“it is almost too hot to eat.” how often do we hear this remark during what is popularly known as the dog days! there is no doubt that as a nation we do not make sufficient allowance for the variations of our climate, and are too apt to feed ourselves and children on almost the same food both in summer and winter. the hotel waiter will give exactly the same answer both in july and december: “dinner, sir—yes, sir—chops, sir—steak—cutlet,” and he stops, having exhausted the english bill of fare.
but it is not so much in hotel life that the difficulty of getting suitable summer food is found as in home life. how many tens of thousands of men are there who from sheer necessity are compelled for the greater part of the summer to be cooped up in broiling weather in a hot, close office, their day’s employment being varied but by occasional visits to hotter sale-rooms, &c., containing an atmosphere ten times more close and vitiated!
the unfortunate husband returns to his home with wearied brain and jaded appetite. too often mingled carelessness and selfishness has provided such 115unappetising food for his dinner, that he is fain to seek for that nourishment of which his body stands in need in fluids rather than solids, and then the seeds are sown which eventually grow up and produce a harvest of wretchedness and misery.
i overheard a conversation once in a little back room in a famous pastrycook’s, now done away with, between two wives, on their husbands’ selfishness, each one of course trying to make out her own the worst. they had started with a basin of mock-turtle soup, and had followed with two oyster patties each. i left before they had finished. it was before wine was allowed to be sold by pastrycooks, or, judging from appearances, they would probably have remained there during the better part of the afternoon.
it is the way of the world all over. i recollect a man about five foot three passing one who was fully five foot two and a half, and remarking:—
“dear me, what a terrible misfortune it must be to be so short!”
do you know any one who breakfasts in bed every day, who never attends at all to household duties, and whose health requires a rarer wine at dinner than others? you may be quite sure that person will be most intolerant to any approach to self-indulgence in others, and will be given to hold forth little homilies on the duties of early rising, industry, and self-denial. 116charity begins at home, and those only who deny themselves can make allowances for the want of self-denial in others.
great allowance should be made for those who, after a hard day’s mental work, return home on a hot day, irritable, thirsty, exhausted, without being hungry. there is a great art in adapting the food for the occasion. there are a certain class of persons, especially in this country, who seem to fail to perceive that what is suitable at one season of the year is quite unsuited at another. for instance, hot pea-soup, followed by an irish stew, on a broiling july day, is quite as much out of character as ices at christmas-time.
in england, too, people do not seem to understand how to make the most of the means at their disposal for making themselves comfortable. how many thousands there are who, having good gardens, yet never use them except to walk in! for breakfast or tea what better spot can be chosen than a shady corner of the lawn; yet how often do we find this done?
probably many would say, “oh, but the people next door can see us.” as a nation we are undoubtedly very shy and ungregarious. this latter quality, if one may be allowed to use the expression, is particularly shown at railway-stations. you may walk down a long train and find one man in each 117compartment, and each one glares at you if you attempt to enter.
the constitutional shyness of the middle classes has a strong ally in the constitutional rudeness of the lower.
many years ago almost the only lunch obtainable in london was a bath bun, washed down with tepid ginger-beer. but this bun had to be eaten under difficulties. first, the extraordinary height of the stool on which one was bound to sit made one giddy; then a crowd of small boys, with noses flattened white against the window outside, would carry on a running conversation, such as “give us a bit, guv’nor,” &c. unfortunately, the faster you tried to eat the bun, the more it choked you; and as to the ginger-beer, it too often refused to go anywhere except to the nose. a lunch is still a great difficulty in certain parts of london. it would be an interesting parliamentary return—first, the number of licensed victuallers in london; secondly, the number of licensed victuallers who sold victuals.
were any one, some hot day, to place a small table on the pavement, and sit down and eat an ice, like thousands do in paris, the result would be such a crowd that one would probably be locked up for the night, for obstructing the public thoroughfare.
there is, perhaps, no dish so suitable for hot 118weather as curry. but there are curries and curries. i have seen some that have made me shudder to look at them. if you see pieces of meat on a large dish, almost swimming in a quantity of bright light-coloured yellow gravy, people will probably call it curry; but my advice is, don’t eat any if you can get anything else. i will try and describe how it ought to be done. say the dish is curried sweetbreads. the sweetbreads must be fried as directed in the article entitled “uses and abuses of a frying-pan.” the curry sauce must be poured round them directly they are done, and this sauce is made as follows:—
we will describe how to make enough for about six people.
first, take six large onions, and peel and slice them, and fry them a nice brown-colour in a stew-pan, using about two ounces of butter. next take two apples, about the same size, or rather larger than the onions, and as sour as possible. peel them, remove the core, slice, and add to the onions in the stew-pan, then add a pint of good strong stock. stir it all up, and let the whole boil till the apples are quite soft. add to this a large brimming dessert-spoonful of captain white’s curry-paste, and a good-sized tea-spoonful of ordinary curry-powder. the whole of this must be rubbed through a fine wire sieve, with a 119large wooden spoon. if you have not patience to rub it all through, you can’t make curry.
the next point necessary is that this curry sauce should be made of the necessary thickness; and for the purpose, what i have alluded to before under the name of “brown thickening” is necessary.
now, as brown thickening is almost an essential in every house where gravies and sauces are made properly, i will describe how this brown thickening ought to be made. as the process is somewhat troublesome, and a large quantity is as easy to make as a small, it will be found best to make sufficient to last some time, as brown thickening will keep good for months if made properly.
take half a pound of flour, and, having thoroughly dried it on a large newspaper before the fire, sift it carefully. next take half a pound of butter and melt it in an enamelled saucepan; a sort of white curdled substance will be generally found mixed with it, some of which can be skimmed off the top, and some will settle at the bottom. skim the butter and pour off all that is as clear as good salad-oil, and only use this for the brown thickening.
next mix thoroughly well together the sifted flour and the hot melted butter in an enamelled stew-pan, and stir it over a quick fire with a wooden spoon. if the flour has been properly dried, and the butter 120properly clarified, the whole mass will stick together, and shake about in the stew-pan. the stirring must be continued till the whole mass begins to turn colour. as soon as it is obtained a light fawn-colour, or looks like the outside of a nicely-baked french roll, remove the stew-pan from the fire, but still continue stirring. throw in a large slice of onion; this will help to check the heat, and at the same time assist in giving the thickening a nice flavour.
it is wonderful how long an enamelled stew-pan will retain the heat. it would be a good lesson to an inexperienced cook to watch for how long a period the butter and flour will go on bubbling after the stew-pan has been taken off the fire. it depends of course on the thickness of the stew-pan, but this frying process will go on sometimes for ten minutes, or even longer, after it has been moved on to a cold slab. this fact will explain why hashes and stews are so often tough. most cooks know hash ought not to boil, but how many place a stew-pan on the fire, and remove it on to the hob directly it begins what they call to simmer! they forget that the boiling, for that is what it really is, goes on perhaps for ten minutes after they have moved the stew-pan from the fire, when a tea-spoonful of cold gravy, or even cold water, would have stopped the boiling at once.
keep stirring the brown thickening till it ceases to 121boil or bubble, and then remove as much as you can of the onion, and pour the whole into a stone jar—an empty white jam-pot is as good as anything—and allow it to get cold.
when it is cold it has the appearance somewhat of light-coloured chocolate, and a few spoonfuls of it will always give a nice rich brown look to gravies. it must be put in the gravy, and stirred over the fire in it; gradually, as the gravy boils, it becomes thicker. for ordinary gravy, when brown thickening is used, a tea-spoonful of sherry is a great improvement.
cooks often thicken gravies, curries, &c., with butter and flour. the effect too often is that the gravy looks a light colour, and has a gruelly taste. a good cook should never be without some brown thickening in the house.
sufficient of this brown thickening must be added to the curry sauce, which is supposed to have been rubbed through the wire-sieve, to make it as thick as gruel; and, as we have said, this thickening only takes place when it is boiled, and at the same time stirred, over the fire. the curry is now complete, and has only to be poured round, not over, the freshly-cooked sweetbreads.
suppose, however, the dish required was curried mutton, which is, of course, a much more economical dish than curried sweetbreads, and it is undoubtedly 122one of the best methods of using up a cold joint. cut some slices of meat off the cold joint; avoid skin and gristle, and choose those slices as much as possible containing most fat. then boil up the curry sauce, ready thickened and finished, in a stew-pan, remove the stew-pan from the fire, and place the slices of meat in it, and cover them with the sauce; replace the stew-pan on the hob, but not on the fire, leave it in a warm place for half an hour, and just before turning it out make it a little hotter, if you like, by carefully holding the stew-pan over the fire; but recollect if it once boils or bubbles up the meat will get hard, and the curry will be spoilt.
the proper accompaniment to curry is boiled rice; this ought properly to be served in a separate dish. the rice must be boiled till quite tender, and then the grains should be separated from one another by being tossed lightly about on a cloth in front of the fire.
curry is, as we have said, the most suitable dish for hot weather, as is abundantly proved by its being the most popular in india. in india fresh tamarinds and mangoes are, i believe, used instead of apples; various herbs and spices are also used, which differ in different parts of the country.
many persons, especially old indians, have recipes for curry. we have given what must necessarily form 123the basis of curry, where the curry-powder or paste is not home-made. by many, the addition of a little grated cocoa-nut to the curry is considered a great improvement; or where cocoa-nut cannot be obtained, a few grated brazil nuts may be used instead. others, too, strongly recommend the addition of powdered coriander-seeds. coriander-seeds are, however, used in making curry-powder, and good curry-powder ought to contain sufficient. when, therefore, the powder is old, and has lost that aromatic smell which it ought to have, a little powdered coriander-seed may be added with advantage; but it has a very decided flavour, and must be used with caution.
one of the most common faults in inexperienced cooks is to have certain fancies for certain flavours, and then to let that flavour predominate.
i have tasted mock-turtle soup which might have been called marjoram soup. herbs and spices must always be used carefully, and it is generally best to err on the side of too little than too much. to illustrate this point, i would mention what is generally known as veal stuffing. who has not, at one time or other, tasted a turkey in which it was so highly flavoured that you tasted it all through dinner? indeed, at times you may consider yourself fortunate if you don’t taste it all through the next day.
how few cooks, too, understand how to use garlic 124or aromatic flavouring herbs! it is in the proper blending of these strong flavours that one can detect the hand of the artiste.
there are many worse things to eat in hot weather than cold roast beef and salad. now, it will often be said that if you want a good salad you must go to paris. certainly you do get a good salad there invariably; but it is equally easy to have one at home by simply doing what they do. one principal reason why english people so often have bad salads is that they have an absurd prejudice against oil. very often, too, when they use oil, the oil is bad. of course, it is as impossible to make a good salad with bad oil as it is to cook a good dinner with high meat. the oil must be clear, bright, and of a pale-yellow colour; if it looks at all green, it is probably bad. bearing, therefore, this in mind, i will now tell you how to mix a salad, simply repeating the recipe or custom used in ninety-nine out of a hundred french restaurants. first get two or three small french cabbage-lettuces. wash them, if necessary, in a little cold water, but do not dry them on a cloth, as you will thereby probably bruise them and spoil them. shake them dry in a little wire basket; or put them in a cloth, and take the cloth by the four corners, and make the lettuce-leaves jump inside; then put them lightly into a salad-bowl. next chop up enough parsley to cover a 125threepenny-piece, and also chop three fresh mint-leaves, and sprinkle this over the lettuce. next take a table-spoon, and place in it about half a salt-spoonful of salt, and quarter of pepper; fill the table-spoon with oil. mix up the pepper and salt with the oil, and pour it over the lettuce—i am supposing enough for about four persons—add half a table-spoonful more oil, and toss the lettuce lightly together for two or three minutes. next add not quite half a table-spoonful of french white vinegar; mix it for a minute or two more, and it is finished.
now the difficulty in many households is to overcome the prejudice against the oil. perhaps some one, when they have read this, will do as follows: first take care to have a fresh bottle of good oil; then mix a salad as i have directed, without telling anybody how it is done. let it be handed round at dinner-time, and wait and see what people say. if you tell them beforehand that there is nearly two table-spoonfuls of oil, they probably will make up their minds beforehand that it is nasty; but say nothing, and give the recipe a fair chance.
there are two additions to a salad which many think an advantage: one is to chop up with the parsley and mint one fresh tarragon-leaf; another is to rub a crust of bread with a piece of garlic, and then put the crust into the salad-bowl, and toss it about 126with the salad. this is quite sufficient to give it a decided flavour of garlic, and, where garlic is not disliked, will be found to be a decided improvement.
