one by its odour of the old days at school,
when the last in bed blew out the candle,
to say nothing of the sprinkling of ashes it
has received while it was being kept warm in
front of the fire.

The domestic chop is almost as bad. If
there is a good butcher in the neighbourhood,
it is possibly a little thicker, and if the ruler of
the kitchen insists upon the gridiron replacing
the usual frying-pan, it is somewhat less
greasy, but it is, notwithstanding, just as dry
and insipid as its congener; it is generally
nearly black in colour, except indeed where the
bars of the gridiron have left light lines on its
horny surface, and it is fringed with an edging
of blackened fat that suggests dreadful thoughts
of chimneys on fire and parish engines.

But, to pass at once from insipidity and
blackness into sweetness and light; let us try
and describe—or rather recal to our
remembrances, for description is impossible—the
numberless excellences of a properly cut and
well-cooked chop, such as you get at the Cock,
in Fleet-street, at Thomas's, in George-yard,
or at any other first-class City tavern. It is a
singular thing, and the American author of
English Photographs has arrived at the same
conclusion, that it is only within the realms of
the Lord Mayor that the foremost dish in the
whole range of British cookery is to be had in
full perfection. Possibly a fairly cooked chop
may now and then be found at a West-end or
first-class provincial hotel, but so rarely does
this happen that the exceptions in this respect
prove the rule but too completely.

But to return to our perfect chop, which now
lies hissing before us on its willow-patterned
altar—a plump tender triangular mass of
bright brown meat, defended on two sides by an
impregnable rampart of bone, and on the other
by a breastwork of crisp fat. At the bone end
there is a soft white cylinder of delicious marrow,
and behind an osseous outwork there is a
titbit of juicy meat of a different flavour to the
rest. Cut boldly into the middle of the victim,
and watch the ruddy gravy flow out all over the
plate under the gash made by the sacrificial blade.
Forkful after forkful of the juicy tender meat,
tempered by morsels of crisp fat and a dash of
true mushroom ketchup, are consumed by the
happy epicure, with interludes of white stale
bread and floury potato soaked in the
delicious gravy, until nothing is left but the bare
bone. Now is the time for a draught of stout,
while a fresh victim is being brought for
immolation, and the true delights of the chop are
once more tasted. Some chop-eaters load their
plates with cauliflower or other vegetables,
pepper, mustard, sauce, and half-a-dozen other
incongruities; but the true votary knows that
nothing should be eaten with a chop but stale
bread, salt, mushroom ketchup, and potatoes.

But let us see if we can discover the reasons
for the enormous difference between the true
chop and its vile counterfeit, for which purpose
we must step across the boundaries of chemical
science just for one moment.

Chemists tell us, that raw meat consists
principally of fibrin and certain juices holding
albumen and various salts in solution. This
fibrin, or solid portion of the flesh, constitutes
only about one quarter of the weight of the
meat, the rest being made of a watery fluid
containing the albumen and salts. The liquid
portion is held by the fibrin much in the same
way that water is held in a sponge; but as soon
as the fibrin is submitted to the action of heat,
either in roasting or boiling, it contracts and
squeezes out these juices, which contain not
only the greater portion of the nourishment,
but also the flavour of the meat. The fibrin
from which the juices have been separated
contains scarcely any nourishment, and is
almost tasteless, as any one who has ever eaten
French bouilli can readily testify. On the
other hand, the cooked juices are sapid and
full of flavour and nourishment.

We may now come back to the kitchen with
the knowledge that in cooking a chop, the first
condition of success is not to let a drop more of
these doubly valuable juices escape us than is
absolutely unavoidable. For this purpose our
chop must be put down over a bright, clear,
and somewhat fierce fire. The first thing that
happens is the coagulation of a portion of the
albumen on the under side of the chop, and a
contraction of the fibrin which draws the juices
into the centre. If we leave our chop
untouched the meat will gradually harden all the
way through, driving the juices before it, and
causing them to overflow into the fire from the
upper side. To counteract this we must
consequently turn our chop over the instant the
under side begins to harden. As soon as what
was at first the upper side is sufficiently hard,
which generally happens with a good fire in a
minute or so, it is turned once more, and so
on until the operation is complete. In fact, a
game of battledore and shuttlecock must be
played with the chop; the moment the juices
have been driven into the middle of the meat
it must be turned, and the turning repeated
continually, so that each side may be done alike.
The length of time for cooking a chop properly
must depend on the fierceness of the fire and
the tastes of the individual. Ten minutes and
at least ten turnings may be taken as a minimum
when the fire is brisk, and when an underdone
chop is preferred; but there is no royal road to
chop cooking, and perfection in it can only be
attained by great practice and a fair amount
of intelligence.

The greatest element of success is of course
the chop itself. It ought to be sawn, and
not cut, and should be at least an inch or
an inch and a quarter thick. If it is too thin
it will not contain sufficient gravy to keep the
interior in a soft and tender condition, and in
spite of all the care possible it will become hard
and tasteless in cooking. The fat of course
must be trimmed according to taste; it is a
good plan where a number of chops are served
up together to trim them differently, so that all
tastes may be suited. If there is the slightest
suspicion about their tenderness, they should
be well beaten with a knife-handle or a silver