The Physiology of Taste (58 page)

I believe that such a simple apparatus can prove of some value wherever there may be an establishment of any size, whether in town or in the country, and this is the reason for my describing it in such a manner that anyone can understand what I have written, and profit from it.

I feel that we have not done enough about adapting the power of steam to our domestic advantage, and I very much hope that some day the bulletin of the Society of Encouragement
²⁵
will let the farmers know that I have done what I could about it.

P.S
. One day when a group of us professors assembled at Number 14, Rue de la Paix, I recounted once more the true story of the steam-cooked turbot. When I finished, the gentleman on my left turned to me, and said in a reproachful voice, “Was I not there myself? And did I not pay you just as many compliments as any of the others?”

“Certainly,” I answered him. “You were sitting there right next to the curé! I meant no reproach … you swallowed your share nobly: please don’t think that … I …”

The man who thus reminded me was M. Lorrain, of most subtle palate, a banker as pleasant as he is prudent, who has anchored safely in the harbor in order to judge more calmly the effects of the storm, and as a result of all this is deserving of mention in every respect.

Take six large onions, three carrots, and a handful of parsley. Chop them together and throw them into a pot, where you will heat them through and brown them with a morsel of good fresh butter.

When this mixture is just right, add six ounces of sugar candy, twenty grains of powdered amber, a crust of toasted bread, and three bottles of water. Boil the whole for three-quarters of an hour, adding water as necessary so that in spite of the loss by evaporation there is always a total of three bottles of liquid.

While this goes on, kill, pluck, and clean an old rooster which you must then pound in a mortar, flesh and bones, with an iron pestle. Also chop two pounds of the best quality of beef.

These two kinds of meat are then mixed, and a sufficient quantity of salt and pepper is added to them.

Put them into a pot over a hot fire, so that they heat through quickly, and throw in from time to time a little fresh butter, so that the mixture will brown nicely without sticking.

When this has been accomplished, that is to say when the osmazome has taken on a dark color, the bouillon which is in the first pot is strained and added little by little to the second; when all of it has been combined, you let it boil energetically for three-quarters of an hour, always taking care to add hot water to keep the same quantity of liquid.

At the end of this time, the operation is finished, and you have a potion whose efficacy is sure as long as the invalid, no matter how undone by one or another of the causes which we have outlined, has nevertheless kept a well-functioning stomach.

To use this restorative, a cup of it is given every three hours on the first day until bedtime; the following days, a large cup in the mornings only, and the same quantity at night, until the three bottles have been emptied. The sufferer must be held to a light diet which is still nourishing, such as chicken legs, fish, ripe
fruits, and preserves. It almost never happens that a new supply must be made. Toward the fourth day the invalid can take up his usual pursuits, and must admonish himself to be more prudent in the future,
if that is possible
.

By leaving out the sugar candy and the amber a soup of excellent flavor and worthy of any gathering of connoisseurs can be improvised.

The old rooster can be supplanted by four old partridges, and the beef by a morsel of mutton shank; the result will be neither less efficacious nor less agreeable.

The system of chopping the meat and letting it brown before moistening it can be used whenever you are in a great hurry. It is based on the fact that meats so treated absorb much more heat than when they are in water, and for this reason you can use this system if you must have a good rich soup without being obliged to wait five or six hours,
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something which can often happen, especially in the country. And naturally it is understood that whoever uses this method will add that much glory to the professor’s name.

It is a good thing for everyone to know that even if amber, considered as a perfume, can be extremely offensive to certain unbelievers with delicate nerves, it is a sovereign tonic and exhilarant
²⁷
when taken internally. Our forefathers used it generously in their cooking, and were none the worse for it.

I know that Marshal Richelieu, of deathless memory, had a habit of sucking amber-flavored lozenges;
²⁸
and as for myself, when I find that I have hit on one of those days when the weight of age lies heavily upon me, when I think with difficulty and feel myself oppressed by some unknown force, I stir into a good cup of chocolate a piece of amber the size of a bean, which has been pounded with some sugar, and drinking it has always helped me recover as if by magic. Thanks to this tonic the mechanics of living grow easier, my mind works quickly, and I do not suffer from the insomnia which would be the inevitable result of taking a cup of black coffee for the same purpose.

The first of my restoratives, called A, is meant for men of robust temperament and determination, and for all those who exhaust themselves through overexertion.

I once had occasion to invent another, much pleasanter to the taste and gentler in its action, which I prescribe for people of unstable and vacillating temperament, and for all those, in a word, who grow tired for no apparent reason. It is as follows:

Take a knuckle of veal of not less than two pounds, cut it in quarters lengthwise, flesh and bone, and brown it with four sliced onions and a handful of watercress. When it is almost cooked through, add three bottles of water, and let the whole boil for two hours, taking care to replace whatever evaporates. Here, in itself, you will have made a good bouillon of veal. Add pepper and salt in moderation.

Pound separately three old pigeons and twenty-five very fresh crayfish. Mix them well so that they may be browned as I have already outlined in Number A, and when you see that the preparation is thoroughly heated and is beginning to take on a good color, add the veal bouillon and cook rapidly for one hour. Then strain the soup which has been thus enriched, and drink it morning and night, or even better in the mornings only, two hours before breakfast. It can also be served as a delicious soup.

I was led to improvise this prescription by two writers who, seeing that my own condition was far from bad, placed their confidence in me and, as they expressed it, left everything in my lap.

They used the restorative broth as directed, and have never had reason to regret it. The poet, who before was no more than elegiac, has become romantic. The lady, who had nothing to her credit but one fairly colorless novel filled with catastrophes, has written a second one which is much better, and which ends with a happy marriage. It is plain that in both cases there has been a marked increase in creative strength, and I must confess that I feel privileged to boast a little about my part in it.

Early in January of this current year of 1825, a young married couple named Madame and Monsieur de Versy were guests at an elaborate
full-dress
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oyster luncheon, and my readers know what that means.
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Such feasts are delightful, whether because they are composed of appetizing dishes or because of the gaiety which usually dominates them, but they have the great inconvenience of completely upsetting the rest of the day’s occupations. That is what happened this time. The dinner hour arrived, and the young couple sat down at their table, but it was only a gesture. Madame swallowed a little soup, and Monsieur sipped a glass of watered wine; then a few friends came in, they all played whist for a while to pass away the evening, and finally the young couple retired to their wide bed.

About two that morning M. de Versy awoke. He was restless, and yawned and stretched so much that his wife grew worried and asked him if he felt ill. “No, my dear,” he said, “but I believe I’m hungry! I was thinking of that fat Bresse pullet, so plump and pretty, that was brought in for dinner, and of what little attention we paid to it.”

“If I must tell the truth, my dear, I’ll confess to you that I’m as hungry as you are. Since you did actually dream of that chicken, we must have it brought up here and eat it.”

“You’re out of your mind! All the servants are asleep, and tomorrow everyone would laugh at us.”

“Well, if all the servants are asleep, they can wake up. And nobody will laugh at us, because our friends shan’t know about it. And anyway, who can tell if by morning one of us may not have died of hunger? I simply don’t want to take the chance. I am going to ring for Justine.”

No sooner said than done: the poor maid was roused from that deep slumber which comes to people who are nineteen and who have dined well, when they are not troubled by love.
*

She appeared all tousled, her eyes half-shut, her mouth agape with yawns, and sank upon a chair with her arms dangling.

But so far everything had been easy; producing the cook was another matter. She was a true artist of the kitchen, and proportionately bad-tempered; she grumbled, whinnied, growled, roared, and snorted; finally she arose, and put her mighty bulk in motion.

While this was going on Madame de Versy slipped a jacket over her shoulders, her husband arranged himself as best he could, and Justine spread a tablecoth over the coverlet of the bed and brought the accessories indispensable to this kind of spur-of-the-moment celebration.

Everything being thus nicely arranged, the pullet arrived, and was instantly and ruthlessly demolished.

After this first refreshment, the couple divided a huge Saint-Germain pear, and a little orange preserve.

And meanwhile they had drained to the last drop a bottle of Graves, repeating over and over as they did so, and with variations, the fact that they had never had a pleasanter meal.

It ended, finally, as must everything here below. Justine picked up the tablecloth, removed the incriminating evidence, and went back to her bed. The curtain of conjugal privacy was drawn once more on the scene of such feasting.

The next morning Madame de Versy hurried to see her friend Madame de Franval, and told her everything that had gone on, and it is to the indiscretion of this latter lady that my readers owe the present anecdote.

She never failed to remark that as Madame de Versy ended her confidence, she coughed twice and then very obviously blushed.

The pheasant is an enigma whose secret meaning is known only to the initiate; they alone understand how to enjoy it to its full.

Every substance has its peak of deliciousness: some of them have already reached it before their full development, like capers, asparagus, young grey partridges, squab pigeons, and so on; others reach it at that precise moment when they are all that it
is possible for them to be in perfection, like melons and almost all fruits, mutton, beef, venison, and red partridges; and finally still others at that point when they begin to decompose, like medlars,
³¹
woodcock, and above all pheasant.

This last-mentioned bird, when eaten within three days after its death, has nothing distinguishing about it. It is neither as delicate as a pullet, nor as savorous as a quail.

At its peak of ripeness, however, its flesh is tender, highly flavored, and sublime, at once like domestic fowl and like wild game.

This peak is reached when the pheasant begins to decompose; then its aroma develops, and mixes with an oil which in order to form must undergo a certain amount of fermentation, just as the oil in coffee can only be drawn out by roasting it.

The exact moment of perfection reveals itself to the uninitiate by a slight smell, and by the difference in color of the bird’s belly; but the inner circle guesses it by a sort of instinct which often comes into play, and which enables a skilled roast cook, for instance, to know merely from a glance that it is time either to take a bird off the spit or to let it make a few more turns.

When the pheasant has reached this point, then, it is plucked, and not before, and it is larded carefully, with the freshest and firmest of material.

It is far from unimportant to wait until now to pluck the bird; very careful experiments have taught us that pheasants which are left in their feathers are much more savory than those which have been naked for a long time; this may be because contact with the air neutralizes certain qualities in the aroma, or because a part of the natural fluid which serves to nourish the feathers is reabsorbed and adds its flavor to the meat.

Once the bird is ready thus far, the time has come to stuff it, and in the following manner:

Bone and draw a brace of woodcock, in such a way that you have one supply of the flesh, and another of the livers and entrails.

Take the flesh and make a forcemeat of it by chopping it with some steamed beef marrow, a little scraped bacon, pepper, salt, fresh herbs, and enough fine truffles to make just the amount of stuffing needed to fill the pheasant.

You must take care not to let any of this forcemeat escape from the cavity, which is sometimes difficult when the bird is fairly high and far gone.
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There are however various ways of doing this, among them tying a piece of bread of the proper size over the opening, to act as a kind of cork.

Prepare a slice of bread which will be about two inches bigger on every side than the bird laid lengthwise. Then take the woodcock livers and entrails, and grind them in a mortar with two large truffles, an anchovy, a little finely minced bacon, and a sizeable lump of the best fresh butter.