Turkey. You cannot, or ought not, to dissociate
them. M. Daviau de Sanzai, a man of wit as
well as a highly respected prelate, once laid a
bet on some subject with M. Camarin, one of
his grand vicars. The wager was a truffled
Turkey, but the loser seemed to be in no hurry
to pay his debt, and as the end of the carnival
was fast approaching, the archbishop reminded
M. Camarin of the fact. “My lord,” said the
grand vicar, “the truffles are all bad this year.”
“Bah! bah!” replied M. de Sanzai, “that is a
report which has been circulated by the Turkeys.”
The Turkey and the truffle are both in perfection
at Christmas, when the former has had time to
concentrate its juices, and early frosts have well
blackened the latter. You may, indeed, begin
to eat the bird in June, but it is then only the
Turkey-poult, and incapable of giving a tithe of
the satisfaction which it imparts in its state of
maturity. Yet even when young it is well
spoken of. “Amiable adolescent!” cries an
enthusiastic French gastronomer, “see how he
advances with candour to offer his innocent head.
He is youthful and proud, and at that happy age
when his flesh, without partaking of the
insipidity of that of the pullet, has not yet
acquired the savour which, later on, will cause our
delight.” As each animal has its allotted season
in which to minister to our enjoyment, the Turkey
proper selects winter, commencing its culinary
career in the month of November, on the day
dedicated to Saint Martin.

“All the world,” says the writer last quoted,
“pays his devotions to the honest patron of
good living on the eleventh of November,
devotions which annually cost the lives of more than
a million of Turkeys.” “Toujours perdrix” is
a well-known symbol of satiety, but so long as
they are fit to be eaten nobody tires of truffled
Turkey; and thus, till the end of February,
they surrender themselves to the tender mercies
of the chef or the cordon bleu. Grimod de la
Reynière makes some profound reflections on
the commencement of the Turkey season. “In
November,” he says, “the country becomes
depopulated, and after the day of Saint Martin all
who appertain to the respectable class of
gourmands assemble in cities. Great Saint Martin,
patron of the poultry-market! the appetite
awakens at your approach, and all who enjoy
robust health prepare to celebrate your festival
by a fast of three days’ duration. A Turkey of
the season, waited for long enough, and roasted
to a turn, reopens the glorious career of
indigestion. Her giblets form the principle of an
entrée, which may be diversified in an infinity of
ways, while she is herself so well assured of her
merit that she lends herself to every kind of
metamorphosis without the slightest fear of
compromising her reputation. But she must be
young, for the honours of the daube (when
‘boned’) are reserved for dowagers.” But,
notwithstanding the metamorphoses of which
Monsieur Grimod de la Reynière speaks, and
though, with all his experience, he never knew
what the enjoyment is of eating the leg of a
Turkey well devilled, the only legitimate way
of dressing the bird whole is by devoting it to
the spit. “Don’t beat your carpets” is an
advertisement which daily meets the eye: don’t
boil your Turkey, is the advice I give to every
dinner-giver. What says the calm and
philosophical Soyer? “Boiled Turkey is a dish I
rarely have, as I never could relish it boiled as
it generally is, by putting it into that pure and
chaste element, water, into which has been
thrown some salt, the quantity of which differs
as much as the individuals that throw it in.
I often reflect to myself, why should this
innocent and well-brought-up bird have its remains
condemned to this watery, bubbling inquisition,
especially when alive it has the greatest horror
of this temperate fluid? It is really for want of
resolution that such mistakes occur: the flavour
of a roasted Turkey, hot or cold, is as superior
to the boiled as it is possible to be.” Be wise,
therefore, and eschew the caldron when the
preparation of a Turkey is in question. Have
nothing to do with chesnuts for stuffing, neglect
the garniture of sausages, turn away your
thoughts from celery sauce, or that made of
oysters—they, indeed, are only the accompaniments
of the seethed fowl; but order a couple
of pounds of Périgord truffles—no matter the
price, let them cost you fifty francs a pound,
what matter?—and cram your Turkey with
these, leaving them for several days in the
bosom of the bird to diffuse their aroma before
the word is given to prepare the banquet.
What grubs our ancestors were of two centuries
ago! What do you think they did with their
Turkeys? Baked them!—and, as The Perfect
Gentlewoman’s Delight tells us, in this fashion:
“Take and cleane your Turkey on the backe,
and bruise all his bones; then season with salt
and pepper, grosse beaten, and put into him good
store of butter: he must have five howers
baking.” Salt and pepper and good store of
butter! Shades of Savarin and De Cussy, read
not this page in your elysium of truffles!

                        NEW WORK
       BY SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.
                        NEXT WEEK
   Will be continued (to be completed next March)
                    A STRANGE STORY,
                               BY THE
       AUTHOR OF "MY NOVEL," " RIENZI," &c. &c.

     Just published, price 5s. 6d., bound in cloth,
                     THE FIFTH VOLUME
                                   OF
                   ALL THE YEAR ROUND.
     Containing from Nos. 101 to 126, both inclusive.
      The preceding Volumes are always to be had.