The English idea; each animal, when served, to be characterized by its own proper flavour, which is on no account to be masked or disguised by others, which are adventitious. Delicate additions tending to heighten the natural flavour, or agreeably subordinated to it, shall alone be admitted. It is a principle which can be successfully followed only where these meats exist in high perfection: where meat is inferior or insipid, an opposite treatment is the better one. And I do not hesitate to claim for the intelligent English consumer, that it has long been essentially his aim to cultivate the best meat and game in the world, and to enjoy its intrinsic qualities for their own sake, unalloyed by any of those additions in the form of finely flavoured sauce, which are so valuable for improving materials which do not possess their own distinctive fine qualities and flavours; while his proximity to the seashore and numerous streams enables him to enjoy fish of all kinds absolutely fresh and in the finest condition.

The opposite principle is that which has been developed in association with the production of meats and poultry which are naturally somewhat insipid. Since it has not been the custom to rear in France fine mature beef or mutton, as we understand those meats here, but rather to consume almost exclusively an immature product, veal, as well as poultry, much of which although the best of its kind, is naturally wanting perfect within its limit.

The French idea; The Englishman loves the flavour of three or four years' old mutton (unhappily almost a tradition now), mature beef, the wildest game, both winged and ground; and he cares not how little of "sauce" is supplied - he demands only "gravy" - so that these are in fine condition, sufficiently, not over-kept, and simply cooked, for the most part carefully roasted. To lard fine full-flavoured tender mutton or venison is, for him, to desecrate them; to lard or farce a grouse its value and utility. Or partridge is the reverse of a compliment equally to the game, if mature, and to the guest, if a connoisseur. A young and tender English partridge is not improved, I venture to submit, even by larding, although the reverse is true of quail.

* Almanack des Gourmands, p. 17. Paris : 1803. + "Physiologie du Gout," p. 30. Paris: 1843.

Comparison of the two in practice.

The French chef treats the white meat, veal and domestic poultry, with so many ingeniously contrived sauces, as to render those two meats as good as six. So successful is the achievement, that he is too often tempted to extend his art to dark-fleshed game, and seeking to adorn it with new flavours, destroys the original savour and aroma, in which consists for us the value of the dish.

During the last few years, however, I have been happy to observe signs of a change in the practice of the best French cooks in this respect, as well as sometimes to find meats of better and more mature kind in Paris than formerly. One of the best illustrations of the value of the principle I have above referred to as that of old English cookery, I met with a few years ago, served to myself and a friend, in an excellent and well-known restaurant very near the Place de l'Opera. It was brought to me as a novelty, and the method of realizing the idea I concede to be so, and in its way perfect in execution. It consisted of a very fine wild duck, simply but lightly and delicately roasted, and served without an atom of sauce. The maitre d' hotel having placed the bird before us on a dish heated by a spirit lamp below, cut three long handsome slices on each side of the breast-bone, beautifully red although perfectly cooked, and full of natural juice, removing thus, in fact, all that is prime and really worth eating. Leaving these in the hot dish and replacing the cover, he placed on the table before us a powerful nickel - silvered press, the size of a tea-urn or samovar, put the whole of the remains of the bird into it, and with a few turns of the lever, applied the screw so as to express when the tap was turned a sufficient quantity of hot, rich, red juice to serve as our only, and indeed most exquisite sauce. The only admissible additions would be the scent of a fresh lemon and a few drops of its juice with a grain or two of Nepaul pepper; or a little well-made Bigarade sauce (see my receipt at p. 154).

French appreciation.

A happy illustration.

The pinions, legs and back, indeed all but the sliced breast, had been thus compelled to yield all their fluids, in the form of about a coffee cupful of what might be called the very essence of the bird. Such treatment precisely accords with our own view of what is the best, and was most admirably realized. Let us continue to cultivate the finest meats and game, presenting them when in the most perfect condition for the table, and serve simply, or with only such subordinate adjuncts as tend to heighten, not to obscure, the natural character of the original. We shall then have no cause to be ashamed of the course in which they appear at an English table.

Refined additions possible.

But I freely concede that in making the best of second-rate and insipid morsels, we have still a good deal to learn, on the score of sauces, garnish, and serving, from the great school of culinary art in France.

Note

The best written instructions I have met with, by which the art of making an omelette may be acquired - and I myself can testify that they have sufficed in several instances to produce excellent amateurs - are those given by Col. Kenney Herbert in his admirable work, "Commonsense Cookery," pp. 287 - 289, - a very clear and interesting description, worth studying.