About French cookery there is nothing new to be said, because every one knows—or ought to know—that when it is good it is very good indeed, and when it is bad—it is horrid. In London it is not difficult to obtain examples both of the good and the horrid French styles. The horrid will not be needed twice! The real cuisine bourgeoise, which does not attempt to disguise the true flavour of the meats with unholy sauces, is nearly the very best in the world.

Last, but not least, of all, in all probability best of all, is a real English menu, and it is really difficult to say where it may best be ordered, for the maître d’hôtel of a big restaurant looks askance at a bill of fare without one single French word in it, not even an à la.

A dear lady whose wit was better than her French pronunciation once said at a little dinner, “It is not so much the menu that matters, as the men you sit next to.” And really the programme is not by any means as important as the cooking thereof.

Old-fashioned Christmas cookery was, no doubt, of a heavier and more serious nature than ours of to-day, although the compounding of the historic plum-pudding seems to have been much the same. Here is the recipe of Mr. Richard Briggs, “many years cook at the Globe Tavern, the White Hart, and now at the Temple Coffee House.” It appears in his “English Art of Cookery,” published in 1788:—

Take a pound of flour, and mix it into batter with half a pint of milk; beat up the yolks of eight and the whites of four eggs, a pound of beef suet shred fine, a pound of raisins picked, a pound of currants, washed and picked, half a nutmeg grated, a teaspoonful of beaten ginger, a little moist sugar, a glass of brandy, and a little lemon-peel shred fine. Mix it well together, tie it up in a cloth, and boil it four hours. When it is done, turn it out into a dish, and garnish with powder sugar, with melted butter, sweet wine and sugar, mixed in a boat.

This is a curious recipe, which, I think, might work out very well. My copy of this old book bears the following quaint inscription on the fly-leaf: “The gift of Andrew Newton, Esquire, to the Dean and Chapter of Lichfield for the use of the Library of that Cathedral.” What can the Dean and Chapter have wanted with a cookery book?

“You can’t please everybody,” as the old fisherman remarked to the grumbling angler who brought up a red-herring at the end of his line, and there are doubtless some—many, maybe—who prefer a less seasonable dinner than the stereotyped Christmas meal. For such this dainty and simple menu is humbly suggested:—

As a matter of fact, this was the dinner given a short while ago in Paris by the Société des Amis des Livres, who know as much about cookery as they do about bookery. It is worthy of record for its simplicity and completeness.

For those who like to be thoroughly conventional, and yet at the same time to let sweet reasonableness attend their feasts, let me recommend a Christmas dinner fashioned on somewhat the following lines:—