"The anchovy figures as a stimulant and aperient in a great number of sauces, whose presence imparts to them their principal virtues. Such are the sauces à l'Allemande, à l'anchois, aux câpres, etc.; we shall confine ourselves to the recipe of that which bears its name. Anchovy sauce is prepared by first carefully washing the anchovies in vinegar; the bones are then removed, the fish finely minced and placed in a stewpan with a clear coulis[46] of veal and ham, pepper, salt, nutmeg, and fine spices; after heating reduce to the proper consistence and give it the finishing touch. This sauce serves for the roast. The anchovy plays the principal rôle in the sauce served with roast sirloin of beef and hare à la broche. It is made with their juices and a little bouillon, anchovies coarsely chopped, capers, fine herbs, tarragon, pepper, salt, and vinegar. With this sauce well prepared, one might eat an elephant.
"Anchovy sauce is also employed in several sorts of gravies, and one may say that it is not misplaced in any piquante sauce: for it is in itself an excellent épigramme. It follows from these remarks that the anchovy is an indispensable adjunct to good cheer. Its body figures admirably for the déjeuner and with the hors-d'œuvres, and its spirit makes itself distinctly felt in all sauces that it permeates. It imparts to them a savour which stimulates the appetite and agreeably captivates the palate."
In the middle ages the office of the saucier, or master sauce-maker, was invested with great importance. A chief functionary in all grand houses, under him were clerks, varlets, and youths termed galopins de saucerie, who stood ever ready to do his bidding. Old woodcuts depict him presiding over his receptacles—as imposing in his dignity as the master-carver himself. Even then the adage held good that the sauce was often worth more than the fish.
Indeed, the sauce is the sonnet of the table, as varied in its forms as the structure of the sonnet itself. The Gaul is its master, and to him belongs the majority of its most pleasing tenses. In the words of the distinguished Marquis de Cussy, who maintained that a good cook can remove your gout as you would remove your gloves,—"Point de sauce, point de salut, point de cuisine; where would we be if the grand sauces, the lesser ones, and the special ones that have rendered the French school illustrious had not been discovered by men of the greatest genius? The life labours of one alone would not have sufficed. What a brilliant ladder to scale, that which, leaving the last round—the sauce pauvre homme—is lost in the clouds with the velouté, the grande and petite espagnole, and the réductions!"[47]
Sauce Soubise, sauce d'Orléans, sauce d'Uxelles, and sauce à la Régence are all credited to great minds of the eighteenth century, so prolific of new culinary discoveries. Through their piquant instrumentality we may in imagination summon the splendours of the Regency and the reign of Louis, surnamed "le Bien-Aimé," with the brilliant toilets of its gay and pretty women—the high-heeled pointed shoe, the powdered hair, the rouge and beauty-spot, the painted fan and walking-stick of fille, duchesse, and marquise that still look at us from the canvases of Boucher and Watteau. We may see, too, the V-shaped satin corsage, the expansive pannier, the diaphanous robe déshabillée,—flounced, frilled, flowered, and furbelowed,—the embroidered petticoat and surge of lace and ribband, as fair dame and plumed gallant repair to the suppers of the Palais-Royal and the Parc aux Cerfs, or sit down amid umbrageous glades to the revels of a fête champêtre.
Almost as many varieties of sauces exist as of soups. But these may vary little or largely from their usually accepted names. The cook will tell you, if you are unacquainted with the fact yourself, that by adding to simple melted butter a liberal amount of finely chopped parsley (some ruin the relish with grated nutmeg, a spice which should be used with great discretion), salt and pepper, and a dash of lemon, you have what is termed a maître-d'hôtel sauce. Add to this finely minced garden-cress, chervil, and a little tarragon and burnet, and you produce a different sauce under the same name. Thus plain onion sauce and sauce Soubise, in each of which the onion forms the dominant chord, may differ equally, and sauce piquante and sauce Robert vary only in their titles and the additional mustard called for by the latter. Sauce poivrade, in like manner, is a sauce piquante with an increased supply of pepper and without the pickled cucumber.
Among the most valuable of all sauces, though employed only cold and served with cold viands, is that which at once suggests what Jules Janin in an inadvertent moment termed the "cardinal of the seas," and that at a luncheon or a late supper possesses a merit distinctively its own. This Carême has dealt with at length in his treatise on cold sauces. The origin of the word "mayonnaise," a blending supposed to be the invention of the Maréchal de Richelieu, has always remained in doubt. Its etymology has been attributed to Mahon, a town of southern France. Yet this supposed derivation is extremely dubious; and as it was also known as "bayonnaise," it might be ascribed equally to Bayonne, famous for its hams, its cheese, and its chocolate, and for having invented the bayonet.[48]
It has been variously termed mahonaise, bayonnaise, mahonnoise, magnonaise, and mayonnaise. But Carême, after minutely describing its preparation, from the first drop of oil to its final silky, white, and unctuous cream, denies its accepted derivation, and pronounces it magnonaise, from the verb manier—to stir; as it may be prepared only through the continual stirring it undergoes, which results in a marrowy, velvety, and very appetising sauce, unique of its kind, and bearing no resemblance to others that are obtained only through reductions of the range. Despite this ingenious explanation, the word is still written "mayonnaise"; and while lights shine brilliantly, and champagne sparkles, and the great crawfish, sublimated into salad, receives the encomiums of appreciative guests, the famous chef of the Empire is forgotten, and the chapter of the "Cuisinier Parisien" exists only as a tale that is told.
It may be observed that a good sauce should be perfect in flavour, colour, smell, and consistency. It should be savoury, flowing, and well defined. On the proper liaison, a correct apportionment of the flavourings, a knowledge of the range, and a discriminating palate, supplemented by long experience, depends its triumph. Of course the bain-marie will be readily accessible when the sauce is obliged to wait, the butter will be unexceptionable, and the shallot especially will never be lacking when its virtues are in request. As has been previously stated in the case of numerous other culinary preparations, success depends more upon the practitioner than the formula. It is as difficult, therefore, to describe the subtle chiaroscuro of a perfect sauce as to define the hues that mantle the petals of the rose "Beauté Inconstante," or the combined odours hived by a windless night of June.
Comparatively few sauces may suffice for the modest household to supplement the espagnole, or brown sauce, and the velouté, or white sauce, the foundations from which most others are compounded. These two rudimentary sauces, to be well made, should not be greasy, but contain just enough fat, according to the authorities, to present the velvety appearance of a full-blown damask rose. Carême devotes twenty-five pages to these "mother sauces" and their two slight modifications, béchamel and allemande; while Francatelli points out that although great care and watchful attention are requisite in every branch of cookery, the exercise of these qualities is most essential in the preparation of the grand stock sauces. In the home kitchen these are naturally prepared in an infinitely more simple manner than according to the elaborate recipes of the great professors of the table.
The mistress of the household who would render herself trebly appreciated, and who by ministering to man's palate may the more readily guide, direct, and control his character, should train herself unerringly in the art of compounding appetising and wholesome sauces. To be sure, some of these manipulated by competent masculine hands—but how often slurred by some fatigued or indifferent sous-chef!—may be obtained at one's club or the better-class restaurants. But here in many instances the wine-cellar is apt to be uncertain; while frequent dining out is not to be compared with the sense of comfort of dining at home when the kitchen, even though unpretentious, is carefully administered, the menu varied, the wines perfect of their kind, and where Her Gracious Serenity's address may have conjured some dainty entrée whose sauce, sapid and velvety, leaves nothing to be desired. One might tire of this, perchance, with no change for a sixmonth, as one might weary of constant sunshine or a too lavish profusion of tender epithets. Yet it is a desirable condition, nevertheless, to fall back upon; and in the end far the safest for digestion.