Lamb’s Head and Mince.
I have preserved the recipe, a gift from one of the waiters—but whether Ponsford, Taylor, or “Shakespeare” (so-called because he bore not the faintest resemblance to the immortal bard) I forget—and here it is:
The head should be scalded, scraped, and well washed. Don’t have it singed, in the Scottish fashion, as lamb’s wool is not nice to eat. Then put it, with the liver (the sweetbread was chopped up with the brain, I fancy), into a stewpan, with a Spanish onion stuck with cloves, a bunch of parsley, a little thyme, a carrot, a turnip, a bay leaf, some crushed peppercorns, a tablespoonful of salt, and half a gallon of cold water. Let it boil up, skim, and then simmer for an hour. Divide the head, take out the tongue and brain, and dry the rest of the head in a cloth. Mince the liver and tongue, season with salt and pepper, and simmer in the original gravy (thickened) for half-an-hour. Brush the two head-halves with yolk of egg, grate bread crumbs over, and bake in oven. The brain and sweetbread to be chopped and made into cakes, fried, and then placed in the dish around the head-halves.
Ah me! The old tavern, after falling into bad ways, entertaining “extra-ladies” and ruined gamesters, has been closed for years. The ground floor was a potato warehouse the last time I passed the place. And it should be mentioned that the actors, journalists, etc., who, in the ’seventies, possessed smaller means, or more modest ambitions, were in the habit of supping—on supping days—at a cheaper haunt in the Strand, off (alleged) roast goose. But, according to one Joseph Eldred, a comedian of some note and shirt-cuff, the meat which was apportioned to us here was, in reality, always bullock’s heart, sliced, and with a liberal allowance of sage and onions. “It’s the seasoning as does it,” observed Mr. Samuel Weller.
Then there was another Bohemian house of call, and supper place, in those nights—the “Occidental,” once known as the “Coal Hole,” where, around a large, beautifully polished mahogany table, many of the wits of the town—“Harry” Leigh and “Tom” Purnell were two of the inveterates—sat, and devoured Welsh rarebits, and other things. The house, too, could accommodate not a few lodgers; and one of its great charms was that nobody cared a button what time you retired to your couch, or what time you ordered breakfast. In these matters, the Occidental resembled the “Limmer’s” of the “Billy Duff” era, and the “Lane’s” of my own dear subaltern days.
Parlour Cookery.
It was after the last-named days that, whilst on tour with various dramatic combinations—more from necessity than art, as far as I was concerned—that the first principles of parlour cookery became impregnated in mine understanding. We were not all “stars,” although we did our best. Salaries were (according to the advertisements) “low but sure”; and (according to experiences) by no means as sure as death, or taxes. The “spectre” did not invariably assume his “martial stalk,” of a Saturday; and cheap provincial lodgings do not hold out any extra inducement in the way of cookery. So, whilst we endured the efforts of the good landlady at the early dinner, some of us determined to dish up our own suppers. For the true artist never really feels (or never used to feel, at all events) like “picking a bit” until merely commercial folks have gone to bed.
Many a time and oft, with the aid of a cigar box (empty, of course), a couple of books, and an arrangement of plates, have I prepared a savoury supper of mushrooms, toasted cheese, or a kebob of larks, or other small fowl, in front of the fire. More than once have I received notice to quit the next morning for grilling kidneys on the perforated portion of a handsome and costly steel fire-shovel. And by the time I had become sufficiently advanced in culinary science to stew tripe and onions, in an enamel-lined saucepan, the property of the “responsible gent,” we began to give ourselves airs. Landladies’ ideas on the subject of supper for “theatricals,” it may be mentioned, seldom soared above yeast dumplings. And few of us liked the name, even, of yeast dumplings.
But perhaps the champion effort of all was when I was sojourning in the good city of Carlisle—known to its inhabitants by the pet name of “Cannie Carle.” A good lady was, for her sins, providing us with board and lodging, in return for (promised) cash. My then companion was a merry youth who afterwards achieved fame by writing the very funniest and one of the most successful of three-act farces that was ever placed upon the stage. Now there is not much the matter with a good joint of ribs of beef, roasted to a turn. But when that beef is placed on the table hot for the Sunday dinner, and cold at every succeeding meal until finished up, one’s appetite for the flesh of the ox begins to slacken. So we determined on the Wednesday night to “strike” for a tripe supper.
“Indeed,” protested the good landlady, “ye’ll get nae tripe in this hoose, cannie men. Hae ye no’ got guid beef, the noo?”