Personally I object to cooking simple fare and then dubbing it à la Quelque chose. Outside the few score well-known, and, so to say, classic titles of more or less elaborate dishes, which are practically standardised, there seems to me to be no reason to invent riddles in nomenclature when the “short title,” as they say in Parliamentary Bills, is amply descriptive.
It has been my ill-fortune to be introduced, at an otherwise harmless suburban dinner, to a catastrophe of cutlets, garnished with tinned vegetables, and to be gravely informed, on an ill-spelt menu, that it was “Cutelletes d’Agneau à la Jardinnier,” which would be ludicrous, were it not sad. Then how often does the kind hostess, without a punitive thought in her composition, write down Soufflet when she means Soufflé?
But mistakes are easily made, as witness that popular sign of a French cabaret, particularly in the provinces, Au Lion d’Or. If you look carefully at the signboard, you will find a man asleep, the punning name of the hotel implying Au lit on dort.
But the whole question of Menus (Bills of Fare, if you please), and their mistranslation, is too vast to enter upon here, alluring though the subject may be. The language of the restaurant cook, save in especial instances, is as bad, although in a quite different sense, as that of the Whitechapel Hooligan. At the same time, it is absurd to insist upon the literal translation of the untranslatable. “Out of works” for “Hors d’œuvres”; “Soup at the good woman” for “Potage à la bonne femme”; “Smile of a calf at the banker’s wife” for “Ris de veau à la financière”; and, lastly, “Anchovies on the sofa” for “Anchois sur canapé,” are all well enough in their way, but hardly an example to be followed, although they make “very pretty patriotic eating.”
It would be ridiculous to run away with the idea that because certain folk misuse the language, French should be henceforward taboo at our dinner-tables. Such a notion is ignorant and impossible. But the Gallic tongue should be used with discretion and knowledge, and if the enterprising Chafist invent a new dish of eggs, there is no law to forbid his naming it Œufs à la Temple du Milieu. It would only show the quality of his erudition and his taste. There seems no particular reason why we should not replace Rôti by Roast, Entrée by Remove, and Entremet by Sweet—except that it is not done; it is an affectation of humbug, of course, but the greatest humbug of all humbugs is the pretending to despise humbug.
Alderman’s Walk.
On revient toujours à son premier mouton—that is to say, let us get back to Chaffinda. The next dish on the experimental programme is “The Alderman’s Walk,” a very old English delicacy, the most exquisite portion of the most exquisite joint in Cookerydom, and so called because, at City dinners of our grandfathers’ times, it is alleged to have been reserved for the Aldermen. It is none other than the first, longest and juiciest longitudinal slice, next to the bone, of a succulent saddle of mutton, Southdown for choice, and four years old at that, though this age is rare. Remove this slice tenderly and with due reverence from the hot joint, lay it aside on a slice of bread, its own length, and let it get cold, thoroughly cold. Then prepare in the Chafing Dish a sauce composed of a walnut of butter, a teaspoon of Worcester, three drops of Tabasco, three chopped chives, and an eggspoon of made mustard. Stir these ingredients until the amalgamation is smooth and complete. Then take the bread, which should have absorbed a good deal of the juice from under the Alderman’s Walk, cut it into strips, and lightly toast the strips. Drop the meat into the sauce, and let it cook for eight minutes, turning it once, that is, four minutes for each side. Slide it out on to a hot dish, put the toast round it, eat it in a hurry, and thank your stars that you are alive to enjoy it. This is a dish which has few equals and no superiors. It is simple, innocent, toothsome, satisfying, and several other things.
Something like it, but lacking its artistic severity, may be found in Alexandre Dumas’ Great Dictionary, but it is complicated with eccentric accessories; there is a turbulent confused foreground to it which effectually conceals the mutton, but then, of course, poor Dumas, although he knew and appreciated, could rarely obtain the real Southdown.
At the time that the great author was overwhelmed with commissions for novels, after the enormous success of “The Three Musketeers” and other masterpieces, he was commonly understood to put books in the market which were written by Auguste Maquet, and merely signed by himself. Dumas, as is well known, was a great amateur cook, and in fact prided himself more on his dishes than on his novels. One day he invited the famous Aurelien Scholl to dinner, and put before him a salmon mayonnaise which he—Dumas Père—had made with his own hands. “Taste that, Scholl,” he said, “and tell me how you like it.”
Scholl tasted it and made a wry face. “Really, Dumas,” he replied, “I think it must be by Maquet.”