The general abhorrence of insects seems almost to have increased of late years, rather than diminished, owing, no doubt, to the fact of their being no longer familiar as medicines. At one time the fact of their being prescribed as remedies by village quacks and wise men made people, at any rate, familiar with the idea of swallowing them. Wood-lice, which conveniently roll themselves up into the semblance of black pills, were taken as an aperient; centipedes were an invaluable specific for jaundice; cockchafers for the plague; ladybirds for colic and measles. The advance of medical science and the suppression of wise folk have swept away this belief in the medicinal qualities of insects, except from out-of-the-way country corners, where a stray wise woman occasionally holds a divided sway with the parish doctor. As these theories die away, why should not the useful practice of using insects as food be introduced with advantage? From time to time letters appear in the papers inquiring as to the best method of getting rid of such insect pests as the wireworm, leather-jacket, chafer-grub, etc., and I have seen one method especially recommended. This is to set traps for the insect vermin by burying slices of turnip or potato stuck upon the ends of small sticks, whose other ends project from the ground to mark the spot. The slices, in the morning, will be covered with the mischievous ravagers, which, one answer went on to say, “may then be dealt with at pleasure.” I say, then, collect them for the table. Man will often, in his universal selfishness, take the trouble to do acts, if they directly affect him or his stomach, which he would not do for their mere utility; and if these wireworms, etc., were esteemed as articles of food, there would be a double incentive to the gathering of them. We have only to glance through the pages of Miss Eleanor Ormerod’s excellent work on “Injurious Insects” to see what a power for harm lies in the myriads of the insect world, even if we do not know it from sad personal experience.
There cannot be said to be any really strong objection, among the upper classes, to making any new departure in the direction of foods, if it once becomes the fashion to do so. On page [388] is the menu of a dinner at the Chinese Restaurant at the late Health Exhibition, whose quaint delicacies were eaten and well appreciated by crowds of fashionable people, who turn up their noses at the neglected supply of new delicacies at home.
Let us look into some of the items which these professedly most refined eaters partook of with relish—though it is only fair to state that some of the ladies could not sufficiently overcome their prejudices to enjoy their meal.
The “Bird’s Nest Soup” was, I believe, universally appreciated, and, personally, I thought that it was perhaps the most delicious soup I had ever tasted. Yet, from what is it made, ye dainty feeders? The nest of a small swallow, constructed by that bird principally by the means of threads of a viscid fluid secreted from its mouth. Does not that sound nasty enough? Yet what excellent soup is made therefrom, being not only delicious to the taste, but said also to possess great strengthening qualities, and to be an excellent specific for indigestion. The annual value of these nests imported into China and Japan exceeds £200,000. Surely, considering the general approbation expressed of this soup at the Health Exhibition, it would pay some enterprising London merchant to import nests into England.
The “Visigo à la Tortue” was also an excellent soup, a kind of imitation turtle, made from the octopus or cuttle-fish.—The cuttle-fish! Go to any aquarium; look on those hideous creatures and tell me, are not they loathsome? Do they look nice to eat?
“Biche de Mer à la Matelote Chinoise.”—This was the dish which frightened the more delicate ladies. Why? Merely because its common English name is the “sea slug.” There cannot be a particle of doubt that, if it had always previously been known only by its less common name of sea cucumber or Trepang, it would have been refused by none. What’s in a name? The Trepang by any other name would taste as sweet! Those who partook of this dish all pronounced it to be excellent eating, although its ingredients did resemble in looks pieces of old shoe leather or large black slugs. Not that there could be any valid objection if it actually were made of either. Half the delicious calves’ foot jelly in the world is made from old parchment and leather clippings, and slugs are no worse than oysters.
We have thus recently had an opportunity of tasting some of the varieties of a usual Chinese menu, and our verdict upon them was proved to be favourable by “the Chinese dinner at the Healtheries” becoming one of the fashionable entertainments of the season. There one had opportunities of watching, with wonder, the most refined ladies and gentlemen, in correct evening costume, sitting down to partake of a dinner, whose most attractive items, as shown in the menu, were such objects as bird’s nest soup, cuttle-fish, sea slugs, and shark’s fins, for no other reason than that it was the fashion to do so. I will venture to say that if it had been previously suggested to those people to have such items included in the menu at a country house, they would have expressed disgust at the idea. Fashion is the most powerful motive in the world. Why does not some one in a high place set the common-sense fashion of adding insect dishes to our tables? The flock would not be long in following.
After eating of those unaccustomed dishes at the Health Exhibition, and discovering how good they were, is it not a wonder that people do not look around them for the many new gastronomic treasures lying neglected at their feet? Prejudice, prejudice, thy strength is enormous! People will dilate upon the delicate flavour of one fungus, under the name of mushroom, while they stamp upon, or cast from them, the disappointing young puff-ball and a dozen other common kinds of fungi, all equally nice and wholesome, if people would only recognize it, as the one they gloat over. People will, in like manner, enjoy oysters and cockles, while they abominate snails; they will make themselves ill with indigestible and foul-feeding lobsters while they look with horror upon pretty clean-feeding caterpillars. All this would not be so absurd if it were only the rich that were concerned, for they can afford to be dainty. But while we, in these days of agricultural depression, do all we can to alleviate the sufferings of our starving labourers, ought we not to exert our influence towards pointing out to them a neglected food supply?
—from Why Not Eat Insects?, 1885
CHINESE RESTAURANT
MENU, II SEPT., 1884.
Hors D’œuvre.
Pullulas à l’Huile. Saucisson de Frankfort.
Olives.
Bird’s Nest Soup.
Visigo à la Tortue.
Souchée de Turbot au Varech Violet.
Biche de Mer à la Matelote Chinoise.
Shaohsing Wine.
Petit Caisse à la Marquis Tsing.
Roulade de Pigeon farcie au Pistache.
Copeau de Veau à la Jardinière au Muscus.
Sharks’ Fins à la Bagration.
Boule de Riz.
Shaohsing Wine.
Noisettes de Lotus à l’Olea Fragrance.
Pommes pralinée. Compôte de Leechée.
Persdeaux Salade Romain.
Vermicelli Chinoise à la Milanaise.
Beignet Soufflé à la Vanille.
Gelée aux Fruits.
Biscuit Glace aux Amande pralinée.
Glace à la Crême de Café.
Dessert.
Persimmons, Pommes Confit, Pêches,
Amands Vert, Grapes.
Thé Imperial.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The French
JÉRÔME LIPPOMANO ON HOW PARISIANS EAT
Jérôme Lippomano (1538–1591) was the Venetian ambassador to Paris.
—M.K.
Paris has an abundance of everything that could be wanted. Goods from every region and tributary are carried there by the Seine—from Picardy, the Auvergne, Champagne, Burgundy, Normandy. So that even though the population is huge, they lack nothing; it all seems to fall from heaven. However, food prices, to be honest, are a little high, because Frenchmen will spend for nothing as gladly as they will spend to eat or on what they consider premium. That is why the butchers, the meat sellers, the roas
ters, the retailers, the cake makers, the innkeepers, are so numerous that there is utter confusion. There is no street, no matter how insignificant, that does not play its part. You want to buy an animal at the market? Or you want meat? You can do it any time, any place. Would you like prepared foods—raw or cooked? The rotisseries, the pastry makers. In less than an hour can you order dinner, a supper, for ten? for twenty? for one hundred? You can. The rotisserie will give you the meat, the pastry maker the pâtés, the meat pie makers the pies, the main courses, the desserts: The cooks provide the jellies, the sauces, the stews.
—from Journey to France, 1577,
translated from the Italian by Mark Kurlansky
GEORGE ORWELL ON BEING HUNGRY IN PARIS
You discover what it is like to be hungry. With bread and margarine in your belly, you go out and look into the shop windows. Everywhere there is food insulting you in huge, wasteful piles; whole dead pigs, baskets of hot loaves, great yellow blocks of butter, strings of sausages, mountains of potatoes, vast Gruyère cheeses like grindstones. A snivelling self-pity comes over you at the sight of so much food. You plan to grab a loaf and run, swallowing it before they catch you and you refrain, from pure funk.
—from Down and Out in Paris and London, 1933
VIRGINIA WOOLF ON FRENCH COOKING
“We did this, we did that.” They’ll say that all their lives, she thought, and an exquisite scent of olives and oil and juice rose from the great brown dish as Marthe, with a little flourish, took the cover off. The cook had spent three days over that dish. And she must take great care, Mrs. Ramsay thought, diving into the soft mass, to choose a specially tender piece for William Bankes. And she peered into the dish, with its shiny walls and its confusion of savoury brown and yellow meats and its bay leaves and its wine, and thought. This will celebrate the occasion—a curious sense rising in her, at once freakish and tender, of celebrating a festival, as if two emotions were called up in her, one profound—for what could be more serious than the love of man for woman, what more commanding, more impressive, hearing in its bosom the seeds of death; at the same time these lovers, these people entering into illusion glittering eyed, must be danced round with mockery, decorated with garlands.
“It is a triumph,” said Mr. Bankes, laying his knife down for a moment. He had eaten attentively. It was rich; it was tender. It was perfectly cooked. How did she manage these things in the depths of the country? he asked her. She was a wonderful woman. All his love, all his reverence, had returned; and she knew it.
“It is a French recipe of my grandmother’s,” said Mrs. Ramsay, speaking with a ring of great pleasure in her voice. Of course it was French. What passes for cookery in England is an abomination (they agreed). It is putting cabbages in water. It is roasting meat till it is like leather. It is cutting off the delicious skins of vegetables. “In which,” said Mr. Bankes, “all the virtue of the vegetable is contained.” And the waste, said Mrs. Ramsay. A whole French family could live on what an English cook throws away.
—from To the Lighthouse, 1927
ALICE B. TOKLAS ON FRENCH COOKING
The French approach to food is characteristic; they bring to their consideration of the table the same appreciation, respect, intelligence and lively interest that they have for the other arts, for painting, for literature and for the theatre. By French I mean French men as well as French women, for the men in France play a very active part in everything that pertains to the kitchen. I have heard working men in Paris discuss the way their wives prepare a beef stew as it is cooked in Burgundy or the way a cabbage is cooked with salt pork and browned in the oven. A woman in the country can be known for kilometres about for the manner in which she prepares those sublimated dumplings known as Quenelles, and a very complicated dish they are. Conversation even in a literary or political salon can turn to the subject of menus, food or wine.
The French like to say that their food stems from their culture and that it has developed over the centuries. It has its universal reputation for these reasons and on account of the mild climate and fertile soil.
We foreigners living in France respect and appreciate this point of view but deplore their too strict observance of a tradition which will not admit the slightest deviation in a seasoning or the suppression of a single ingredient. For example, a dish as simple as a potato salad must be served surrounded by chicory. To serve it with any other green is inconceivable. Still, this strict conservative attitude over the years has resulted in a number of essential principles that have made the renown of the French kitchen.
French markets without deep freezing are limited to seasonal produce which is however of excellent quality with the exception of beef, milk and a few fruits. Even the common root vegetables, carrots, turnips, parsnips and leeks (the asparagus of the poor), are tender and savoury, olive oil and butter are abundant and of a high grade and bread is nourishing and delicious.
Wars change the way of life, habits, markets and so eventually cooking. For five years and more the French were deprived of most of their foodstuffs and were obliged to use inferior substitutes when they could be found. After the Liberation the markets very slowly were supplied with a limited amount of material. The population had been hungry too long, they had lost their old disciplined appreciation of food and had forgotten or were ignoring their former critical judgment. So that even now French food has not yet returned to its old standard.
—from The Alice B. Toklas Cook Book, 1954
THOMAS JEFFERSON ON FRENCH PRODUCE
To James Madison
Dear Sir
Fontainebleau. Oct. 28. 1785
… After descending the hill again I saw a man cutting fern. I went to him under the pretence of asking the shortest road to the town, and afterwards asked for what use he was cutting fern. He told me that this part of the country furnished a great deal of fruit to Paris. That when packed in straw it acquired an ill taste, but that dry fern preserved it perfectly without communicating any taste at all. I treasured this observation for the preservation of my apples on my return to my own country. They have no apples here to compare with our Newtown pipping. They have nothing which deserves the name of a peach; there being not sun enough to ripen the plumbpeach and the best of their soft peaches being like our autumn peaches. Their cherries and strawberries are fair, but I think less flavoured. Their plumbs I think are better; so also the gooseberries, and the pears infinitely beyond any thing we possess. They have no grape better than our sweet-water. But they have a succession of as good from very early in the summer till frost.
I am tomorrow to go to Mr. Malsherbes [an uncle of the Chevalr. Luzerne’s] about 7. leagues from hence, who is the most curious man in France as to his trees. He is making for me a collection of the vines from which the Burgundy, Champagne, Bourdeaux, Frontignac, and other the most valuable wines of the country are made. Another gentleman is collecting for me the best eating grapes, including what we call the raisin. I propose also to endeavor to colonize their hare, rabbet, red and grey partridge, pheasants of different kinds, and some other birds. But I find that I am wandering beyond the limits of my walk and will therefore bid you Adieu.
Yours affectionately,
Th: Jefferson
—from The Papers of Thomas Jefferson, Julian P. Boyd, ed., 1950
HANNAH GLASSE ON FRENCH COOKING
A frenchman, in his own Country, would dress a fine Dinner of twenty Dishes, and all genteel and pretty, for the Expence he will put an English Lord to for dressing one Dish. But then there is the little petty Profit. I have heard of a Cook that used six Pounds of Butter to fry twelve Eggs; when every Body knows, that understands Cooking, that Half a Pound is full enough, or more than need be used: But then it would not be French. So much is the blind Folly of this Age, that they would rather be impos’d on by a French Booby, than give Encouragement to a good English Cook!
—from The Art of Cookery, Made Plain and Easy, 1747
M.F.K. FISHER ON LEAVING FRANCE
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The next time we put to sea, in 1932, was not so much later, about a year … but I was more than a year older. I don’t know why; I simply matured in a spurt, so that suddenly I knew a lot about myself and what I wanted and what I had to do. It made me soberer, and I was much less shy.
It was hard to leave Europe. But I knew that even if we stayed, our young days there were gone. The first insouciant spell was broken, and not by the act of buying tickets, as Al seemed to believe. Nor could it ever be recaptured; that would be monstrous, like a man turned child again but still caught in his worn big body.
We ate lunch before the boat sailed at a restaurant on the Old Port in Marseille. Al and I had often been there before, and Norah, who was unusually acute about flavors, almost like a French child, was excited at the prospect of one final orgy of real bouillabaisse. We almost didn’t get it, though.
Choice Cuts Page 41