The cult of the chafing dish

It would be ridiculous to run away with the idea that because certain folk misuse the language, French should be henceforward taboo at our dinner-tables. Such a notion is ignorant and impossible. But the Gallic tongue should be used with discretion and knowledge, and if the enterprising Chafist invent a new dish of eggs, there is no law to forbid his naming it CEufs a la "Temple du Milieu. It would only show the quality of his erudition and his taste. There seems no particular reason why we should not replace Rati by Roast, Entrée by Remove, and Entremets by Sweet — except that it is not done ; it is an affectation of humbug, of course, but the greatest humbug of all humbugs is the pretending to despise humbug. Alderman's Walk. On revient toujours à son premier mouton — that is to say, let us get back to Chaffinda. The next dish on the experimental programme is " The Alderman's Walkj" a very old English delicacy, the most exquisite portion of the most exquisite joint in Cookerydom, and so called because, at City dinners of our grandfathers' times, it is alleged to have been reserved for the Aldermen. It is none other than the first, longest and juiciest longitudinal slice, next to the bone, of a succulent saddle of mutton. Southdown for choice, and four years old at that, though this age is rare. Remove this slice tenderly and with due reverence from the hot joint, lay it aside on a slice of bread, its own length, and let it get cold, thoroughly cold. Then prepare in the Chafing Dish a sauce composed of a walnut of butter, a teaspoon of Worcester, three drops of Tabasco, three chopped chives, and an eggspoon of made mustard. Stir these ingredients until the amalgamation is smooth and complete. Then take the bread, which should have absorbed a good deal of the juice from under the Alderman's Walk, cut it into strips, and lightly toast the strips. Drop the meat into the sauce, and let it cook for eight minutes, turning it once, that is, four minutes for each side. Slide it out on to a hot dish, put the toast round it, eat it in a hurry, and thank your stars that you are alive to enjoy it. This is a dish which has few equals and no superiors. It is simple, innocent, toothsome, satisfying, and several other things. t Something like it, but lacking its artistic j severity, may be found in Alexandre Dumas' , Great Dictionary, but it is complicated with eccentric accessories ; there is a turbulent confused foreground to it which effectually conceals the mutton, but then, of course, poor Dumas, although he knew and appreciated, could rarely obtain the real Southdown. At the time that the great author was overwhelmed with commissions for novels, after the enormous success of "The Three Musketeers" and other masterpieces, he was commonly understood to put books in the market which were written by Auguste Maquet, and merely signed by himself. Dumas, as is well known, was a great amateur cook, and in fact prided himself more on his dishes than on his novels. One day he invited the famous Aurelien SchoU to dinner, and put before him a salmon aymonnaise which he — Dumas P^re — had made with his own hands. " Taste that, Scholl," he said, " and tell me how you like it," SchoU tasted it and made a wry face. " Really, Dumas," he replied, " I think it must be by Maquet."