There is a curious old book, probably out of print nowadays, which deals tenderly, if severely, with the shortcomings of British cookery. It was published in 1853, and is called "Memoirs of a Stomach, written by Himself." A typical passage runs : " The English system of cookery it would be im- pertinent of me to describe ; but still, when I think of that huge round of parboiled ox- flesh, with sodden dumplings floating in a saline, greasy mixture, surrounded by carrots, looking red with disgust, and turnips pale with dismay, I cannot help a sort of inward shudder, and making comparisons unfavour- able to English gastronomy." This is fair comment, and brings me back 14 THE CHAFING DISH to the advantages of the Chafing Dish. An old German fairy tale, I think one of Grimm's, says : " Nothing tastes so nice as what one eats oneself," and it is certain that if one cooks so as entirely to satisfy oneself (always supposing oneself to be a person of average good taste), then one's guests will be equally satisfied — if not more so. In dealing with ChafBnda we may, after a minimum of practice, be almost certain of results. If one is naturally clean, neat and dainty in one's tastes, then one's cooking should display the same characteristics. One's individuality shines forth in the Chafing Dish and is reflected in one's sauces. Chaf- finda conveys a great moral lesson, and, as a teacher, should not lack in honour and reverence. The late Prince Consort, being on a visit, wrote to a friend : " Things always taste so much better in small houses " ; if one sub- stitutes small dishes for small houses the Prince predicted the Chafing Dish. The kitchen is the country in which there are always discoveries to be made, and with Chaffinda on a neat white tablecloth before THE CHAFING DISH 15 one, half a dozen little dishes with food in various stages of preparation, a few select condiments, an assortment of wooden spoons and like utensils — and an inventive brain — there are absolutely no limits to one's dis- coveries. One is bound by no rule, no law, no formula, save those of ordinary common sense, and though it might be too much to expect to rediscover the lost Javanese recipe for cooking kingfishers' or halcyons' nests, the old manner of treating a Hocco, or the true inwardness of " the dish called Maupy- gernon " ; yet there are illimitable possibilities which act as incentives to the enterprising. There is a Chinese proverb to the eifect that most men dig their graves with their teeth, meaning thereby that we all eat too much. This is awfully true and sad and undeniable, and avoidable. The late Lord Playfair asserted that the actual requirements of a healthy man for a seven-day week were three pounds of meat, one pound of fat, two loaves of bread, one ounce of salt, and five pints of milk. What a contrast to the chop- eating, joint-chewing, plethoric individual who averages five meals a day, and does 1 6 THE CHAFING DISH justice to them all ! Sir Henry Thompson says : " The doctors all tell us we eat too fast, and too often, and too much, and too early, and too late ; but no one of them ever says that we eat too little." The proper appreciation of Chaffinda may ameliorate this, for in using her one speedily becomes convinced of the beauty of small portions, an appetite kept well in hand, and the manifold advantages of modera- tion. It is easy to feed, but nice eating is an art. Bishop Wilberforce knew a greedy clergy- man who, when asked to say grace before dinner, was wont to look whether there were champagne glasses on the table. If there were, he began : " Bountiful Jehovah " ; but if he only espied claret glasses he contented himself with : " We are not worthy of the least of Thy mercies."

AI-modernized reading of the original text

There is a curious old book, probably out of print nowadays, which deals tenderly, if severely, with the shortcomings of British cookery. It was published in 1853, and is called "Memoirs of a Stomach, written by Himself." A typical passage runs : " The English system of cookery it would be impertinent of me to describe ; but still, when I think of that huge round of parboiled oxflesh, with sodden dumplings floating in a saline, greasy mixture, surrounded by carrots, looking red with disgust, and turnips pale with dismay, I cannot help a sort of inward shudder, and making comparisons unfavourable to English gastronomy." This is fair comment, and brings me back to the advantages of the Chafing Dish. An old German fairy tale, I think one of Grimm's, says : " Nothing tastes so nice as what one eats oneself," and it is certain that if one cooks so as entirely to satisfy oneself (always supposing oneself to be a person of average good taste), then one's guests will be equally satisfied — if not more so. In dealing with Chaffinda we may, after a minimum of practice, be almost certain of results. If one is naturally clean, neat and dainty in one's tastes, then one's cooking should display the same characteristics. One's individuality shines forth in the Chafing Dish and is reflected in one's sauces. Chaffinda conveys a great moral lesson, and, as a teacher, should not lack in honour and reverence. The late Prince Consort, being on a visit, wrote to a friend : " Things always taste so much better in small houses " ; if one substitutes small dishes for small houses the Prince predicted the Chafing Dish. The kitchen is the country in which there are always discoveries to be made, and with Chaffinda on a neat white tablecloth before one, half a dozen little dishes with food in various stages of preparation, a few select condiments, an assortment of wooden spoons and like utensils — and an inventive brain — there are absolutely no limits to one's discoveries. One is bound by no rule, no law, no formula, save those of ordinary common sense, and though it might be too much to expect to rediscover the lost Javanese recipe for cooking kingfishers' or halcyons' nests, the old manner of treating a Hocco, or the true inwardness of " the dish called Maupygernon " ; yet there are illimitable possibilities which act as incentives to the enterprising. There is a Chinese proverb to the effect that most men dig their graves with their teeth, meaning thereby that we all eat too much. This is awfully true and sad and undeniable, and avoidable. The late Lord Playfair asserted that the actual requirements of a healthy man for a seven-day week were three pounds of meat, one pound of fat, two loaves of bread, one ounce of salt, and five pints of milk. What a contrast to the chopeating, joint-chewing, plethoric individual who averages five meals a day, and does justice to them all ! Sir Henry Thompson says : " The doctors all tell us we eat too fast, and too often, and too much, and too early, and too late ; but no one of them ever says that we eat too little." The proper appreciation of Chaffinda may ameliorate this, for in using her one speedily becomes convinced of the beauty of small portions, an appetite kept well in hand, and the manifold advantages of moderation. It is easy to feed, but nice eating is an art. Bishop Wilberforce knew a greedy clergyman who, when asked to say grace before dinner, was wont to look whether there were champagne glasses on the table. If there were, he began : " Bountiful Jehovah " ; but if he only espied claret glasses he contented himself with : " We are not worthy of the least of Thy mercies."

The cult of the chafing dish