He should be treated as a somewhat plain-looking woman, who has passed the hey-day of her charms, pranks and accoutres herself for a ball, and the aid of art be summoned to amplify his good points and gloze over any of his deficiencies. His resonant voice of course will be stilled by the cooking, but his voluptuous breast will remain. Thus by neatly cutting across the lower part of the back and thighs, removing his shapely legs, and then inverting him, he will have been formed into a boat-like receptacle for an artistic chestnut stuffing. One may then proceed to lard him; and, while roasting, baste him thoroughly, send him to the table with some oak-leaves en couronne, a currant-jelly sauce in a saucière, and, with the assistance of a perfumed and generous red wine, make the most of his seductive contours. All this may be contrary to the tenets of Savarin, who pronounces the wild turkey superior to the tame. But it must be remembered that he is speaking of a wild turkey that he had the good fortune to kill by his own hand while in Connecticut—a fact which, with the appetite engendered by his shooting-outings, will readily account for the preference he expresses for the wild form of this noble member of the Phasianidæ. At a certain season, however, when he has fattened on pecan-nuts, the flesh of the wild turkey is of excellent flavour; and to this circumstance Audubon's eulogy is probably due: "The ruffed grouse, in my humble opinion, far surpasses as an article of food every other land bird which we have in the United States, except the wild turkey when in good condition."
Furred game is more amenable to variety in preparation than feathered; and while marinéd venison and a civet of hare may be delicious, the fewer culinary frills on a grouse, woodcock, or snipe the better. A salmis, nevertheless, has its virtues; and as for the lord of the woodlands, when tired of him au naturel, if that be possible, he may be invested with a new glory as partridge aux choux, if one but follow the counsels of Baron Brisse, whose prescript is well worth transcribing and comes within the compass of all:
"Perdrix aux choux. All housewives do not succeed with perdrix aux choux. This is the way to set about it in order to be complimented. Pluck, draw, singe, truss, and tie up the partridges. Blanch some cabbages, cut in quarters from which the cores have been removed; put them to soak in fresh water, dry them and press out all the water. Blanch also a small piece of lean pork from the breast. Make a light roux in a large stewpan, put the cabbages in with the small pieces of pork, some uncooked sausages, some carrots, an onion piquéd with two cloves, a bouquet-garni, salt and pepper. Plunge the partridges in the centre of the cabbages, cover with broth and cook gently in a closed stewpan. When done, remove the birds, the pork and sausages, dry off the juice of the cooking, then drain the cabbages—that is, turn them in a stewpan, on a quick fire, until they are free from liquid. Untruss and dress the partridges on a platter, on a bed of cabbages, with the backs underneath, cut the pork and sausages in pieces, slice the carrots, and garnish with all. Partridge aux choux is accompanied with a sauce made from a roux moistened with broth and added to the juice of the cooking."[51]
The touch of the baron in everything relating to the all-important office of eating is invariably delicate and sure. Nevertheless, if one may venture to suggest an improvement, not in the mode of cooking, wherein he is impeccable, but in the shading of the plat, it would be to remove the birds after they have simmered sufficiently in the cabbage, glaze them with melted butter, and place them for an instant in the oven, with a very lively fire, in order to brighten their otherwise somewhat blanched complexion. Sauerkraut, instead of cabbage, is frequently employed by the French, but with far less happy results. With care in its employment, the Brussels sprout, after it has felt the finger of the frost, might be used as a medium with no regrets unless on the score of a slight indigestion. Were one an ostrich, nothing could serve as a more delicious or colourful vehicle than the German roth-Kohl. Of sausages, the highly spiced little Wienerwurst is best adapted to the dish.
A game-pie composed of numerous spoils of field and cover—seasoned and stuffed with herbs, shallots, bay-leaf, mushrooms, truffles, chestnuts, sweetbreads, and various vegetables, and cooked in broth and red wine, with a fingerful of brandy and another or two of Madeira—is a triumph of the chef when well executed. But to indulge in this requires a vigorous digestion and toes impervious to arthriticism.
In its relation to wine, the maturity of game should be taken into consideration; as, for example, with dark-fleshed birds that are comparatively fresh, a fine Bordeaux; with those that are more matured, and particularly duck, the warmer and more generous red vintages of the Côte d'Or and the Côte du Rhône. For a well-hung prairie-chicken, a red wine will naturally be selected; for a "partridge" that inclines to freshness, either champagne or Bordeaux, Burgundy or a Deidesheimer Auslese may serve for a bath with equally good results. But game is too often undeservedly treated and served at the end of a dinner of numerous courses, when, whatever its merit or that of its accompanying wine, the palate and appetite are in scant mood to appreciate it.
With the advent of the autumnal equinox the calendar of seasonable sport begins. There is then an exhilaration in the air that irresistibly invites to out-of-door exercise and an exploration of the covers. Game is then matured, fleet of foot and strong of wing; and at no other period do upland and vale present such varied attractions. September is the true adagio of sport, October and November the allegro, and December the diminuendo. For pure sylvan beauty, no month may compare with October, when the torch of autumn kindles the woodlands into living flame, although the dreamy Indian summer possesses a charm that is matched only by May when she rolls away the resurrection-stone. Then when the purple landscape lies hushed in slumber, one may recall anew the forgotten ode of an unknown bard, in whose haunting cadences are subtly expressed all the rest and peace and rhythm, all the tone, the tenderness, and benediction, of the latter-year:
I.
Nothing stirs the stillness save a leaf that slowly rustles down,