Here and there a sound fact, an entire letter,
a clear line, remains. The rest is blurred,
topsy-turvy, gone to pieces. For our own
sakes we would rather have six sound
records of observation from the Field newspaper,
from that fine observer Gosse, even from the
precocious Eton boy, than all the jumble of
Pliny's thirty-seven books of untranslatable
Natural History.

Hume, the historian—who knew as little of
our past social history as Dr. Johnson knew of
the two principal languages required for the
writer of an English dictionary, Celtic and
Saxon—has a foolish and wild statement,
which has since passed current as good money
among the writers on culinary vegetables.
The statement is that, till the end of the reign of
Henry the Eighth, carrots, turnips, and salads
were unknown in England: Henry's Spanish
queen having always, when she wanted a salad,
to send couriers to the great gardens of
Holland or Flanders. This may be true of
lettuces, which first arrived here from Flanders,
welcome guests, in 1520. Otherwise, the
statement is nonsense. Salads were favourite food
in the middle ages, and were much needed
to cool the hot wine, the spiced dishes, and
the incessant salt meats. Chaucer's men
had their sharp winter cresses, their water
cresses, their common Alexander, their goat's
beard, their rampion, rocket, and borage, their
amaranthus and goose foot, their good Henry,
their monk's rhubarb, and their pepper-wort.

We will not let the poor creatures be robbed
of their salad, even though they are dead and
buried.

In all good cooking, vegetables hold a
subordinate but still an honoured place. Leeks
sodden, and turnips float on our broth, but the
French do not use vegetables in so uncouth a
way. Suppose we examine some of their
savoury and appetising ways of cooking
vegetables, and of employing them when cooked.
Take épinard (spinach), by some considered
mere chopped hay, by others prized and valued
as the pleasant and most lightsome matelas
(mattress) for a fricandeau, a dish which
goes far to remove our insular contempt
for what we are pleased to call flimsy and
greasy kickshaws (quelque chose). Spinach
holds a high rank in Paris kitchens, because its
soft dark leaves can be gathered for eight or
nine out of the twelve months. This vegetable,
although so humble, is called by French gourmands,
"le désespoir de l' avarice et de l'industrie,"
as its preparation is expensive and
difficult. It is like the flint stone in the proverbial
soup; it wants so many other ingredients
to make it good. It is like virgin wax, it is
susceptible of any impression. By itself it is
trivial, but in a clever man's hands it becomes
a gem of value; so did a shilling's worth of
Roman canvas become a sheet of gold under
the touch of Raphael. It is wholesome either
with gravy, butter, cream, or coulis. It will
make soups, tarts, rissoles, or creams. After
sorrel it is the best bed upon which a fricandeau
can repose, and on its green pulp rests well, both
the scarlet tongue and the smoked beef of Hamburg.
It is a resource on the poor man's board,
it is the glory of the rich man's table; yet its
chief value is given it by the hands through
which it passes.

The cauliflower is as wholesome as spinach,
and requires less talent in the cooking. It is
nice with white sauce, and good with mutton
gravy; it can be eaten " frit en pâte," and it is
delicious with parmesan. It serves to garnish
ragoûts and it will make a salad of merit.
The head must be white, close, and firm.

Ude says that thistles are not much relished
in England, "but in France are held in the
highest estimation." Thistle is an entremet
usually selected by a French chef to try the
skill of a new cook. Chardons are delicious
stewed with Spanish sauce, and mix well with
poached eggs. They are perfect with beef
marrow or with white and velouté sauce.
The Spanish thistles are the best, being of
the artichoke race. A French epicurean writer
says " this dish is the ne plus ultra of human
science, and a cook who can cook thistles well is
entitled to rank as the first artist in Europe."
Under the old régime, the light of glory shone
especially on the powdered wig of the Count
de Tesse, first groom of Marie Antoinette.
He was lost in the flight of the emigrés,
and never came to the surface again. Thistles
en maigre and au parmesan are not difficult to
cook, and are extremely good. Persons of
inferior genius should endeavour to acquire glory
by first cooking their thistles in the humbler
styles.

The French consider celery best in salad, and
in sharp sauce mixed with Maille or Bordin
mustard. It is useful, too, with gravy for
braised mutton and large entrées; but the
crême au celeri is thought a special triumph
of the kitchen. The cabbage, despicable only in
the eyes of pride, forms a pleasant wall round a
rump of beef, and the French sometimes (but
with questionable taste) entomb a roast
partridge in the same vegetable. A cabbage à la
Bavaroise is a favourite mattress for a ragoût.
About the beginning of the century, sauer-krout,
the natural dish of Germany, borrowed it is
supposed from the Turks, became popular in
Paris. Scorzonera makes an excellent soup
when seasoned with parmesan and fried.

We use mushrooms in cooking, nearly as
freely as the French, but we cruelly neglect
the mushroom's cousin, the little fragile
nankeen-coloured champignon, which is excellent
in ragoûts, and serves for half the catsup that
is christened mushroom in London. The French
eat champignons greedily, à la creme, fried or
stewed. They dry them, and preserve them in
vinegar. Above all, and this is an excellent
hint, they powder them for winter use.

The white haricots—the best come from
Soissons—are often used in France as the
mattress for a leg of mutton, and very nice they
are. There is also a good thick soup to be made of
them.