“‘It’s a stew of tripe,’ said the landlord, smacking his lips, ‘and cowheel,’ smacking them again, ‘and bacon,’ smacking them once more, ‘and steak,’ smacking them for the fourth time, ‘and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes, and sparrowgrass, all working up together in one delicious gravy.’ Having come to the climax, he smacked his lips a great many times, and taking a long hearty sniff of the fragrance that was hovering about, put on the cover again with the air of one whose toils on earth were over.
“‘At what time will it be ready?’ asked Mr. Codlin faintly. ‘It’ll be done to a turn,’ said the landlord, looking up at the clock, ‘at twenty-two minutes before eleven.’
“‘Then,’ said Mr. Codlin, ‘fetch me a pint of warm ale, and don’t let nobody bring into the room even so much as a biscuit till the time arrives.’”
And I do vow and protest that the above passage has caused much more smacking of lips than the most expensive, savoury menu ever thought out. True, sparrowgrass and new potatoes, and any peas but dried or tinned ones are not as a rule at their best in the same season as tripe; but why not dried peas, and old potatoes, and rice, and curry powder, and onions—Charles Dickens forgot the onions—with, maybe, a modicum of old ale added, for “body”—in this stew, on a cold day at Sandown or Kempton? Toujours Irish stew, like toujours mother-in-law, is apt to pall upon the palate; especially if not fresh made. And frost occasionally interferes with the best-laid plans of a race-course caterer.
“I don’t mind a postponed meeting,” once observed one of the “readiest” of bookmakers; “but what I cannot stand is postponed Irish stew.”
Than a good bowl of
Scotch Broth,
what could be more grateful, or less expensive?
Shin of beef, pearl barley, cabbages, leeks, turnips, carrots, dried peas (of course soaked overnight), and water—“all working up together in one delicious gravy.”
Also