Within the bowl of a table-spoon are placed, in succession, a spot of made mustard, and a sprinkling of black pepper and salt. The bowl is filled up with vinegar, and with a fork in the other hand the waiter stirs quickly the mustard, etc., afterwards emptying the contents of the spoon over the green-stuff. Then the spoon is refilled—either twice or thrice, ad lib.—with Lucca oil, which is also poured over the salad. Then the final mixing takes place, in the salad bowl.
But there be many and elaborate ways of salad-making. Here is the writer’s idea of a
Lobster Salad
for half-a-dozen guests:
In a soup plate, mix the yolks of two hard-boiled eggs—boiled for thirty minutes, and afterwards thrown into cold water—into a smooth paste with a teaspoonful of made mustard, and a tablespoonful of plain vinegar, added drop by drop. Keep on stirring, and add a dessert-spoonful of tarragon vinegar, a few drops of essence of anchovies, a teaspoonful (not heaped) of salt, about the same quantity of sifted sugar, and a good pinch of cayenne. [The tendency of black pepper is to make a salad gritty, which is an abomination.] Lastly, add, drop by drop, three tablespoonfuls of oil. Pour this dressing (which should be in a continual state of stir) into your salad bowl. Add the pickings of a hen lobster cut into dice, and atop of the lobster, lettuces which have been shred with clean fingers, or with ivory forks; a little endive may be added, with a slice or two of beetroot; but no onion (or very little) in a lobster salad. A few shreds of anchovy may be placed atop; with beetroot cut into shapes, the whites of the eggs, and the coral of the lobster, for the sake of effect; but seek not, O student, to achieve prettiness of effect to the detriment of practical utility. I need hardly add that the sooner after its manufacture a salad is eaten, the better will be its flavour. And the solid ingredients should only be mixed with the dressing at the very last moment; otherwise a sodden, flabby effect will be produced, which is neither pleasing to the eye, nor calculated to promote good digestion.
I am perfectly aware that the above is not a strict Mayonnaise dressing, in which the egg yolks should be raw, instead of cooked. But, like the Scotsman, I have “tried baith,” and prefer my own way, which more resembles the sauce Tartare, than the Mayonnaise of our lively neighbours, who, by the way, merely wipe, instead of wash, their lettuces and endive, to preserve, as they say, the flavour. Of course this is a matter of taste, but the writer must own to a preference for the baptised article, which must, however, on no account be left to soak, but be simply freed from dirt, grit, and—other things.
What is the origin of the word “Mayonnaise”? No two Frenchmen will give you the same answer. “Of or belonging to Mayonne” would seem to be the meaning of the word; but then there is no such place as Mayonne in the whole of France. Grimod de la Reyniere maintained that the proper word was “Bayonnaise,” meaning a native of Bayonne, on the Spanish frontier. Afterwards Grimod, who was a resourceful man, got hold of another idea, and said that the word was probably “Mahonnaise,” and so named in honour of Marshal Richelieu’s capture of the stronghold of Mahon, in the island of Minorca. But what had this victory got to do with a salad dressing? What was the connection of raw eggs and tarragon vinegar with Marshal Richelieu? Then up came another cook, in the person of Carême, who established it as an absolute certainty that the genuine word was “Magnonnaise,” from the word “manier,” to manipulate. But as nobody would stand this definition for long, a fresh search had to be made; and this time an old Provençal verb was dug up—mahonner, or more correctly maghonner, to worry or fatigue. And this is now said by purists to be the source of Mayonnaise—“something worried,” or fatigued. And the reason for the gender of the noun is said to be that in ancient times lovely woman was accustomed to manipulate the salad with her own fair fingers. In the time of Rousseau, the phrase retourner la salade avec les doigts was used to describe a woman as being still young and beautiful; just as in Yorkshire at the present time, “she canna mak’ a bit o’ bread” is used to describe a woman who is of no possible use in the house. So a Mayonnaise or a Mahonnaise—I care not which be the correct spelling—was a young lady who “fatigued” the salad. More shame to the gallants of the day, who allowed “fatigue” to be associated with youth and beauty!
But can it possibly matter what the word means, when the mixture is smooth and savoury; and so deftly blended that no one flavour predominates? And herein lies the secret of every mixture used for the refreshment of the inner man and woman; whether it be a soup, a curry, a trifle, a punch, or a cup—no one ingredient should be of more weight or importance than another. And that was the secret of the “delicious gravy” furnished by the celebrated stew at the “Jolly Farmers,” in The Old Curiosity Shop of Charles Dickens.
Mayonnaise (we will drop for the nonce, the other spelling) is made thus: