CHAPTER XI.
warming over.
Hash is a peculiarly American institution. In no other country is every remnant of cold meat turned into that one unvarying dish. What do I say? remnants of cold meat! rather joints of cold meat, a roast of beef of which the tenderloin had sufficed for the first day's dinner, the leg of mutton from which a few slices only have been taken, the fillet of veal, available for so many delicate dishes, all are ruthlessly turned into the all-pervading hash. The curious thing is that people are not fond of it. Men exclaim against it, and its name stinks in the nostrils of those unhappy ones whose home is the boarding-house.
Yet hash in itself is not a bad dish; when I say it is a peculiarly American institution, I mean, that when English people speak of hash, they mean something quite different—meat warmed in slices. Our hash, in its best form—that is, made with nice gravy, garnished with sippets of toast and pickles, surrounded with mashed potatoes or rice—is dignified abroad by the name of mince, and makes its appearance as an elegant little entrée. Nor would it be anathematized in the way it is with us, if it were only occasionally introduced. It is the familiarity that has led to contempt. "But what shall I do?" asks the young wife distressfully; "John likes joints, and he and I and Bridget can't possibly eat a roast at a meal."
Very true; and it is to just such perplexed young housekeepers that I hope this chapter will be especially useful—that is to say, small families with moderate means and a taste for good things. In this, as in many other ways, large families are easier to cater for; they can consume the better part of a roast at a meal, and the remains it is no great harm to turn into hash, although even they might, with little trouble and expense, have agreeable variety introduced into their bill of fare.
In England and America there is great prejudice against warmed-over food, but on the continent one eats it half the time in some of the most delicious-made dishes without suspecting it. Herein lies the secret. With us and our transatlantic cousins the warming over is so artlessly done, that the hard fact too often stares at us from out the watery expanse in which it reposes.
One great reason of the failure to make warmed-over meat satisfactory is the lack of gravy. On the goodness of this (as well as its presence) depends the success of your réchauffé.
The glaze, for which I have given the recipe, renders you at all times independent in this respect, but at the same time it should not alone be depended on. Every drop of what remains in the dish from the roast should be saved, and great care be taken of all scraps, bones, and gristle, which should be carefully boiled down to save the necessity of flying to the glaze for every purpose. I will here give several recipes, which I think may be new to many readers.