“Having reached their requisite degree of maturity, they are brought to the city market by the country farmers and sold to persons who make the fattening a special business. They are now crammed three times a day with dry and ripe Indian meal, kept in clean wooden cages, and allowed to drink as much water as they like; others, in greater numbers, roam about in large barns, very light and well ventilated: these are also kept extremely clean. Each bird consumes about a bushel of Indian meal before attaining the requisite fatness, and but few die from disease during the process. I have been assured that the quality of the water in Strasbourg contributes greatly to the development of the livers, but cannot vouch for the authenticity of this statement.”
Here is the whole of the mystery of the cruel process so long commented upon in England; and, far from being Torquemadas, the parties who follow this business, on the contrary, treat the victims destined for the celebrated pâtés de foies with great care and humanity. Every Englishman may henceforth eat his pâté with a clear conscience, as does the French gourmet, without contravening the law of Grammont.
The livers are usually sold at five, six, ten, and even twelve and fifteen francs each, according to the size and quality.
There is no special market for them, but the fatteners carry them round for sale to the pastry-cooks and private establishments.
Independently of the liver, the dealer reaps a further profit upon the goose (which is in general very plump and fat), besides the down and the goose-grease.
I purpose adding to this recherché and universal bill of fare, a few receipts from Spain, Portugal, America, India, and China; closing this small but well-filled volume with the roast-beef and plum-pudding of Old England, which they are at present totally incapable of cooking properly in Paris, but which I intend compelling them to do, inasmuch as they now have in that city of gourmets and cradle of gastronomy nearly as good meat as any to be found in the English metropolis.
The work will be published at a moderate price, and printed in different languages, and will, I hope, prove acceptable to the public, as well as beneficial, in a culinary point of view, to all nations.
A few weeks after my visit to his Majesty the Emperor Napoleon III., and having delivered my report upon the kitchens for the working classes, to my joy the time had arrived to sail for England’s happy land, which two years previous I had so unexpectedly left. Double pleasure was attached to my return, for I felt assured that within its sea-girt shore thousands of true British hearts were wishing me well, to use his Majesty the Sultan’s term. And indeed I was not disappointed, for in less than forty-eight hours after my arrival in its mighty metropolis, I had been so fervently shaken by the hand, that I could not but help exclaiming for a short time, “Save me from my friends.” Added to this, my kind reception by the home authorities was to me more than gratifying: then the last, though not least, reminiscence of my late campaign which occurred in Hyde Park, on the occasion of the distribution of the Order of Valour by her Most Gracious Majesty, when, being recognised amongst the thousands assembled in the stand by the valiant general, Sir Colin Campbell, the elevation of my hat was not sufficient for the impetuosity of the major-domo of this grand and imposing ceremony—the last link of the late memorable Crimean Campaign. On my going towards Sir Colin I was greeted with a hearty shake of the hand, and the usual kind and affable inquiries so peculiar to the amiable General having passed between us, I could not help expressing to the gallant warrior how highly gratified I had been by the admirable and perfect manœuvring of the troops. Shortly after he bade me adieu, and, accompanied by his staff, left the ground. At this time I much regretted not having had the opportunity of paying my duty to one of the generals in command, as it would have closed, in a most apropos manner, the last page of this work, my “Culinary Campaign;” but, thanks to my star, an hour after the termination of the proceedings, while walking along Piccadilly towards my residence, a friend’s voice behind me exclaimed—“Halloo, Monsieur Soyer!” On turning round, who, to my astonishment, should I perceive, mounted on his Balaklava charger, and followed by his aide-de-camp, but the very gallant general whose absence I had just been regretting. It was no other than Lord William Paulet, who was turning the corner to enter his chambers in the Albany. “I have,” exclaimed his lordship, “been looking out everywhere for you, having learned from Sir Colin Campbell that you were upon the ground.”