The partiality of crowned heads towards “Bavarois aux Abricots”—“Bavarois” is simply Bavarian cheese, a superior sort of blanc mange—is proverbial. And the above repast was served on priceless Meissen china and silver. The only remarks I will make upon the above menu are that it is quite possible that the capon may have come from Metz, though not very probable. French cooks name their meat and poultry in the most reckless fashion. For instance, owing to this reckless nomenclature the belief has grown that the best ducks come from Rouen. Nothing of the sort. There are just as good ducks raised at West Hartlepool as at Rouen. “Rouen” in the bill-of-fare is simply a corruption of “roan”; and a “roan duck” is a quacker who has assumed (through crossing) the reddish plumage of the wild bird. As for (alleged) Surrey fowls, most of them come from Heathfield in Sussex, whence £142,000 worth were sent in 1896.
Let us enquire into the composition of some of the high-sounding plats, served up by the average chef.
Bouillabaisse.—Of it Thackeray sang—
“This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotch-potch of all sorts of fishes
That Greenwich never could outdo:
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terré’s tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.”
Avoid eels and herrings in this concoction as too oily. Soles, mullet, John Dory, whiting, flounders, perch, roach, and mussels will blend well, and allow half a pound of fish for each person. For every pound of fish put in the stewpan a pint of water, a quarter of a pint of white wine, and a tablespoonful of salad oil. If there be four partakers, add two sliced onions, two cloves, two bay-leaves, two leeks (the white part only, chopped), four cloves of garlic, a tablespoonful chopped parsley, a good squeeze of lemon juice, half an ounce of chopped capsicums, a teaspoonful (or more ad lib.) of saffron, with pepper and salt. Mix the chopped fish in all this, and boil for half an hour. Let the mixture “gallop” and strain into a tureen with sippets, and the fish served separately.
Tournedos.—No relation to tornado, and you won’t find the word in any Gallic dictionary. A tournedos is a thin collop of beef, steeped in a marinade for twenty-four hours (personally I prefer it without the aid of the marine) and fried lightly. Turn it but once. The oyster atop is simply scalded. Try this dish.
Bisque.—In the seventeenth century this was made from pigeons by the poor barbarians who knew not the gentle lobster, nor the confiding crayfish. Heat up to boiling-point a Mirepoix of white wine. You don’t know what a
Mirepoix
is? Simply a faggot of vegetables, named after a notorious cuckold of noble birth in the time of Louis XV. Two carrots, two onions, two shalots, two bay-leaves, a sprig of thyme and a clove of garlic. Mince very small, with half a pound of fat bacon, half a pound of raw ham, pepper and salt, and a little butter. Add a sufficiency of white wine. In this mixture cook two dozen crayfish for twenty minutes, continually tossing them about till red, when take them out to cool. Shell them, all but the claws, which should be pounded in a mortar and mixed with butter. The flesh of the tails is reserved to be put in the soup at the last minute; the body-flesh goes back into the mirepoix, to which two quarts of broth are now added. Add the pounded shells to the soup, simmer for an hour and a half, strain, heat up, add a piece of butter, the tails, a seasoning of cayenne, and a few quenelles of whiting.
Vol-au-vent Financière.—This always reminds me of the fearful threat hurled by the waiter in the “Bab Ballads” at his flighty sweetheart: