And how we boys (not to mention the little lasses in white frocks and black mittens) used to overeat ourselves, on such occasions, with no fear of pill, draught, or “staying in,” before our eyes!
The writer has in his mind’s eye a good specimen of such an old-fashioned dinner, as served in the fifties. It was pretty much the same feast every Christmas. We commenced with some sort of clear soup, with meat in it. Then came a codfish, crimped—the head of that household would have as soon thought of eating a sôle au vin blanc as of putting before his family an uncrimped cod—with plenty of liver, oyster sauce, and pickled walnuts; and at the other end of the table was a dish of fried smelts. Entrées? Had any of the diners asked for an entrée, his or her exit from the room would have been a somewhat rapid one. A noble sirloin of Scotch beef faced a boiled turkey anointed with celery sauce; and then appeared the blazing pudding, and the mince-pies. For the next course, a dish of toasted (or rather stewed) cheese, home-made and full of richness, was handed round, with dry toast, the bearer of which was closely pursued by a varlet carrying a huge double-handed vessel of hot spiced-ale, bobbing or floating about in the which were roasted crab-apples and sippets of toast; and it was de rigueur for each of those who sat at meat to extract a sippet, to eat with the cheese.
How the old retainer, grey and plethoric with service, loved us boys, and how he would manœuvre to obtain for us the tit-bits! A favoured servitor was “Joseph”; and though my revered progenitor was ostensibly the head of the house, he would, on occasion, “run a bad second” to “Joseph.” Memory is still keen of a certain chilly evening in September, when the ladies had retired to the drawing-room, and the male guests were invited to be seated at the small table which had been wheeled close to the replenished fire.
“Joseph,” said the dear old man, “bring us a bottle or two of the yellow seal—you know—Bin F.”
The servitor drew near to his master, and in a stage whisper exclaimed:
“You can’t afford it, sir!”
“What’s that?” roared the indignant old man.
“You can’t afford it, sir—Hawthornden’s won th’ Leger!”
“Good Gad!” A pause—and then, “Well, never mind, Joseph, we’ll have up the yellow seal, all the same.”
One of the writer’s last Christmas dinners was partaken of in a sweet little house in Mayfair; and affords somewhat of a contrast with the meal quoted above. We took our appetites away with a salad composed of anchovies, capers, truffles, and other things, a Russian sardine or two, and rolls and butter. Thence, we drifted into Bouillabaisse (a tasty but bile-provoking broth), toyed with some filets de sôle à la Parisienne (good but greasy), and disposed of a tournedos, with a nice fat oyster atop, apiece (et parlez-moi d’ça!). Then came some dickey-birds sur canapé—alleged to be snipe, but destitute of flavour, save that of the tin they had been spoiled in, and of the “canopy.” An alien cook can not cook game, whatever choice confections he may turn out—at least that is the experience of the writer. We had cressons, of course, with the birds; though how water-cress can possibly assimilate with the flesh of a snipe is questionable. “Water-creases” are all very well at tea in the arbour, but don’t go smoothly with any sort of fowl; and to put such rank stuff into a salad—as my hostess’s cook did—is absolutely criminal.