Salads, sandwiches, and savouries

Salade Suedoise. — For this toss together pickled herring freed from skin and bone, and trimmed into fillets, cold roast or stewed beef, cold boiled potatoes, and sour apples, all chopped roughly, with capers and sliced French gherkins ; seasoning it with a plain oil and vinegar dressing, and garnishing it with stoned olives, filleted anchovies, and shreds of red chillies. Another variation of this consists of a macedoine of vegetables mixed with cold potato sliced, sliced beetroot, and cold sausage, garnished as above, and served with a ravigote sauce — i.e., a mayonnaise to which you have added a little extra tarragon vinegar, a spoonful of cream, together with some chopped parsley, cress, and tarragon, with a drop or two of vegetable green colouring, to bring it all to a pale apple green. Be careful not to overdo this colouring. Salade Flamande. — For this you trim some good bloaters, removing all bone and skin ; slice down some sour apples, beetroot, cold cooked potatoes, Brussels sprouts, cardoons, or seakale (according to what you have), and some cauliflower, and toss in an oil or vinegar salad dressing, and serve garnished with the filleted bloaters. Some persons use sliced Hamburg beef instead of, or together with, the bloaters. Watercress and Apple Salad (French). — Well wash, pick over, and dry some nice fresh watercress and mix it with rather more than half its bulk of good, sharp, and very thinly sliced apples ; toss in a French salad dressing, or in mayonnaise, as you please, and serve with either hot or cold roast beef. This must be made when wanted, or the sliced apple will discolour. The above, which are naturally nothing like an exhaustive list, may serve to give some ideas as to the many ways in which scraps of all kinds can readily be tossed up into a savoury addition to an insufficient menu, for, as said above, every kind of fish, flesh, or fowl, to say nothing of vegetables, is suited to the salad bowl. CHAPTEE II. There are few people who have not, at one time or another, had cause to rue the ignorance of the average cook in the matter of sandwiches, even putting out of court at once the fossilised remnants of prehistoric ham, petrified beef, and sawdustshaving bread that figure under the name at some of our railway stations, to the unfeigned astonishment of the foreign traveller, who does not know whether to take them seriously or not. Certainly these articles of food have progressed since the days of the gambling earl, who, to save interrupting his game by dinner, had pieces of meat placed between slices of bread and butter and brought to him at the card table, incidentally bestowing his name on the provision. Nowadays sandwiches may be roughly divided between those intended for utility and those fancy ones which figure at smart five o’clock tea and other tables. The former consist principally of thin plain bread and butter, neatly trimmed to fit pocket or sandwich case, inclosing slices of meat of any kind, seasoned to c 2