“And if she had never lived at the restaurant she would not have had intelligence enough to know what to admire. It is the old story,—to those who know nothing of art, a gay chromo is better than a fine painting,” said Molly, when she told Harry, who broke into good-natured laughter.
“Oh, my dear Molly, you are too delicious in your enthusiasm! What would our artists say to such a comparison?”
Molly joined in the laugh. “It sounds absurd, but the principle is the same. The poor girls who have no experience of good cooking or refined living can’t be expected to appreciate it.”
But this was in the evening, and we are digressing from the dinner.
By the time the pie was in the oven, the lamb had been twenty minutes in the spider,—Marta occasionally stirring it about. Two thirds of a pint of hot water was now added (it left plenty of gravy around the meat, yet did not cover it), the parsley was put in, and the spider closely covered and set where it would just simmer, as the success of the dish depended on its simmering, and not boiling. Molly waited to see it come to the boiling-point.
“Now, Marta, remember that to simmer means this,” she said, pointing out the gentlest little sizzling round the edge of the pan. “Perhaps you hardly think it is cooking at all, but that scarcely perceptible motion is what I mean when I say, ‘let it simmer;’ faster than that would be boiling. You must understand these distinctions if ever you hope to make a good cook. We are going to have Lima beans, and stuffed potatoes, and cheese canapées—to use up the baker’s bread—and, as I do not mean to be in the kitchen to-night except just as you broil the steak, I will get everything ready now.”
So saying, she cut slices of bread half an inch thick, then, with a large round cutter, cut circles; these she cut in half—they were not the true crescent shape that canapées should be, but they would answer; then she put a table-spoonful of butter in a small saucepan (using a saucepan, because to fry, or rather sauter, so little, the butter required would be twice as much if it had to go over the large space of a frying-pan), and then she fried four of the canapées a very light brown. When done she took them up, and grated about an ounce of cheese, and setting the canapées on a small tin ready for the oven, she heaped the grated cheese on them, then sprinkled on them a little pepper and salt.
“Marta, those are ready, but need not go into the oven till I tell you. At five you wash four large potatoes and put them into the oven; at a quarter past you can put the Lima beans into a saucepan of boiling water, with two tea-spoonfuls of salt and one of sugar; let them come quickly to the boil again.”
Molly took the pie out of the oven. It was beautifully brown, and the edge, half an inch thick when it went into the oven, was now more than double, and more flaky than real puff paste, as generally made.
“Now, Marta, I’ll leave you to set the table quite alone to-night, and to do everything by yourself, except broil the steak, which I have not yet shown you how to do, and to dress the vegetables. Chop ready for me two table-spoonfuls of parsley and one slice of onion very fine.”