The English are very contemptuous of many excellent things which their country affords. Amongst these is the truffle, which, though perhaps not equal in flavour to that of Périgord—called by Brillat Savarin the diamond of the kitchen—is yet most delicious when properly cooked. Besides this, owing to the small esteem in which it is held, its price is exceedingly moderate, English truffles being purchasable in Covent Garden Market at about one-eighth the price of the French variety. Years ago, when staying at the Grange in Hampshire, I asked my host, the late Lord Ashburton, whether he had ever thought of hunting for truffles in his park, abounding as it did in beech trees, under which, in this country, these esculents are found. He told me that he believed there were plenty of truffles, but it was not worth the trouble of searching for them, as no one cared for English truffles. I assured him that he was wrong, for they were excellent; and, yielding to my entreaties, he sent out orders for search to be made, and the next evening we had English truffles for dinner, which were served merely as truffles, without any announcement as to their nationality. Every one ate them, and every one said they were delicious, and from that day to this the English truffle, when in season, has continually been included in the menu of the dinners served at the country house in question. Truffles exist also at Goodwood and in Highclere Park—in fact, pretty well everywhere where there are beech trees. The difficulty in obtaining them seems to lie in the paucity of truffle-hunting dogs, which, of course, have to be specially trained for their work. No doubt, were some easy means discovered of finding truffles, their excellences would become better known, and a home-grown delicacy, which is now almost overlooked, would take its proper place in public appreciation.
Crayfish are excellent eating, as I believe the Germans realised when they entered France in 1870. I was told that for years afterwards the supply of écrevisses was very limited indeed.
Many years ago, at a time when I was living in Sussex, I formed the idea of attempting to acclimatise the crayfish in a little stream which appeared suitable to their habits, and accordingly, after everything had been prepared under expert direction, a consignment of écrevisses, sent from France, were duly placed in a pool specially enclosed with gratings, and furnished with everything that the most luxurious crayfish could possibly desire. The experiment, however, proved totally unsuccessful, for after a time not so much as even a morsel of shell was to be found. Another consignment shared exactly the same fate, and Lord Onslow, who made a similar experiment in acclimatisation, informed me that his efforts, like mine, had also ended in disaster. For a long time I was much puzzled as to what might have caused the death and also the mysterious disappearance of any remains of these écrevisses, but am now convinced that it was the result of raids by predatory water-rats, the possibility of which we had left out of our calculations.
CHANGE IN DINNER HOUR
A rather curious thing in connection with gastronomy is that for the last two hundred years the dinner hour in England has been getting later and later.
In Addison’s time people dined at two o’clock, but gradually dinner was put off and put off till four or five became the popular hour for dining amongst the well-to-do classes. With the beginning of the nineteenth century came a further postponement, and the dinner hour soon came to be fixed at some time about seven o’clock; since which period further encroachments upon the evening have taken place, and now half-past eight is by no means an unusual hour.
The old English dinner which I remember in my childhood was, of course, simplicity itself as compared with the elaborate banquets of to-day. Nevertheless, a well-cooked English dinner, now almost unobtainable, was not by any means a thing to be despised.
A small turbot, some well-roasted lamb or duckling, with green peas, followed by a good apple or apricot tart, are, when well cooked, as Lord Dudley used to say, a dinner for an emperor, and, in addition, far more healthy than many a more costly and ambitious repast.
I well remember, as a child, my father sitting at the head of the table and carving the joints himself, even when he gave a dinner-party. In consequence of this we were in terror of asking for a second helping, for even when only the family was present it was as much as he could do to find time to eat his own dinner. The modern system is without doubt much more convenient for everybody.
DOMESTIC ECONOMY