I often roast a small leg of pork at home as directed above, and make apple sauce thus: peel and slice six nice apples, which put into a stewpan, with a tablespoonful of currants well washed and picked, and one of brown sugar, a little of the rind of a lemon chopped very fine, six spoonfuls of water, and a very small piece of cinnamon, boil until in purée, then stir in a handful of bread-crumbs, and serve hot. When, however, I am in a great hurry I merely put apples, water, sugar, and a little rind of lemon. Other joints of pork are roasted in the same manner, but do not require stuffing, a loin weighing six pounds requiring two hours and a quarter to roast; a neck of the same size will take about the same time, as will the spare-ribs, which is nothing but the necks of larger pork with the blade-bone cut out and the fat taken off.
No. 33. Salt Pork. Pork is salted in the same manner as described for beef, omitting the saltpetre, but of course not requiring so long a time; a leg weighing seven pounds would be well salted in a week, as also would a hand and spring weighing about ten pounds, and either would require two hours boiling, putting them in a stewpan with cold water, and serving with carrots and greens upon a separate dish. With the leg it is also customary to serve a pease pudding made thus: tie about a pint of split peas loosely in a pudding-cloth, throw them into boiling water to stew until tender, then take them up, turn from the cloth upon the back of a hair sieve, through which force them with a wooden spoon, put them into a basin, add two ounces of butter, season with pepper and salt, mix well with six whole eggs, tie up tightly in a pudding-cloth, boil an hour and serve very hot.
A pig’s head is also excellent pickled. Divide the head in two, take out the brains and detach the jaw-bones, pickle it twelve days, rubbing it every day, (the brine in which you have pickled one joint, with the addition of more salt, would pickle several and keep good for upwards of a month;) when ready, boil it nearly three hours, and serve with greens round as an accompaniment to veal or poultry. To pickle it red, rub it well with twelve pounds of salt, a quarter of a pound of saltpetre, two cakes of sal prunella, and half a pound of coarse sugar, rub it every day, allowing it to remain fifteen days in pickle, after which it maybe hung, and dried or smoked previously to dressing.
MADE DISHES THAT CAN BE EASILY PREPARED AT A MODERATE EXPENSE IN MY KITCHEN AT HOME.
Preaching economy which has been practised from age to age in all domestic works is not here my intention, as my readers must quickly perceive that the simplicity of my receipts excludes the seal of extravagance, having simplified even dishes of some importance, which daily give and have given the greatest satisfaction at the Reform Club.
The regular courses of a cuisine bourgeoise, or domestic cookery, will be found extremely easy to execute in my Kitchen at Home, and numbers of them done to perfection in the Kitchen (or sanctorum) of a Bachelor, as well as in the small Cottage Kitchen.
No. 34. French Pot-au-feu. Out of this earthen pot comes the favorite soup and bouilli, which have been everlastingly famed as having been the support of several generations of all classes of society in France; from the opulent to the poorest individuals, all pay tribute to its excellence and worth. In fact this soup and bouilli are to the French what the roast beef and plum-pudding are on a Sunday to the English. No dinner in France is served without soup, and no good soup is supposed to be made without the pot-au-feu. Generally every quarter of a century makes a total alteration in fashions and politics, need I say also in cookery, which must be approximated not only to the fashion but more strongly so to the political world, humbly bending its indispensable services to the whims and wishes of crowned heads, which invariably lead the multitude; for example, the bills of fare of the sumptuous dinners which used to grace the tables of Louis the Fourteenth, Sixteenth, and Eighteenth, of France, were all very different to each other, and none of them were ever copied to grace the sumptuous and luxurious tables of the Empire; even the very features of them having undergone an entire change in our own days; every culinary invention taking its title and origin from some celebrated personage or extraordinary event, every innovation in cookery, like a change in fashion, causing us to forget those dishes which they have superseded; I have no doubt but that, if some correct historian could collect the bills of fare of dinners from various centuries and nations which crowned heads have partaken of, he might write a very interesting volume under the title of History of Cookery, in which we should be able closely to trace the original history of different countries.[23] Nothing can stamp the anniversary of any great event so well as a sumptuous banquet: peace, war, politics, and even religion, have always been the cause of extraordinary and sometimes monstrous gastronomic meetings; for a proof of which my readers will find at the end of this work a correct bill of fare (found in the Tower of London,) of a dinner given by the Earl of Warwick at the installation of an Archbishop of York, in the year 1470. In time of war artists are engaged sketching on immense canvasses the horrors and disasters of a battle, while in peace they sketch the anniversary banquets for the victorious, in honour of the event, (reminding us of the calm after a storm;) and we may sincerely hope, for the credit of humanity at large, that a disastrous battle may have its hundreds of anniversary banquets without a fresh combat. But to return to the humble but indispensable science of cookery. Everything seems to prove to us that it has always performed an important part in political events, and has been exposed to as many alterations; still, amongst so many changes, it is with a national pleasure that I find, amongst the heap of frivolous culinary ruins, an old favorite of our great great-grandfathers still remaining ours, having boldly passed through every storm, it has for ever established its culinary power upon our changeable soil. The brown cheek of this demi-immortal is daily seen ornamenting the firesides of millions, and merely acquaints the children the first thing in the morning that something good is in preparation for their dinner: this mighty vessel is called in French pot-au-feu,[24] in which is made that excellent and wholesome luxury which for centuries has been the principal nourishment and support of the middling and poorer classes of France at a very trifling expense. It is not upon the tables of the wealthy that the best of this national soup is to be obtained, but upon the right or left side of the entrance to his noble mansion, in a square, oval, or octagonal room, commonly called la Loge du Portier, or the Porter’s Lodge; as nearly every porter has his portière, that is, a wife who answers the door (whilst her husband is doing the frottage, or polishing the floor of the apartment), while pulling the string or wire which loosens the lock to let people in with one hand, she skims the pot-au-feu with the other; should she be fortunate enough to possess two eyes she would keep one upon her pot-au-feu, and the other upon the individual, who had, probably, come only to make inquiry; but unfortunately for La Mère Binard (whom I shall have the pleasure of introducing to my readers as a gastronomic wonder in her simple style), she had but one eye, which she almost entirely devoted to the ebullition of her pot-au-feu; having been portière there two-and-thirty years, she knew most of the people in the habit of calling by their voice, and used to answer them even without turning her shaking head. But what brought her domestic cookery in such high repute, that she was not to be excelled by any portière of Paris, was, that one day her master, M. le Comte de C**** (who was a good gentleman and great epicure), came home from a long ride while she was performing her humble occupation of pouring the soup into the tureen; a triple knock came to the door, which immediately opened as by electricity, and in walked her beloved master, who came to the door of the lodge to pay his duties to his old and faithful servant, whilst an exhalation of the most delicious fragrance perfumed the small apartment from the boiling consommé which attracted his scientific attention; after a short inquiry he discovered in an old brown pan the gloriously smoking hot consommé, and seizing with avidity a spoon by the side, tasted (much to the astonishment of La Mère Binard) several spoonfuls, pronouncing the first delicious, the second excellent, the third delightful, in fact, magnificent. “Can you spare any of it?” he said, addressing the worthy dame. “Yes,” said she, “but I am sure Monseigneur does not mean it.” “But indeed I do,” replied he; “and if I had been aware I could have obtained such a treasure, I would have had nothing else for my dinner to-day; and if you were not so far advanced in years I would not object to make you a cordon bleu.” The earthen pan was immediately conveyed up stairs to the dining-room, and deposited upon the table of his seigneurie, where an excellent dinner was waiting for himself and friends; but the immortal pot-au-feu, resting on a superb silver tray, with its handle half broken off, made all the homage of the dinner, to the great annoyance of the cook, who had thus sacrificed the art he had displayed in dressing a most recherché dinner, and felt much offended at the whim of his wealthy master, who had neglected his dinner to take pot-luck with his porter’s wife.
By a friendly introduction to La Mère Binard, I, with a great deal of supplication, obtained from her the following valuable receipt, having been obliged first to listen to the constant repetition of the above anecdote before she could explain it to me.—“I generally choose,” says she, “a bit of the gite à la noix, part of the aitch-bone, a piece of the rump, or a slice from the thickest part of the leg, weighing from four to five pounds, with sufficient fat attached, or adding a small piece; then I put it into the earthen pan, and fill with cold water till within two inches of the rim, being about four quarts; then I set it by my wood fire until beginning to get hot, when a thin scum will arise by degrees, which I carefully take off and throw away; then I add half a pound of beef liver, and a tablespoonful and a half of salt, it will produce more scum, which also carefully remove; have ready prepared, well washed and clean, two middling-sized carrots cut in halves, then in four, two small pieces of parsnip, four turnips, two onions, with two cloves stuck in each, eight young leeks, or two old ones, a head of celery cut into pieces three inches in length, tie the leeks and celery into a bunch, and put altogether into the pot-au-feu, set it alone nearer the fire until it commences boiling, skim again, draw it a little farther to the corner of the fire, put a wooden skimmer across the pot, upon which rest the lid to prevent its boiling fast, (which would entirely spoil the soup, the meat becoming very hard and the soup thick and muddy).” “You quite astonish me, Mrs. Binard,” said I. “Oh,” says she, “I have had so many years of experience, and I know it to be the case.” “Yes,” said I, “my dear lady, I do not in the least doubt your correctness.” “Well, then, one hour afterwards I add a little cold water to keep it to the same quantity, put in a burnt onion to give it a colour, and let simmer four hours, sometimes five, depending if the meat is cut very thick; then I cut some large thin slices of bread, which I lay at the bottom of the tureen, then I take off the greater part of the fat, cut the bunch of celery and leeks open, lay them upon the slices of bread, with one of the carrots, two turnips, and the pieces of parsnip; take half of the broth with a ladle, which pour into the tureen, (there being quite enough soup for six of us, myself, Binard, my daughter and her husband, and the two boys); then I take out carefully the meat, which I lay upon the dish, with half of the liver at the side, the other half, when cold, I give to Minette (her favorite cat), lay the remainder of the vegetables round, with some fine sprigs of fresh parsley; by that time the bread is (trempé) moistened; set both upon the table at once, keeping the meat covered until we have done with the soup: that is the way we dine upon a Sunday. The next day, with the remainder of the broth I make vermicelli or rice soup, or the same with bread in it, and fricassée the remainder of the beef in various ways. When my daughter was ill I used to put a calf’s foot in the pot-au-feu with the beef; it made the soup very strengthening and did her much good.” “Will you be kind enough,” said I, “to tell me where you get these burnt onions, for I perceive without it your soup would be quite white.” “Bless you, sir!” she replied, “you may get six for two sous at any of the grocers, or you can burn them yourself in the oven, or by the fireside, gently turning them now and then until they are quite black, but not burnt to a cinder, or it would spoil the flavour of the soup.” I then took leave of her, returning thanks for her kindness, and put down the receipt as she gave it me during her long explanation, as follows:
Receipt. Put in the pot-au-feu six pounds of beef, four quarts of water, set near the fire; skim, when nearly boiling add a spoonful and a half of salt, half a pound of liver, two carrots, four turnips, eight young or two old leeks, one head of celery, two onions and one burnt, with a clove in each, and a piece of parsnip; skim again and let simmer four or five hours, adding a little cold water now and then; take off part of the fat, put slices of bread into the tureen, lay half the vegetables over, and half the broth, and serve the meat separate with the vegetables around. Since I have been in England I have broken my precious earthen pot; I have, however, made some very good soups at home in a black saucepan or stewpan, but must admit not quite so delicate and perfect as in the identical pot de terre.
SOUPS.—No. 35. Julienne Soup. Put about six pounds of knuckle of veal in a stewpan cut in four pieces, with about half a pound of streaked bacon; put a piece of butter at the bottom of the stewpan, and about half a pint of water, place it over a sharp fire, moving it round occasionally with a wooden spoon until the bottom of the stewpan is covered with a white glaze, when add about a gallon of water, two ounces of salt, three onions (with two cloves in each), two turnips, one carrot, a head of celery, leek, and a bunch of parsley, thyme, and bay-leaf; when boiling put in two burnt onions (see Pot-au-feu) to colour it, and stand it at the corner of the fire to simmer for two hours, keeping it well skimmed, then pass the broth through a hair sieve into a stewpan; you have previously cut two middling-sized carrots, two turnips, an onion, a leek, and a little celery into very thin strips an inch long; put them in another stewpan with two ounces of butter and a teaspoonful of powdered sugar; place it upon a sharp fire, tossing them over occasionally until well fried and looking transparent, then put them into the broth with the half a young cos lettuce, and a little tarragon and chervil, place it at the corner of your fire, and when it boils skim off all the butter: let it simmer until the vegetables are perfectly tender, when pour it into your tureen; serve the veal and piece of bacon upon the dish with melted butter and chopped parsley over. Beef may also be used for the above, and the vegetables cut in any of the shapes directed for the soups in the other department of this work; if you only require a smaller quantity, take only three pounds, or diminish all in proportion.