It was a hot July Sunday. The door of the Legation in Portland Place was thrown wide open, and up the green-carpeted stairs I walked. We were only a party of four, as Lord Li laughingly remarked that there were not many people in London who would care for Chinese food. He need not have been so modest about it, for the dishes were really excellent.
We were waited upon by a Chinese servant and an English butler. Needless to remark, the former was much the more picturesque. He was dressed in black, with high black velvet boots on his little feet, and though he looked about fourteen, the Minister assured me he was forty. He was barber, tailor, and butler.
“These men can do anything,” said His Excellency; “I could not keep a man in London to shave my head once a week, nor would he have enough to do to make my clothes. The important suits are sent direct from China. The others are made and mended by this man. I have four Chinese in the house, and they eat and live together, the English servants being quite apart. But they do not quarrel; in fact, I believe they are very good friends.”
My earliest recollections being of strange foods from many lands, it was not altogether a surprise to begin our repast with bird’s-nest soup, which was served in similar cups to that brought by Lord Li to my tea-party; the cup standing on a plate. At the bottom of the bowl was a small quantity of white, gelatinous compound, which looked almost like warm gelatine. Into this I was told to put a tablespoonful of strawberry jam, the whole strawberries of which I stirred up with the bird’s nest. Eaten with a spoon the two were very good.
The Minister explained the delicacy thus. “There is a small sea-bird in China which builds its nest on the sides of the rock with the little fish it gets from the water. These nests become quite hard in the heat of the sun, and it is these that are collected and used for this soup. It is a delicacy, quite expensive, and never eaten by ordinary people, but used more like your turtle soup on great occasions.”
Sharks’ fins made our next dish. These were also served in little cups and eaten with chopsticks. The two chopsticks were about a foot long and made of ivory, but it seems they are often made of bone, silver, gold, or wood, and children, until they are six or seven years of age, are rarely able to manipulate them. One is held between the thumb and first finger, the second between the first and second fingers, and so dexterous was Lord Li in their manipulation that he, later, took the small bones out of a fish and put them on one side more easily than one could have done with a knife and fork.
The shark fins, when boiled in Chinese fashion, were almost like the gelatinous part of calf’s head or the outside of a turbot. They were cooked with cabbage and some ham, so, in a way, the taste reminded me of German sauerkraut; but though also a delicacy, this was less delicate in flavour than the bird’s nest and somewhat satisfying.
Now came fish—mackerel, I think—likewise cooked in a Chinese way, for, be it understood, the Chinese cook was doing the entire luncheon. A thick brown sauce, with a curry flavour, and the tiniest of little onions here and there, were added to the dish, which the guest simply could not manipulate with chopsticks, so had recourse to an English knife and fork.
The next course was again served in covered cups, and was chicken, a favourite and ordinary dish in China. Apparently the bird was chopped fine, or had been passed through the mincing machine. Anyway, there were no bones, yet it was solid. My private opinion was that it must have been compressed under weights, because it adhered to its own skin and looked substantial, although the ingredients fell apart when attacked with the chopsticks. This tasted like boned capon, and with it was something white, appearing to be fish, which Lord Li said was dried oyster. It seems there is a particularly large oyster in China which has a sort of bag protrusion. This bit is cut away and sun-dried, when it makes the flavouring and decoration for the chicken.