SOME QUEER DISHES.
If, in England, a man was pushed to discover a new animal food, it would, I think, be a long time before he hit upon bats as at all likely to furnish him with a desirable addition to his table, even if their diminutive size did not place an insuperable obstacle in the way of their being so utilised. But in many of the South Sea Islands where the flying-fox—a species of bat, fifteen inches or so across the wings—is common, it is used as food by the natives, and its flesh is by no means to be despised even by epicures. This animal, frugivorous in his tastes as a rule, does not for all that turn up his nose at a plump moth or a succulent beetle when they chance to come in his way; but he usually confines himself to fruit—ripe bananas of the best quality and plenty of them being about his mark; and dreadful havoc he and his friends would make in the banana gardens, if the natives—well aware of his habits—did not hasten to bind quantities of dead leaves round the ripening fruit, and so preserve it from his attacks. It would seem absurd to a stranger to the country to be informed that such an insignificant animal as a bat could seriously threaten the fruit-harvest in countries where it is so abundant; but he would change his opinion when informed that the flying-foxes often settle in hundreds in any likely plantation; and as they always destroy very much more than they consume, the loss and inconvenience they cause to the natives may be properly estimated.
The bat in question is not so strictly nocturnal in his habits as his English brother; and although he usually sallies out at sunset, yet I have often noticed them sailing about in broad daylight, provided the weather was dull and overcast; the flight is even and regular, very like that of a rook, and not in the least resembling the extremely erratic mode of progression affected by our native species. If in their manner of flying—a few steady flaps and then a long sail—they remind one of the rook, they also resemble our old friend in their habit of assembling together at bedtime, when they all retire to roost on the same grove of trees, and hang head downwards with their wings wrapped round their bodies, looking like a collection of large cobwebs.
It must not, however, be supposed that the meeting and subsequent proceedings take place in silence; the contrary is the case; and an immense amount of chattering is carried on for a considerable time, when no doubt all the affairs of the day are duly discussed, as well as other matters amatory and otherwise. In the old heathen times, the rookeries were strongly tabooed by the priests; and even to the present day, the natives, more especially the old men, have an evident aversion to interfere with the sacred trees, a feeling which does not in the least prevent them from killing all the bats they can in other places.
The natives prepare them for food by first cutting off the wings and then passing the body through the fire, to remove the fur, and with it the strong foxy smell with which it is impregnated. It is then carefully scraped, split open, and afterwards grilled on the coals spitchcock fashion, when it is ready for consumption; and is capital eating, having a rich gamy flavour something between a hare and a woodcock.
I was so much encouraged by the success of my first essay at bat-eating, that I afterwards had a pie made of several I had shot, and from my previous experience, rather looked forward to a good dinner; but when the pastry was cut open, I was grievously disappointed by finding that the fetid odour peculiar to the live animal had survived the cooking—from being unable to escape from the pastry—rendering it utterly uneatable, and so for the future contented myself with bat au naturel—that is, native fashion.
The above-mentioned animal is very common in Australia, and is quite as great a nuisance among the orchards there as he is in the islands; but it will be some considerable time, I fancy, before our colonial brothers utilise him in the kitchen.
I don’t suppose that many people—at least English people, who are tolerably prejudiced in their way—have ever voluntarily gone in for a cuttle-fish or octopus diet, as they are horribly weird, uncanny animals to look at; and few, I opine, would feel inclined to make a ‘square meal’ off the shiny creatures, at least until other more prepossessing kinds of food remained to be tried. Nevertheless, throughout the whole of the Pacific, including Japan, all the different varieties of cuttle and octopus are regarded as a bonne bouche of peculiar excellence; and both in its capture and preparation, the natives display considerable ingenuity. I remember once, when sailing in the tropics, seeing one morning the deck of our little schooner nearly covered with that very elegant little cuttle-fish called the ‘flying-squid.’ The sea had been very rough during the night, and I could never properly ascertain whether the squid had come on board of their own accord, attracted by the light—as the men affirmed—or had been left there by a heavy sea we had shipped just before daylight. Anyway, our cook, a smart Maltese, at once set to work to collect them, and then, much to the disgust of the sailors, who are the most prejudiced of mortals, he forthwith proceeded to cook them for the cabin table, and sent us down dishes of squid both curried and fried that were much approved of by all who partook of them; and proved a delightful change after the long course of ‘salt junk’ and tinned soup and bouillie that the slow sailing of our little craft had obliged us to adopt.
These fish were about six inches long, had large brilliant eyes of a set expression, and were furnished with a pair of flippers or wings. They also—unlike any other kind of fish that I am acquainted with—rejoice in a couple of tails, in lieu of the orthodox number. The body, almost transparent, was of a delicate olive brown. Altogether, they were pretty little things, and tasted even better than they looked.
I am now about to introduce my readers to a dish of octopus prepared secundum artem by a South Sea native. The octopus is by no means, without proper apparatus, an easy animal to lay hold of; on the contrary, it demands all the cunning of the most experienced South Sea fisherman to wile him from his haunts in the coral and to secure a good number for a feast.
But here is my Tongese friend Fakatene, just about to launch his hamatefna, or fishing-canoe; and we cannot do better than accompany him on his trip, and lend a hand in catching the fish we are to partake of. But first, just notice how ingeniously his tiny vessel is constructed out of timber of the bread-fruit tree. This tree does not, so far south—we are in about twenty-three degrees five minutes south—attain to any great size, and the timber, therefore, is proportionately small and scarce, which accounts for the small size of the pieces used. The hull, you notice, is pretty well in one piece, except that queer-shaped bit so artfully let in near the bows, and so close-fitting all round that even a penknife could not be introduced between the seams; and were it not for the difference in the grain of the wood, the ingenious patch would never be detected. The top sides are formed of several small planks neatly sewn on to the hull with sinnet, and joined in the same manner to one another; and yet, with all this patching, she exceeds in beauty, in the grace of her lines, and in her extreme buoyancy in the water, the finest four-oar ever turned out by Searle in his most palmy days.
Fakatene is pleased with our admiration of his highly prized canoe, and takes some pains to explain that she was moulded on the lines of the bonito, one of the swiftest of fishes. Not such a bad idea that, we consider, for a poor native; but one that we intellectual white men are much too proud, not to say too conceited, to follow; so we go in for all kinds of scientific curves and angles, with the result that our builders are constantly producing craft that will neither pull nor sail, and that would have been a disgrace to Noah himself, or even to prehistoric man.—But to return to our canoe. She is provided with an outrigger called a ‘thama,’ to prevent capsizing; with a carved-wood bailer, in case we ship a sea or make any water from the working of the seams; also with a long three-pronged fish-spear, a few lines, a bamboo of fresh water; and last, but not least, with the inevitable fire-stick, or smouldering twist of tapa cloth, to furnish a light for our friend’s seluka (cigarette). Off at last; and Fakatene, who poled swiftly over the shallow part of the reef, has taken to his paddle, and coasting along the island for some distance, we soon come to a favourable spot for our purpose; so we drop anchor—a large stone—and business commences.
The octopus dwells in holes in the reef, keeping only a portion of his body exposed, so that, while he can look out for his prey, he can at the same time quickly withdraw within his hole, directly his dread enemy the shark appears, who is always foraging about the reefs in search of adventurous cuttles.
Now, I must tell you that the octopus, although partial enough to crabs, is particularly fond of the inhabitant of the spotted cowrie or ear-shell, so common in our shops; and so Fakatene, well aware of this fact, has prepared a cunning bait, artfully constructed of a number of small plates of the shell fastened together in such a manner that while similar in appearance to the real thing, yet, being much heavier, and not containing any air, sinks at once, which a real shell would not do. Our friend now lowers his line, with the shell-bait attached, until it touches the bottom, and then raising it a few inches off the ground, jerks it gently up and down. Presently, a pull on the line shows that the fish has taken the bait; more jerking on the part of the native; which the octopus replies to by at once throwing out a fresh arm. The jerking still continues; until the fish, dreading the escape of his prey, lets go his hold of the rocks, and wraps the whole of his body round the shell; when the native, perceiving that his line is no longer fast to the ground, gently hauls up the line, and finally deposits an immense octopus in the bottom of the canoe. Our new friend no sooner finds himself caught, than he lets go the deceptive bait, and with his great goggle eyes staring hard at nothing in particular, sprawls about in the most awkward fashion, at the same time giving vent to a species of grunt, until at last he finally retires into the darkest corner he can find, and collapses into a lump of grayish-looking jelly, about a third part of his apparent size when in motion.
Having by the same means secured several more fish, we return to land, when the canoe is duly housed, and Fakatene disposes of the octopi by turning them inside out and hanging them up to dry in the sun, having first carefully saved all the sepia left in the fish, as this is esteemed a great luxury, and an indispensable ingredient in preparing the sauce.
When the cuttle is to be cooked, it is first of all carefully cleaned and scraped, when all the outer skin, including the hideous-looking suckers, comes off. The fish is then cut in pieces, and having been tied up in a banana-leaf, is baked in an oven for a considerable time in conjunction with cocoa-nut milk and a certain proportion of the inky-hued sepia above mentioned, and which, as is well known, is made use of by the fish when alive to obscure the water when escaping from the pursuit of its enemies. It takes some time to cook octopus properly, as it is naturally tough and stringy; but when well prepared, it is one of the most delicate and luscious dishes I ever tasted; and, singular to say, the cooking converts the tripy, stringy-looking substance into a solid meaty food, bearing a curious resemblance to lobster both in taste and colour, only rather firmer in texture; a most unlooked-for occurrence in such dissimilar articles.