.

A parody by the same author will appeal to the sentiment of those who scorn a foreign yoke. It is inscribed to Beaufoy A. Moore, and was published by Mr. J. H. Wadsworth, of Boston (U.S.A.):—

YE PUDDING’S REQUIEM

Air: Death of Nelson.

We sought “The Cheese,” with thirst and hunger prest,

And own we love the pudding day the best.

But no one quarrels with the chops cook’d here,

Or steaks, when wash’d down by Old English beer!

’Twas on Saint Andrew’s day,

Our way thro’ Fleet Street lay;

We sniff’d the pudding then!

We scorn’d all foreign fare,

True British food was there,

To “cut and come agen.”

Our landlord carved with manner grave,

Brave portions to each guest he gave,

Nor thought he of his booty,

Nor thought he of his booty.

Along the boards the signal ran,

“Charlie” expects that ev’ry man

Will pay and do his duty,

Will pay and do his duty.

And now the waiters pour

Prime “Burton” foaming o’er

“Old William” marks his prey!

No tips that waiter claimed,

Long be that waiter famed,

Who smiles and makes it pay!

Not dearly was that pudding bought,

For ev’ry hungry Briton sought

A “follow” from that beauty,

A “follow” from that beauty.

With plate on plate each waiter ran;

“Charlie” confessed that ev’ry man

That day had done his duty,

That day had done his duty.

At last the fatal sound,

Which spread dismay around,

The pudding’s off, the pudding’s off at last!

“The vict’ry’s on your side,

The day’s your own” Moore cried!

“I serve and have to fast!

However large that pudding be,

No scrap is ever left for me!

Content I do my duty!

Content I do my duty!

For to complain was ne’er my plan.”

Let all confess that Moore, good man,

Has ever done his duty,

Has ever done his duty!

1890. W.H.

The “Cheese” pudding has a far-extended sphere of influence. It boasts a clientèle much more numerous than are the actual frequenters of the ancient hostelry. Hundreds are sent out every year to all parts of London, and, indeed, England. Some even have found their way to the United States, imported direct from “The Cheese” by enthusiastic Americans. The following extract from the Court Journal of April 4, 1891, describes the misadventures of one owing to the operation of the McKinley Act: “The London lark pudding is renowned in many lands. The travelled American speaks with rapture of that lark pudding he partook of in Fleet Street. Mr. Burras, of New York, requested that such a lark pudding should be sent out to him from London, so that the stay-at-home ones might partake of the British culinary luxury. The delicacy duly arrived; the guests who were to aid Mr. Burras in eating it were duly invited—all was ready, indeed, when an unexpected difficulty arose. The Customs House authorities declined to give it up until the question as to what duty ‘lark pudding’ was liable to was settled. The McKinley Bill does not mention lark pudding. It takes cognisance of canned goods and potted meats, certainly; but larks in a pudding were unclassified, and they said it did not come under the head of manufactured articles, because it was food in a natural state. A week has elapsed while the authorities have been debating the point, and in the meantime the lark pudding is most probably turning sour, and Mr. Burras and his friends dancing with indignation. More trouble will ensue over this lark pudding, no doubt, than did upon the opening of the four-and-twenty-blackbird pie of yore! It may cause the establishment of Free Trade in the States.”

It is satisfactory to be able to state that the pudding eventually passed the Customs House none the worse for its detention. The guests were eloquent in its praise, and several of them have since visited England merely to track the pudding to the place of its nativity.

THE BAR.

CHAPTER VI
THE BAR

If on thy theme I rightly think,

There are five reasons why men drink:

Good wine, a friend, because I’m dry,

At least, I should be by-and-bye,

Or any other reason why.—H. Aldrich.

The bar of the “Cheese” is unique amongst the bowers of Boniface in the metropolis. It has no equal and no rival. “Here,” says the Sportsman of March 30, 1887, “gather poets, painters, lawyers, barristers, preachers, journalists, stockbrokers, musicians, town councillors, and vestrymen, with just a soupçon of sporting celebrities, and a decided dash of the impecunious ‘Have beens.’ The latter represent in the ‘Cheese’ colony the Irish division in Parliament. Many of our most eminent journalists, legal luminaries, and successful merchants have been patrons of the Old Cheshire Cheese in the days when it was to them club, discussion forum, and even home.”

The “Cheese” bar resembles no other in London. The customers are unique, and the names of their drinks are peculiar. The simplest and amplest is “whisky,” and that means Scotch whisky. No old customer of the “Cheese” would ever think of asking for “Scotch.” If anyone dares to say “Scotch,” he is marked down at once as one not yet inured to the ways of the bar. On the other hand, neither must he whisper “Irish”—certainly not! If he knows his “Cheese” he asks for “Cork,” and if he says “Irish” he is an ignoramus. Then who would mention “gin?” The word is absolutely vulgar, and should be confined to the East End and Mrs. Harris. No, no! the cognoscente calls for “rack”—an odd name, which may be meant to suggest the state of mind of the drinker on the morrow, or it may be a mere contraction of arrack.

Punch, a mysterious and delectable compound, we had better not order in the bar, its consumption is so much more pleasant upstairs; but there is no reason why we should not admire the punch bowls, and having considered them and studied the portrait of an erstwhile waiter over the fireplace as much as they deserve, we probably turn about, and, as the eyes become accustomed to the darkness, find ourselves confronted with the way out. But don’t go for a while. You would probably like to see somebody in the bar. Adequately to people the bar would task the pencil of a Hogarth, the pen of a Thackeray. That more genial Hogarth of our time, the late Phil May, has indeed done it exceedingly well in his “Parson and the Painter.” But the human constituents of the bar’s society vary with the hour of the day. In the morning the journalistic element predominates. But it is when night begins to fall that the life of the bar is at its brightest. Then the blinds are drawn, the gas is lighted, and the full orchestra tunes up. The Cheeseites are in their glory, and what might be copy for a dozen comic papers elicits a little passing laughter and then is forgotten. When the sparkle has fled from the champagne, who can restore it? Here, however, are a few fragments of typical conversation.

The bar is crowded, and floating in the ambient air one detects the rich voice of a Scotch poet who is being taken to task for his grammar.

“THE WAY OUT.”

“It’s maybe not English at present, Mr. Bluggs; but wha maks your English? It’s your Shakespeares, your Multons, an Me!”

From another part of the room comes the voice of an Englishman somewhat at a disadvantage among Irish and Scotch intonations of rich variety.

“Of course the Scotch say they speak better English than the English. I remember I once had a short engagement on an Edinburgh paper. When about to leave ‘Auld Reekie’ there was a little deoch-an-dorus, and some fifteen of the fellows came to wish me God-speed. They were from some fifteen different parts of Scotland, and after certain formalities in the way of hot toddy my Scotch friends brought up the eternal question of their immaculate English. ‘It may be as you say,’ I interposed, ‘but why do you speak it with fifteen different accents?’ Had them there, ha! ha!”

Irish Dramatist (discussing tours, etc.)—“Did I hear you say Stony Stratford? I was once there, and no wonder they called it Stony Stratford, for I was never so bitten with bugs in my life.”[3]

Genial Advertising Manager—“I hear that poor old Mac’s dead” (general sorrow and display of handkerchiefs). (Enter poor old Mac—silence falls on the company.)

Poor old Mac—“Good evening, Miss S——, I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

Miss S.—“Was it very hot where you have come from?”

Funny Man—“Why, Jack, you seem to believe in a lot of things nobody else believes in”—(then, as a clincher)—“I suppose you believe in the transmigration of souls!”

Solemn Man—“I do—and so do you. You must feel you were an ass when you lent me that half-sovereign six months ago.”

Socialistic Journalist (to admiring friends)—“Have you read my articles in the X Y Gazette? No? Well, read them, and you will see that I am the second, if not the first, among the teachers of humanity. Nobody, for at least eighteen hundred years, has taught as I have taught.”

Waiter, suddenly entering the bar—“Oh, I beg your pardon, but you did not pay for that steak you had in the room.”

Socialistic Journalist—“Pay for it! Not likely! It was from the beginning as much my steak as Charlie Moore’s. Now it is more mine than his. Pay? Base is the slave that pays.”

Racing Journalist—“Jones is a good writer, but he will never set the Thames on fire.”

Impecunious Reporter—“I wish he would, for it’s very cold, and I have to sleep on the Embankment.”

The story goes that on one occasion there was some little misunderstanding at the bar; but misunderstandings are of the rarest, and this one has become legendary. The account which reached me ran something after this manner:—

Great Sub-Editor (with back to fire)—“You’re not a freemason.”

Great Reporter—“I am.”

G. S.-E.—“Why, I’ve been making masonic signs to you for the last half-hour.”

G. R.—“Do you call me a——?”

G. S.-E.—“I do.”

G. R.—“Then——” (and they roll together on the floor).

Head waiter (rushing in)—“What’s this? What’s this about?”

Manageress—“Only two gentlemen making a few masonic signs under the table.”

Of course, as a rule, harmony prevails in the “Cheese,” and “chaff” abounds without physical threshing, for the habitués love the ancient hostelry and themselves too much to make the place a bear-garden.

To quote again from the Sportsman:—

“There is a sense of comfort and veneration about the place which constitutes an absolute charm. There is something homely and out of the common in its sawdust-coated floors, with uneven boards and great gaping ‘chinks.’ The fireplaces are huge and commodious, capable of holding a hundredweight of coal at a time. These said fireplaces, by the way, have much to answer for in legions of broken resolutions to be home at six. On a cold winter’s day, when their genial warmth penetrates every portion of the room, and the merry flames dance and leap after each other up the capacious chimney space, a man listens to the howling wind without, or hears the rain pattering on the paved courts, and he says, says he, ‘The old woman may be cross, or the mater may scold; but we don’t kill a sheep every day, and—just one more, James, and I will catch the seven.’ Those wicked fireplaces, the huge singing kettle, the cosy recesses, and the seductive perfume of toddy have indeed much to answer for.”