Appendix: annotated and modernised recipes
CHAPTER 2
Brussels Biscuits or Rusks1
Ingredients required – One pound of flour, ten ounces of butter, half an ounce of German-yeast, four ounces of sugar, four whole eggs, and four yolks, a teaspoonful of salt, and a gill of cream. Mix the paste (in the manner described for Compiegne cake, excepting that this must be beaten) with the hand upon the slab until it presents an appearance of elasticity: the sponge should then be added, and after the whole has been well worked once more, the paste must be placed in long narrow tins [about 2 inches deep, and of about the same width, preparatory to placing the paste in the moulds: these should first be well buttered and floured inside (to prevent the paste from sticking), then the paste rolled out to their own lengths, and about one inch and a half thick, dropped into them] and set in a warm place to rise … when the paste has sufficiently risen, it must be gently turned out [on a baking sheet, previously spread with butter. Then] egged [all over with a soft paste brush,] and baked [of a bright, deep yellow colour. When done,] cut it up into slices [about a quarter of an inch thick] place them flat on a baking-sheet, and put them again in the oven to acquire a light-yellow colour on both sides.
These biscuits were beloved of Victoria as a teenager recovering from a serious illness in 1835. This recipe is from a book by Charles Elmé Francatelli, who was chief cook to her in 1840. He wrote several books, and this recipe appears in one aimed solidly at the middle classes. Interestingly it is not included in his high end cookery book, which is in general more reflective of the kind of dishes which he would have been cooking at Windsor and Buckingham Palace.
I have halved the ingredients – it still makes quite a lot of biscuits, so by all means halve them again. You can buy ‘fresh’ yeast in blocks from the bakery counter at many supermarkets: it is the equivalent of the processed German-yeast mentioned here.
8oz plain flour
5oz unsalted butter
½ oz fresh yeast or ½ tsp of dried yeast
2oz caster sugar
1 whole large egg
1 large egg yolk
½ tsp salt
5fl oz single cream
Crumble the yeast into about 2tbsp of tepid water, and mix to dissolve. Put 2oz of the flour into a bowl. Make a well in the centre, and add the yeast mixture. Sprinkle with a little flour from round the edges. Leave for about 10 minutes, at which point the yeast should be bubbling through the flour. Mix, adding a little more water if necessary, and form it into a loose and rather sticky ball. Cover with a damp teatowl or clingfilm, and leave in a warm place to double or triple in size. This is your sponge.
Meanwhile, mix the other ingredients well. Knead them, and, when the sponge has risen, add this in and mix everything thoroughly. Knead again. Francatelli now uses long, thin moulds as a way of shaping the dough which will be rather sticky and hard to handle. If you don’t have any, you can use plastic food containers, mini loaf tins, or half a kitchen roll inner tube, lined with greaseproof paper or clingfilm – whatever comes to hand is fine – just be aware that this will dictate the size of your final biscuits. Butter and flour whatever you are using, and put the dough in, to about ²/³ the height of your mould. Leave, covered with clingfilm or a damp cloth, for a couple of hours until it has risen and quite probably overflowed. Heat the oven to 180°c (170°c fan). Turn the dough out fast onto a greased baking sheet and bake for about 15–20 minutes. You can egg wash the whole thing for extra authenticity if you have a soft enough brush not to tear the rather delicate dough.
Leave to cool slightly, and cut your cakes into thin slices. Egg wash them if you can be bothered, and spread on a greased baking sheet. Re-bake for 10–15 minutes until they are golden brown. Store in an airtight container and eat with everything you can think of (especially orange jelly and beef tea).
CHAPTER 3
Sir-Loin of Beef2
The noble Sirloin of about fifteen pounds, will require to be before the fire about four hours: take care to spit it evenly, that it may not be heavier on one side than the other; put a little clean dripping into the dripping pan, (tie a sheet of paper over it to preserve the fat), baste it well as soon as it is put down, and baste it every quarter of an hour all the time it is roasting; then take off the paper, and make some gravy for it … to brown and froth it, sprinkle a little salt over it, baste it with butter, and dredge it with flour; let it go a few minutes longer, till the froth rises, take it up, put it on the dish, &c.
William Kitchener, who wrote this recipe, was a true Regency man: involved in everything, and a great gourmand. His recipes are well-researched and from the heart. Roasting was always done in front of a fire in the past: first on spits turned by people, and, from the seventeenth century, with a variety of mechanisms, including weight driven, clockwork and a fan-driven smoke-jack. The Windsor roasting ranges still exist, and one of them retains most of the system of cogs which originally turned the spit. It is impossible to replicate the taste of spit-roast beef when it is, as now roasted (the Victorians would have deemed it baked) in an oven. However, if you have a spit on your barbeque, you can have a go!
The principle here is simple – you tie paper loosely over any bits of the joint which might burn, spit the meat and get it turning. Baste it with the juices which drip into the drip-pan beneath it, and, when it is almost cooked, remove the paper, and sprinkle the joint with a mixture of salt and flour, plus a bit of melted butter. As Kitchener suggests, a froth will emerge from the joint, which then cooks and browns and forms a gorgeous crispy coating. It was served as a joint, whole, unadulterated and in-your-face. Beef was emblematic of Britishness. It was usually served with plum pudding and potatoes.
CHAPTER 4
Chicken consommé3
Put 2 chickens, or hens, having first removed their fillets, and 6lbs of fillet of veal, in a stockpot, with 5 quarts of General Stock, and ½ oz of salt: put in the fire to boil; then skim, and add 2 onions, with 2 cloves stuck in one; 4 leeks, and a head of celery; simmer on the stove corner for three hours; strain the broth; take off the fat, and clarify the consommé with the fillets of chicken, or hen … and strain once more, through a broth napkin, into a basin.
Observation: Chicken consommé should be colourless; by following the indications given, it will be obtained perfectly white and clear.
There is not much to add to this. There’s a tremendous quantity of meat, entirely appropriate for the royal kitchens, and an equally tremendous amount of work. It is, however, delicious. If you should fancy doing it at home, scaling things down somewhat is probably the order of the day. Once you’ve simmered your meats and strained the liquid off, leave it to cool completely, and then add two crushed egg whites, along with their crushed shells, and the diced or minced chicken breasts. Stir well, and very, very gradually bring it to the boil. Once it gets there, turn the heat down and boil gently for about 5–10 minutes. The whites, shells and chicken will form a sort of nasty, scummy omelette on top, which will cook through as you simmer it. Take the pan off the heat and pour ever-so-gently through a sieve, preferably a conical one, lined with muslin. It’ll take a while, but the second you rush, the stock will go cloudy.
Heston Blumenthal, incidentally, has a slightly different method, where you simply freeze the (strained but unclarified) stock in small quantities, and then defrost it overnight in a coffee filter or sieve lined with muslin so that the impurities remain behind.
CHAPTER 5
Albert Sauce
Grate three large sticks of horse-radish, put them into a stewpan with a pint of good broth; let this simmer gently on a moderate fire for half-an-hour, then add a little white sauce and half a pint of cream; reduce the whole over a brisk fire, and pass the sauce through a tammy as you would a purée, and put it into a bain marie. Just before using the sauce, make it hot, and mix in a little French vinegar, a dessert-spoonful of mixed mustard, some salt, a tablespoonful of chopped and blanched parsley, and two yolks of eggs.
This sauce is well adapted to be eaten with braised fillet of beef, garnished with potatoes cut into the shape of olives, and fried in butter.4
This is one of the hottest things I have ever eaten, and preparing the root is not for the faint-hearted, but it is strangely compelling with red meat.
1 horseradish root, peeled and grated or minced in a food processor
½ pt beef or chicken stock
3–4 fl oz of white sauce (butter and flour to make a roux, mix with hot milk and whisk till smooth)
5 fl oz cream – it doesn’t matter what kind
1 level tsp mustard, heat depending on personal taste
1 tbsp white wine vinegar
generous pinch of salt
½ tbsp finely chopped parsley
The yolk of 1 small egg (or ½ a large one)
Simmer the horseradish in the stock until it is very soft (approx. 30 minutes). While doing this, make the white sauce. Add the sauce and cream to the horseradish and blitz in a blender. Allow to cool slightly and add the rest of the ingredients. Return to a very gentle heat, and stir until it thickens. Do not allow to boil (or the egg will curdle). Keeps well in the fridge, good hot or cold.
CHAPTER 6
Haggis Royal
Three pounds of leg of mutton chopped; a pound of suet chopped; a little, or rather as much beef marrow as you can spare; the crumb of a penny loaf (our own nutty flavoured, browned oatmeal is, by the way, far better) the neat yolks of four eggs; a half-pint of red wine; three mellow fresh anchovies boned: minced parsley, lemon grate, white pepper … cayenne to taste … blend the ingredients well: truss them neatly in a veal-caul; bake in a deep dish, in a quick oven, and turn out. Serve hot as fire, with brown gravy or venison sauce.5
The book that this is from, Margaret Dod’s Cook and Housewife’s Manual, is a culinary curiosity in some ways. It’s author is fictional, named after a celebrated innkeeper and cook in Walter Scott’s St Ronan’s Well. It was actually written by a popular author, journalist and magazine editor, Christian Isobel Johnstone. It was one of the first cookbooks to include explicitly Scottish dishes, part of the growing celebration and commensurate creation of, modern Scottish national identity. The book was very popular, both for its refreshingly tongue-in-cheek approach, and because the recipes were very good. It is an excellent recipe, especially if you don’t like the stuff sold as haggis today.
1½ lb of mutton, goat or lamb leg, chopped finely with a knife
½ lb suet
1–2tbsp bone marrow (optional)
About a cup of oatmeal
2 small or one large egg yolk
2.5 fl oz red wine
2 anchovies, minced
Finely chopped parsley, to taste (be generous)
Grated rind of one small lemon
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cayenne pepper
½ tsp white pepper, ground
Caul fat (optional)
Mix all the ingredients, adding enough oatmeal to soak up all the liquid. Put into a well-greased pudding basin and sprinkle oatmeal on the top or, if you have caul fat, wrap it up in this, and then put it into a greased pudding basin. Bake at 180°c for 45 minutes and serve hot, possibly with with redcurrant jelly.
CHAPTER 7
Pancake with marmalade
Put a quarter of a pound of sifted flour into a basin, with four eggs, mix them together very smoothly, then add half a pint of milk or cream, and a little grated nutmeg, put a piece of butter in your pan, (it requires but a very little), and when quite hot put in two tablespoonfuls of the mixture, let spread all over the pan, place it upon the fire, and when coloured upon the one side toss it over, then turn it upon your cloth; proceed thus til they are all done, then spread apricot or other marmalade all over, and roll them up neatly, lay them upon a baking sheet, sift sugar all over, glaze nicely with the salamander, and serve upon a napkin; the above may be served without the marmalade, being then the common pancake.6
Alexis Soyer was the leading chef of his day, and one of London’s most flamboyant culinary figures. Like Francatelli, he published cookery books aimed at the upper, middle and lower classes, and he also put his ideas into action, going out to the Crimea to work out whether the food had anything to do with the appalling death rate in the Scutari field hospital (it did). He subsequently invented a military stove which remained in use well into the latter half of the twentieth century, and was lauded as a hero by The Times. This recipe is from his middle class Cook’s Guide, which is written as letters from an experienced hostess to her protégé. It’s refreshingly odd, but the recipes are brilliant.
4oz flour
2 large eggs
10 fl oz single cream or whole milk
Nutmeg
Butter
Jam or marmalade
Icing sugar (to finish)
Mix the eggs and flour until there are no lumps, then whisk in the cream or milk, adding a little grated nutmeg. Melt the butter in a pan, and pour in two ladles-full of batter, spreading it out across the pan. Flip or toss the pancake when it is just cooked on the top, and cook the bottom until it is brown. To be properly Victorian, spread each pancake with a thin layer of jam or marmalade, roll it up, and put it on a baking sheet. When the sheet is full of pancakes, sprinkle with icing sugar and put them under a grill to brown the sugar. Serve on a doily, stacked neatly in a pyramid.
Curry of Chickens, à l’Indienne7
Fry the pieces of chicken or fowl in butter, until they are brightly browned all over, and remove them into a stewpan; then slice up three large onions and two heads of celery, and put these into a stewpan, together with a clove of garlic, a garnished faggot of parsley, a blade of mace, and four cloves. Fry the whole over a slow fire until they acquire a light brown colour; add a large tablespoonful of Cook’s meat-curry-paste, and a similar proportion of flour; mix all the above together and moisten with a pint of good broth or gravy; stir the sauce over the fire, and keep it boiling for about twenty minutes, then rub the whole through a hair sieve or tammy, and afterwards pour it to the pieces of chicken. Set the curry to simmer gently over a slow fire until the pieces of chicken become tender, when the éntree may be served as in the former case [with the sauce poured over, and plain boiled rice on the side].
750g ish chicken pieces (or a chicken, jointed, or pieces, etc)
50g butter
2–3 onions
6–8 stalks of celery
1 clove of garlic
A bouquet garni
1 blade of mace
4 cloves
1 heaped tbsp. of curry paste (see note)
1 heaped tsp rice flour or plain flour
1pt stock
Melt half of the butter and fry the chicken. Remove from the pan and put in the rest of the butter. Turn down the heat and fry the chopped vegetables until the onions go translucent and the celery is tender. Put in the curry paste and flour and give a good stir. Add the stock and simmer the whole lot for about 20 minutes. It should now be relatively thick: you should puree it in a blender. You don’t have to. Add the chicken pieces to the sauce and simmer until the chicken is done (you can also do this stage in the oven or a slow cooker).
Note: This relies, as do many Victorian recipes, on a branded sauce. A bewildering variety of proprietary pastes and powders were available in Victorian England (and had been since the late Georgian period, when curry first became popular). You can either buy a modern meat curry paste, or put together a suitably Victorian curry powder.
A suitably Victorian curry powder (from Eliza Acton, Modern Cookery): 8oz turmeric, 4oz coriander seed, 2oz cumin seed, 2oz fenugreek seed, ½oz cayenne (or more, to taste – Acton also suggests going easy on the turmeric). Dry the seeds (fry or bake), grind them and mix. She also suggests adding desiccated coconut to most curries – it works well as a garnish. Be warned that this recipe makes a lot more curry powder than you will need, so it’s probably best to quarter the recipe, or substitute ounces for teaspoons.
CHAPTER 9
Boar’s Head, with aspic jelly8
Procure the head of a bacon hog which must be cut off deep into the shoulders; bone it carefully, beginning under the throat, then spread the head out upon a large earthenware dish, and rub it with the following ingredients: Six pounds of salt, four ounces of saltpetre, six ounces of moist sugar, cloves, mace, half an ounce of juniper berries, four cloves of garlic, six bay leaves, a handful of thyme, marjoram, and basil. When the head has been well rubbed with these, pour about a quart of port-wine lees over it, and keep in a cool place for a fortnight; observing that it must be turned over in its brine every day, during that period.
When about to dress the head, take it out of the brine, and wash it thoroughly in cold water; then absorb all the exterior moisture from it with a clean cloth, and spread it out upon the table. Next, pare off all the uneven pieces from the cheeks, &c., cut these into long narrow fillets, and put them with the tongue, fat bacon, and truffles, prepared as directed for the galantine; then, line the inside of the head with a layer of force-meat (the same kind as used for galantines), about an inch thick, and lay thereon the fillets of tongue, bacon, truffles, and here and there some pistachio kernels (the skin of which must be removed by scalding); cover these with a layer of force-meat, and then repeat the rows of tongue, &c., and when the head is sufficiently garnished to fill it out in its shape, it should be sewn up with a small trussing-needle and twine, so as thoroughly to secure the stuffing. The head must then be wrapped up in a strong cloth, previously well spread with butter, and sewn up in this, so as to preserve its original form: it should next be put into a large oval braising-pan, covered with any carcasses of game (especially of grouse, from its congenial flavour) or any trimmings of meat there may be at hand, and also four cow-heels, or six calves’ feet; then moisten with a copious wine mirepoix, in sufficient quantity to cover the surface of the head. Set the brazier on the stove-fire; as soon as it boils up, skim it thoroughly, then remove it to a slow fire (covered with the lid containing live embers), that the head may continue to simmer or boil very gently, for about five hours; as soon as it appears to be nearly done, remove the brazier from the fire, and when the heat of the broth has somewhat subsided, let the head be taken up on a large dish: if it appears to have shrunk considerably in the wrapper, this must be carefully tightened, so as to preserve its shape: it should then be put back into its braise, there to remain, until the whole has become set firm by cooling. The head must next be taken out of the braise or stock, and put in the oven, upon a deep baking-dish, for a few minutes, just to melt the jelly which may adhere to the wrapper; it must then be taken out quickly, and the wrapper carefully removed, after which, glaze the head with some dark-coloured glaze; place it on its dish, ornament it with aspic-jelly, and serve.
Note. On the Continent it is usual to decorate boars’ heads with coloured gum-paste, and sometimes with natural flowers: the latter produce a very pretty effect, when arranged with taste; the former method is objectionable, from the liability of the gum-paste to give way, and run down the sides of the head: it has, moreover, a vulgar and gaudy look.
As I doubt anyone reading this will be desperate to dash off to the kitchen and replicate it, I have not modernised it fully. However, I have cooked it, and it is a very fine thing indeed. If you do wish to replicate it, allow a good few hours for the boning, and ensure you have a range of sharp knives of different shapes. The snout is the most challenging part, as the bone is very close to the skin there. It is essential to buy your pig’s head from a butcher where you can specify what you need: off-the-peg heads are cut off just behind the ears, but you really need one cut off a couple of vertebrae back, so that you have some skin to form the back of your stuffed piggie parcel (otherwise you will need to wrap it in caul fat and, while you can make it work, it’s a bit messy). Allow at least ten days, preferably two weeks, for the brining stage and don’t forget to turn it every day.
Once boned, brined and ready to stuff, arm yourself with a gloving needle, a thimble, and at least 5 spare hours (and another 5 for cooking). You’ll need to sew closed the mouth, eyes, any splits in the flesh and the bolt hole which you will find in the centre of the forehead if your pig was killed in an abattoir. You can use any meat-based stuffing: mine is usually 50:50 fatty veal and pork, with generous amounts of ham, mushrooms, pistachios and anything I fancy. The forcemeats used in the Victorian period were often pounded until they resembled very fine pâté, but I usually opt for mince. You can layer in other things – like the tongue that Francatelli suggests – as you desire. Once stuffed, you can use the extra skin to close off the back, sew it tightly, and swaddle it tightly in muslin. It looks like a hamster with well-stuffed cheeks at this stage. Stock, roughly chopped vegetables, bones, lots of feet and a couple of bottles of red wine are an adequate braising liquid – you need the wine for the colour and the feet for the gelatine, and the rest is for flavour. It’ll take at least 5 hours to cook and do not underestimate the size of pan you need. You may need to do a bit more wrapping to reshape it when it’s cooked, and it needs to cool fully.
When you unswaddle it (the next day, and I’d suggest judicious use of scissors), the head will resemble a stonking great haemorrhoid, and you’ll wonder why you bothered. However, since you’ve got this far, you might as well try and wrench victory from the jaws of defeat. Strain and clarify your boiling liquid, and reduce it so that it will set into decent, thick, reddish jelly. As it cools and thickens you can set it in trays to cut up for jellied decoration and brush it onto your head to even out the colour and make it shine. The rest of the decoration is only determined by your own imagination – Edwardian boar’s heads sometimes had veritable forests of holly and mistletoe poking out of their ears, as well as scenes of rural Christmas hunting and gambolling in pastry, sugar or marzipan romping across their brows. You can make eyes from radishes, sculpt tusks from potatoes, and pipe lard designs on every surface which will take it. When you stand back, you will be awed by your creation.
Serve cold (!). It will feed a large number of people and fill a freezer drawer. If you merely want a snifter of the experience, might I suggest a nice boar sausage cooked in red wine.
CHAPTER 10
Toad in the hole9
To make this a cheap dinner, you should buy 6d or 1s worth of bits or pieces of any kind of meat, which are to be had cheapest at night when the day’s sale is over. The pieces of meat should be fist carefully overlooked, to ascertain if there be any necessity to pare away some tainted part, or perhaps a fly-blow, as this, if left on any one piece of meat, would tend to impart a bad taste to the whole, and spoil the dish. You then rub a little flour, pepper, salt all over the meat, and fry it brown with a little butter or fat in the frying-pan, and when done, put it with the fat it has been fried in into a baking dish containing some Yorkshire or suet pudding batter, made as directed at nos. 57 and 58, and bake the toad-in-the-hole for about an hour and a half, or else send it to the baker’s.
Yorkshire pudding batter
To one pound of flour add three pints of skim milk, two eggs, nutmeg and salt; mix smoothly.
Suet pudding batter
To one pound of flour add six ounces of chopped suet, three pints of skim milk, nutmeg and salt; mix thoroughly.
Toad-in-the-hole was originally a much more versatile and varied dish than the modern sausage-based versions. Any meat can be used, raw or cooked (leftover roast beef works very well indeed), and in any quantity which you have. It’s designed to eke out small quantities of meat with cheap ingredients: I often pack it full of meat, but I am not a struggling urban worker in 1861, and meat is a lot cheaper now. Either batter mix works well (the suet one is a revelation. Both were intended to be baked as batter puddings in an oven or under a joint as it roasted on the fire, and, again, to provide cheap filler for small quantities of meat. Whole milk is fine in a modern context – skim would often have been bought by workers as it was cheaper, since it lacked the cream. Sadly it was also less nutritional, and lacked calories which they desperately needed. Alexis Soyer, incidentally, suggests fillings for toad-in-the-hole which range from sparrows wrapped in bacon through to pretty much an entire roast dinner, vegetables and all.
Some meat, equivalent to 8–10 fat sausages, seasoned with pepper
½lb/500g plain flour
3oz/75g beef suet or 1 small egg 1½ pts/750ml milk
generous pinch or two of nutmeg
½ tsp salt
Fry the meat briefly in hot fat of some form (unless you are using pre-cooked leftovers). Use the fat to grease a pie dish, and add the meat. Mix all of the batter ingredients and stir very vigorously until frothy and well mixed. Pour the batter on the meat and bake in an oven at 180°c conventional (160°c fan) for 45–60 minutes until cooked. The top should be brown and crispy, and the inside fluffy but cooked through.
CHAPTER 11
Lait de Poule10
Put the yolks of two new laid eggs in a basin; beat them up with 1oz of pounded sugar and a teaspoonful of orange flower water, and stir in ½ pint of boiling water or milk.
Lait de Poule should be taken very hot, and will be found very soothing for coughs and colds.
Although the name is off-putting – translating literally as chicken’s milk – this is not nearly as bad as it sounds (unless you make it with water, in which case it is pretty grim). It is essentially outrageously sweet thin custard and perfectly pleasant, unless you have a sore throat, in which case it’s really quite good.
1 medium egg yolk
1oz/25g sugar
½ pint whole milk
1tsp orange flower water
Whisk the yolk up with the sugar and bring the milk to boil with the orange flower water. Pour the milk scalding hot onto the yolk, whisking. Cool enough to drink.
A slightly more useful alternative is to keep aside a tablespoon of the cold milk, and mix it with a teaspoon of cornflour or arrowroot. Once you’ve mixed the hot milk with the yolk, pour the lot back into a pan and add the cornflour mix, heating gently until the yolk and cornflour work their magic to give you a proper custard. This is then very nice as a sweet, served with tart fruit.