‘The Gastronomic Regenerator’ reminds us of no book so much as the Despatches of Arthur Duke of Wellington. The orders of Soyer emanate from a man with a clear, cool, determined mind—possessing a complete mastery of his weapons and materials, and prompt to make them available for meeting every contingency—singularly fertile in conceiving, and fortunate without a check in executing, sudden, rapid, and difficult combinations—overlooking nothing with his eagle eye, and, by the powerful felicity of his resources, making the most of everything—matchless in his “Hors-d’œuvres”—unassailable in his “Removes”—impregnable in his “Pièces de résistance”—and unconquerable with his “Flanks.” His directions are lucid, precise, brief, and unmistakable. There is not a word in them superfluous—or off the matter immediately on hand—or not directly to the point. They are not the dreams of a visionary theorist and enthusiast, but the hard, solid, real results of the vast experience of a tried veteran, who has personally superintended or executed all the operations of which he writes. It may be matter of dispute whether Wellington or Soyer acquired their knowledge in the face of the hotter fire. They are both great Chiefs—whose mental and intellectual faculties have a wonderful similarity—and whose sayings and doings are characterized by an astonishing resemblance in nerve, perspicuity, vigour, and success. In one respect M. Soyer has an advantage over his illustrious contemporary. His Despatches are addressed to an army which as far outnumbers any force ever commanded or handled by the Hero of Waterloo, as the stars in the blue empyrean exceed the gas-lamps of London—an army which, instead of diminishing under any circumstances, evinces a tendency, we fear, of steadily swelling its ranks year by year, and day by day—a standing army, which the strong band of the most jealous republicanism cannot suppress, and which the realization of the bright chimera of universal peace will fail to disband. Before many months are gone, thousands and tens of thousands will be marching and countermarching, cutting and skewering, broiling and freezing, in blind obedience to the commands of the Regenerator. “Peace hath her victories no less than those of war.” But it is not to be forgotten that if the sword of Wellington had not restored and confirmed the tranquillity of the world, the carving-knife of Soyer might not have been so bright.
The confidence of Soyer in his own handiwork is not the arrogant presumption of vanity, but the calm self-reliance of genius. There is a deal of good sense in the paragraph which we now quote. (See p. xl.)
It seems a childish remark to make, that all salts do not coincide in their saltness, nor sugars in their sweetness. The principle, however, which the observation contains within it, is anything but childish. It implies that, supposing the accuracy of a Soyer to be nearly infallible, the faith in his instructions must never be so implicit as to supersede the testimony of one’s own senses, and the admonitions of one’s own judgment. It is with the most poignant recollections that we acknowledge the justice of the Regenerator’s caution on this head. We once, with a friend who shared our martyrdom, tried to make onion soup in exact conformity with what was set down in an Oracle of Cookery, which a foul mischance had placed across our path. With unerring but unreflecting fidelity, we filled, and mixed, and stirred, and watched the fatal caldron. The result was to the eye inexpressibly alarming. A thick oily fluid, repulsive in colour, but infinitely more so in smell, fell with a flabby, heavy, lazy stream into the soup-plate. Having swallowed, with a Laocoonic contortion of countenance, two or three mouthfuls, our individual eyes wandered stealthily towards our neighbour. Evidently we were fellow-sufferers; but pride, which has occasioned so many lamentable catastrophes, made us both dumb and obdurate in our agony. Slowly and sadly, at lengthened intervals, the spoon, with its abominable freight, continued to make silent voyages from the platters to our lips. How long we made fools of ourselves it is not necessary to calculate. Suddenly, by a simultaneous impulse, the two windows of the room favoured the headlong exit of two wretches whose accumulated grievances were heavier than they could endure. Hours rolled away, while the beautiful face of Winander mere looked as ugly as Styx, as we writhed along its banks, more miserably moaning than the hopeless beggar who sighed for the propitiatory obolus to Charon. And from that irrevocable hour we have abandoned onions to the heroines of tragedy. Fools, in spite of all warning, are taught by such a process as that to which we submitted. Wise men take a hint.
“Nature, says I to myself”—Soyer is speaking—“compels us to dine more or less once a-day.” The average which oscillates between the “more” and the “less,” it requires considerable dexterity to catch. Having read six hundred pages and fourteen hundred receipts, the question is, where are we to begin? Our helplessness is confessed. Is it possible the Regenerator is, after all, more tantalizing than the Barmecide? No—here is the very aid we desiderate. Our readers shall judge of a “Dinner Party at Home.” (See p. 636.)
We shall be exceedingly curions to hear how many hundred parties of eight persons, upon reading this bill of fare in our pages, will, without loss of time, congregate in order to do it substantial honour. Such a clattering of brass and brandishing of steel may strike a new government as symptomatical or preparatory of a popular rising. We may therefore reassure them with the information, that those who sit down with M. Soyer, will have little thought of rising for a long time afterwards.
We have introduced ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator’ to public notice in that strain which its external appearance, its title, its scheme, and its contents, demand and justify. But we must not, even good-humouredly, mislead those for whose use its publication is principally intended. To all intents and purposes M. Soyer’s work is strictly and most intelligibly practical. It is as full of matter as an egg is full of meat; and the household which would travel through its multitudinous lessons must be as full of meat as the Regenerator is full of matter. The humblest, as well as the wealthiest kitchen economy, is considered and instructed; nor will the three hundred receipts at the conclusion of the volume, which are more peculiarly applicable to the “Kitchen at Home,” be, probably, the portion of the book least agreeable and valuable to the general community. For example, just before shaking hands with him, let us listen to M. Soyer, beginning admirably to discourse of the “Choosing and Roasting of plain Joints.” (See p. 637.)
How full of milky kindness is his language, still breathing the spirit of that predominant idea—the tranquillization of the universe by “copious dinners!” He has given up “basting” with success. Men may as well give up basting one another. Nobody will envy the Regenerator the bloodless fillets worthily encircling his forehead, should the aspirations of his benevolent soul in his lifetime assume any tangible shape. But if a more distant futurity is destined to witness the lofty triumph, he may yet depart in the confidence of its occurrence. The most precious fruits ripen the most slowly. The sun itself does not burst at once into meridian splendour. Gradually breaks the morning; and the mellow light glides noiselessly along, tinging mountain, forest, and the city spire, till a stealthy possession seems to be taken of the whole upper surface of creation, and the mighty monarch at last uprises on a world prepared to expect, to hail, and to reverence his perfect and unclouded majesty.
THE MORNING POST.
Cream of Egypt l’Ibrahim Pacha. The novelty of the bill of fare which appeared in our columns of Saturday last relating to the banquet given to his Highness Ibrahim Pacha, by the members of the Reform Club, the day previous, having since been the topic of general conversation, our readers will perhaps feel interested in the description of two of the most novel and original dishes served on that occasion. The first, entitled “Cream of Egypt à l’Ibrahim Pacha,” and composed expressly for the occasion by M. Soyer, the chef de cuisine of the club, was the admiration of the whole company, and especially so of the Pacha, who as soon as it was placed before him, quickly perceived the honour intended to be conferred upon him. This dish consisted of a pyramid about two feet and a half high, made of light meringue cake, in imitation of solid stones, surrounded with immense grapes and other fruits, but representing only the four angles of the pyramid through sheets of waved sugar, to show, to the greatest advantage, an elegant cream à l’ananas, on the top of which was resting a highly-finished portrait of the illustrious stranger’s father, Mehemet Ali, carefully drawn on a round-shaped satin carton, the exact size of the top of the cream. The portrait was immediately observed by his Highness, who carefully took it up, and, after showing it to several of his suite, placed it in his bosom. What was his Highness’s astonishment, however, on again looking at the spot, to observe in the cream, as under a glass, a highly-finished portrait of himself, surrounded by a very carefully-executed frame. M. Soyer, having been sent for by the party, was highly complimented by his Highness, through his interpreter. The Pacha desired to know where and how he could procure such a likeness of his father, and how his own was so correctly drawn in the cream? “Please tell his Highness,” says M. Soyer to the interpreter, “that both were executed from the original sketches drawn by our celebrated artist Horace Vernet, whilst in Alexandria. The portrait in the cream is drawn on wafer-paper, which being placed on the damp jelly representing the glass, dissolves, and nothing remains of the wafer-paper but the appearance of the portrait painted in light water-colours. The imitation of the gilt frame is made with the eau de vie of Dantzic and gold water mixed with the jelly, the gold leaf of which forms the frame.” After having been thanked by the Pacha, the pyramidal cream of Egypt was ordered to be shown to each guest by sliding it from one to the other round the table.
Though everything was eatable in it, this magnificent dish was respected, and remained untouched until the end of the banquet, though everybody tried to partake of the fruit which surrounded it.