“Every art,” observes another writer, “has its monstrosities; gastronomy has not been behind-hand; and though he must be a bold man who will venture to blaspheme the elegancies of French cookery, there comes a time to every Englishman who may have wandered into a mistaken admiration of sophisticated messes, when he longs for the simple diet of his native land, and vows that the best cookery in the world, and that which satisfies the most refined epicureanism, sets up for its ideal—plainness of good food, and the cultivation of natural tastes.”
And yet the French have taught us, or tried to teach us, how to prepare a dish of raw herbs, in the simplest way in the world!
“Now a salad,” says the same writer, “is simplicity itself, and here is a marvel—it is the crowning grace of a French dinner, while, on the other hand, it is little understood and villainously treated at English tables.” Ahem! I would qualify that last statement. At some English tables I have tasted salads compared with which the happiest effort of the chef deserves not to be mentioned in the same garlic-laden breath. And “garlic-laden breath” naturally reminds me of the story of Francatelli—of which anecdote I do not believe one word, by the way. It was said of Franc., whilst chef at the Reform Club, that his salads were such masterpieces, such things of beauty, that one of the members questioned him on the subject.
“How do you manage to introduce such a delicious flavour into your salads?”
“Ah! that should be my secret,” was the reply. “But I will tell him to you. After I have made all my preparations, and the green food is mixed with the dressing, I chew a little clove of garlic between my teeth—so—and then breathe gently over the whole.”
But, as observed before, I do not believe that garlic story.
O salad, what monstrosities are perpetrated in thy name! Let the genteel boarding-house cook-maid, the young lady who has studied harmony and the higher mathematics at the Board School, spread herself over the subject; and then invite the angels to inspect the matter, and weep! For this is the sort of “harmony” which the “paying guest,” who can appreciate the advantages of young and musical society, an airy front bed-chamber, and a bicycle room, is expected to enthuse over at the table d’hôte: a mélange of herbs and roots, including water-cress and giant radishes, swimming in equal parts of vinegar and oil, and a large proportion of the water in which the ingredients have been soaking for hours—said ingredients being minced small, like veal collops, with a steel knife. And the same salad, the very identical horror, obtrudes itself on the table at other genteel establishments than boarding-houses. For they be “mostly fools” who people the civilised world.
Let it be laid down as a golden rule, that the concoction of a salad should never, or hardly ever, be entrusted to the tender mercies of the British serving-maid. For the salad-maker, like the poet, is born, not made; and the divine afflatus—I don’t mean garlic—is as essential in the one as in the other. We will take the simple mixture, what is commonly known as the
French Salad,
first. This is either composed, in the matter of herbs, of lettuce, chopped taragon, chervil, and chives; or of endive, with, “lurking in the bowl,” a chapon, or crust of bread on which a clove of garlic has been rubbed. But the waiter, an he be discreet, will ask the customer beforehand if he prefer that the chapon be omitted. The dressing is simplicity itself: