Food

Mr. Finchley found himself burdened with a large plate holding a piece of cold beef. He deposited it on the table. A loaf of bread followed. Butter, lettuce, onions, a jar of mixed pickles, cheese; and then Wally stepped back.
‘You’ll find plates and stuff over there.’ He pointed to another cupboard and, leaving Mr. Finchley to discover them, he scuttled from the kitchen.
Mr. Finchley was surprised to find himself setting the table as though it were his normal manner to eat with a thief every evening. He even found time between the cupboard and the table to feel a little proud of his adventure.
Wally returned, nursing three bottles. ‘India pale ale!’ he remarked laconically, and fetched a couple of glasses.
(Mr. Finchley Discovers his England, Page 15)

When they returned Mara had cooked the evening meal, light bread fresh-baked in the embers, fried potatoes, and brown cutlets of fish.

They had been wakened early, and the four of them had breakfasted, under the porter’s eye, in a small messroom. It was a poor meal. Bread and butter and tea.

Both teams sat down to a tea provided by the squire. The long board creaked with food. There were huge piles of new bread, raspberry, strawberry, apricot and plum jams, thick cream, paste of four kinds, fish sandwiches, fresh cool lettuce and plates of cake—fruit cake, madeira cake, saffron cake, honey cake, ginger cake, chocolate cake, cherry cake, cakes unnamed and so good that no name could even adequately describe them. And at one end of the table stood a great tea-urn, guarded by the squire’s housekeeper, from which tea flowed in an endless stream into cups.
They all ate noisily, hungrily and unduly. In five minutes the table ceased to creak, and the wooden benches on which the teams sat took up the song. In less than ten minutes Mr. Finchley felt that he was full of the most horribly delicious medley of food that a man who suffers with his digestion could imagine.

At that moment Polycarp’s one desire was symbolised by the word sausages. He sat on the wall, and thought of the ways sausages had been served to him in the past. The dishes passed slowly before him, bringing a saliva to his empty mouth. Sausages in rich brown gravy and surrounded by flocculent clouds of creamy mashed potatoes; sausages neatly encased in tender layers of flaky pastry; sausages mired in pleasant depths of batter; sausages whose skins were golden brown from trial by fire; cold sausages with the white fat gleaming icily on their rounded flanks and sentinelled by pickled onions and gherkins; sausages ensconced in the ripped carcasses of long rolls, and eaten inch by inch, anointed at each inch by liberal libations of French mustard; sausages in the friendly aromatic company of liver, kidneys, and onions ; sausages spiced with tomatoes and sage—the ghosts of the sausages he had eaten rose tantalisingly before him and passed in fleshly review. Polycarp lit a cigarette, and groaned as he thought that the nearest sausage was a good five miles away. He had to choose between breaking his blister or breaking his fast, to choose either the pangs of hunger or the pains of a broken blister; it was a situation that Polycarp resented.

... his wife made pasties as long, so Michael used to say, as whale-boats and as broad as battleships, yet there never was one of her pasties which he had been unable to eat.

...after the ceremony they returned to Tredeagles Farm where Bessie had spread a table that catered for all tastes; cornish pasties, cold meats, ham, tongue, beef, sausages stuffed with sage and parsley, cold fowl and duck; cakes of her own baking, saffron cakes, seed cakes, currant cake, potato cake, bread pudding, and a monstrous, elegant pillar of white sugaring that was the wedding cake and which had come all the way from the best shop in Truro; seeing the slender fragility of the creation it was a wonder how it had withstood the journey.

Of all the expensive meals he had eaten and had been forced to eat in London, Paul remembered very little, but of that one shilling and sixpenny business man’s lunch he never forgot one single detail. The crême fermière was hot, silky and well-flavoured, and he forgave it for being a potato masquerade; the fried fillet of cod with chipped potatoes and tomato sauce was fragrant with juices that excited and stimulated the palate; his enjoyment of the baroness pudding was heightened a hundredfold by the fact that he ate it as himself and not as the ghost of a celebrity, and the cigarette and coffee which soothed the meal into quiescent and comfortable disintegration completed a metamorphosis in Paul’s mind. He was himself again.

The supper was at once a triumph and a boast. It was now August and the garden had given its best for the occasion. The centre of the table was graced by an enormous rabbit pie, which was served with new potatoes, French beans and young peas and portions of the Stigand Marvel, which, having won its race, had been ceremoniously plucked that morning and baked with a filling of herbs. For a salad there were lettuces, beetroots cool and crimson in vinegar, red and white radishes and thin daggers of young carrots, and for desert came stewed plums from the tree in the vegetable garden with a dressing of cream.

He disengaged the haddock from the boy’s hand and tossed it away up the alley to await some marauding cat and led the boy across the road to a small café which displayed a board on which was announced boldly:

Plat du Jour—Choucroute Garnie
6 Francs.

He took the boy inside and ordered him the meal of the day, and no word was spoken until the proprietor brought the steaming plate of cabbage and sausage.

… the soup plates were removed by the imperturbable Jean and Mr. Finchley found himself with a plateful of crisp, beautifully fried potatoes. For a time he left these on his plate, listening to the rattle of talk, waiting for the fish or meat which would accompany them. Then he noticed that no one else was allowing conversation to interrupt their eating, so he ate his potatoes. … and Mr. Finchley recovered himself to find a helping of braised cod on his plate and his potatoes gone. He applied himself to the fish, … Mr. Finchley laughed and turned resolutely to the helping of leeks in lukewarm oil which had been placed on his plate, the same plate he had used for fish, … “Have some of this chicory and endive salad. You’ll like it.” … He was glad to see the coffee served, though its excellence was lost upon him …

"I always say that sausages is delicate things. Most people will try to go cooking them in a rush and bustin’ their jackets, but not Grace—she’s got a proper sausage touch, and that’s a compliment coming from a butcher."

Grace and her mother had conspired for a long time over the supper. It was a strategic meal in many ways and Grace wanted nothing wrong. There was an enormous tongue-and-veal pie studded with half-eggs—this the present of Mr. Pilchard—a ham, a dish of cold sausages and a bowl of salad, a plain English salad; and about the table stood a bottle of sweet pickle, mayonnaise cream and all the other touches which complete the joy of a cold supper on a summer night.

He was eating kippers and reading The Times obituary notices.
"Too early for a formal call," he said, looking at them over his paper. "What do you want?"
"The kipper smells good," Helen wrinkled her nose.
"Shall I ask Marie to bring some more?"
"No, we'll enjoy the smell. It's almost the best part of a kipper."

For half an hour they ate steadily and vigorously, their teeth champing noisily over the victuals, their mouths working with a quick, regular rhythm that was satisfying to behold. It was a meal for workers, cold beef, ham, meat pies, pickles, cold potatoes, tomatoes, hog’s puddings, black puddings, stewed fruit and cream, mince pies, jam tarts, thick home-made cake, new bread and glasses of cider, beer and lemonade.

I was there a month, a month of nothing but kippers and water. Kippers fried, kippers boiled, kippers baked in coconut leaves, kippers grilled, and even kippers raw, but I never got tired of ’em, and when I got taken off by a small trading schooner the captain he was Dutch had a native girl on board as wife and cook and she dished me up with kippers for me first meal. And I ate ’em. Never troubled me—except that from that day I’ve always had a most tremendous thirst, never got rid of it since.” He turned the kipper and reached to the side of the fireplace where a bottle of beer was standing.

Mr. Finchley … listened to the recipe for Poorman’s Pie. You sliced up potatoes, onions, carrots, turnips, and any other vegetables you could lay hands on, put them into a buttered dish, covered them with a piecrust and baked the pie.
“No meat, but that’s why it’s called poor man’s pie, and all the essential juices of the vegetables are retained. It takes a long time to cook and must be done slowly. I could eat one now. I’m very particular about food. I wouldn’t give a tuppenny toss for fancy stuff. You know, soufflés and exotic wines and the mucked-up dishes that Frenchmen make. No, what I like is simple fare, properly prepared and presented. Roast pork now. That’s simple enough. Roast pork, apple sauce, brussel sprouts, and baked potatoes—properly cooked, I defy any French chef to produce a dish to equal it in satisfaction. Have you ever thought much about baked parsnips?”
“I can’t say that I have,” admitted Mr. Finchley, a little disconcerted by Tom Marshall’s eager interest in food.
“You should do. If they’re very well baked they’re almost like sweetmeats. They change completely. Yes, the simple things I like. If I was a poet, which I’m not—though if being hungry is one of the qualifications I’m qualified that far—I wouldn’t waste my genius on singing the beauties of flowers and fair women. No, sir! God gave us other gifts. I’d sing about cabbages and cauliflowers, about sprouting broccoli and even the humble turnip top. And leeks—”
Marshall was silent for a moment as he contemplated leeks.
“There’s a majesty about leeks, a dignity when they’re growing and a glory when they’re cooked. Green and white, green passing into white like night sliding into day … Ha, leeks. I could eat a plateful now, braised in butter and with just a touch of cayenne …” He was silent for a while, but Mr. Finchley could guess that his thoughts were full of food.
This man who sat by him in the darkness and talked of food sounded a little unusual, but Mr. Finchley had the wisdom to see that he was no better or worse than other men who have their day-dreams. Some men think only of adding to their wealth, others in dreams travel the world, some cheer their dull days with thoughts of backing a winner at a fine price and some of unexpected inheritances. These are all dreams and longings which help to exclude the present, the nagging, unpleasant present. Tom Marshall thought of food, good and plentiful food, probably because he seldom had anything like as much food as he wanted.
“It’s Sunday tomorrow,” said Mr. Finchley suddenly. “Back in my caravan I’ve got a leg of mutton and fresh vegetables—I was going to cook them and have a real Sunday lunch.

Mr. Finchley put all his art and instinctive skill into that lunch. It began with a soup. Tinned julienne soup. Then followed lamb cutlets, three for Marshall and two for Mr. Finchley. With the cutlets were new potatoes, succulent and the colour of old ivory, and fried tomatoes. How Mr. Finchley manipulated all the dishes on his one primus he afterwards could not remember. He only knew that he worked like a trojan, warming plates, keeping the dishes hot and manoeuvring things so that it should all come to the table fresh and appetising. With the soup and meat they drank cider, rough cider which he had stopped at the pub to buy, and then, after they had cleared up a tin of peaches and a shillingsworth of raw cream, he brought the meal to a triumphant climax by producing coffee, cigarettes and, the crown of all, a glass of brandy each from the store which his wife had laid in for medicinal purposes.

Inside the house Mr. Finchley, Robert and the three men were eating. They had made a table from the packing-cases and they were all tucking into the food appreciatively. There was corned beef, pickles, vegetable salad, new bread, cheese and a large bowl of tinned peaches. Cutlery, china and food came from the caravan.
Turk poured thick tinned milk over his peaches and raised his head.

PROFESSOR: For close on fifty years I’ve been eating sardines, but it was only yesterday that I discovered I really don’t like them and never have liked them. It suddenly came upon me as I looked at them that they were revolting. You see—for fifty years I had accepted sardines as a fact. It was only yesterday that I examined them logically for the first time—and found them revolting. If a man could live long enough he would end up by discovering that all things are revolting.

PROFESSOR: He eats most interestingly. With soup he’s comparatively restrained. There isn’t a great deal of opportunity for muscular action with soup. But a tough piece of meat reveals the master. For him eating is not only a pleasure, it’s exercise.

Anton knew more about food than perhaps any other man in the world, and when I ordered an omelette Baron de Barante, then saddle of lamb and a bottle of Musigny, I looked to him for approval. There was only misery in his eyes and he sighed like a wind tunnel. Then for himself he ordered a bowl of clear soup and some toast.

At the next table along the terrace sat a Polish professor, an authority on viniculture who, each time the waiter placed a carafe on his table, grunted and scowled at the wine like a magistrate recognising a hardened offender with whom he had had trouble before.

I found eggs and bacon and cooked myself supper, and I did myself fried bread of a crispness unknown to any prison cook. … Close at hand was the whisky bottle and a glass. It was Glenlivet—Ross-Piper seldom drank any other—and I paid it the compliment of taking it slowly.

What, I wondered, would the Wine and Food Society, or Monsieur Brillat-Savarin have recommended as the right meal to mark the end of a two-year prison diet? I had an omelette du Baron de Barante, full of pieces of fresh cèpes and shredded shrimps, then saddle of lamb with a bottle of Musigny, and finished off with a piece of Camembert, which was at the right stage of deliquescence, and coffee.

… I walked in through the kitchen where Mrs. Meld was cooking kippers for her husband's supper.
"Evening, Mr. Carver. Off somewhere?"
"A whiff of sea air, Mrs. Meld," I said. "The fancy just took me."
"And why not, seeing as you're single and fancy free. Have a kipper first."
"Not tonight."
… If only I'd know then that I would have been a happier man if I'd stayed and shared Mrs. Meld's kippers.

She drank two large martinis, and then we had smoked salmon and sole Normande; then she had a large Neapolitan ice, while I waited for coffee and drank the last of the bottle of Le Montrachet 1958, which was one of the dearest Burgundies they had on their list. It was Stebelson’s money, anyway.

I decanted a bottle of Chateau Latour and smacked out a steak wafer-thin for the Diane. There were a dozen roses in a brass bowl on the table and my best wine glasses. … I had it all planned: a few drinks, a few easy records, and summer evening talk while I did the steak Diane, and then, after we’d eaten, some honest talking. I was as happy as a sandboy at the prospect of seeing her again. Wilkins should have seen me. I liked cooking, too—when I could keep it simple and well out of the Robert Carrier class.

We had avocado pears, Scotch salmon with a cucumber salad, and a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse to go with it, then Cona coffee and a glass of Remy Martin.

Over the leather-bound menu, the two began a technical conference on what Billings should eat. He ordered quiche Lorraine, and a half bottle of Zeltinger Schlossberg to go with it; mignon de sole Gondolière, and then selle de mouton with a bottle of Chateau Lafite which he wanted decanted now, and he would be in the gaming room for an hour before he dined.

Three times a year I took her out. Always to Quaglino’s, which was her idea of heaven—and I suppose there are worse ideas. Always one sweet sherry before dinner. Always smoked salmon, sole, one glass of Chablis, peach melba, then a dance, then coffee, and after that a taxi to Charing Cross so that she could be back in Greenwhich by eleven in time to get the old man’s bedtime cocoa.

“The real difference between the French and the Portuguese sardine,” he was saying, “is in the preparation before canning. The French always oven-grill theirs in olive oil before canning. The Portuguese just steam-cook theirs and then pack ’em in oil. There’s no doubt about the superiority of the French. They use a lighter type of olive oil, too. This old boy I knew in Fleet Street had a vintage sardine cellar. Laid ’em down in cases. Turned the cases over every six months to get an even spread of oil. Nineteen fifty-nine was the great vintage year. And of ’em all, the French Rodel sardine is the king. Costs you something like eight bob for a tin. Marie Elizabeth, that’s Portuguese, costs less than two bob. Main thing is, there isn’t a sardine fit to eat unless it’s been in the can for at least twelve months.”

She said, ‘… You’d do better with your sister in Honiton. You’d eat free.’
‘It’s a point. Devonshire cream and cider, great rashers of bacon, fried eggs, chitterlings, black puddings, roast pork, boiled beef and dumplings … Yes, I need feeding up.’

I had promised myself that I would eat at the Auberge du Père Bise along the quay and I didn’t want to spoil my gratin de queues d’écrevisses. … The écrevisses were delicious. So was the omble chevalier poché beurre blanc which followed them—and although ombles are part of the great Salmonidae family, I didn’t think of O’Dowda once.

‘... You have company?’
I said, ‘She’s just served me with poulet sauté aux olives de Provence.’
He said, ‘Did she serve the chicken on top of the hot sauce, or pour it over the bird?’
‘On top.’
‘Treasure her.’

‘... We shall all be happy.’
‘Except Miss Julia,’ I said. ‘If you keep me on the line after she brings in the omelette soufflée aux liqueurs, which she is now making.’
He gave a deep sigh, and said. ‘In the village of Inxent in northern France there is an inn where they make it perfectly. If she does not bring it to the table frothing and on the point of spilling over the dish, do not marry her.’
It came to the table, as he had said it should, filling the room with the aroma of fresh eggs, sizzling butter and the warm, heartening smell of liqueurs. There were many times in the next two weeks when I knew that I would marry her, and then there were days when I wasn’t sure, and in the end I agreed with Meredith, Kissing don’t last: cookery do! But who wants to spend his life just eating?

He finished his sherry quickly and helped himself to another. I finished mine and went over and helped myself. It was good sherry, a warm, flexible-bodied Amontillado and all the more delicious after three years of abstinence. Not that I’m a steady drinking man and had missed it. But it was before me now, and suddenly I wanted more of it.

Among many other things there was a pair of fresh Torbay soles in the refrigerator and some packets of frozen spinach, so while Sarah was bathing I made the basis of a sole Florentine, just leaving myself the sauce mornay to do when we should be ready for it.

She lit a cigarette, relaxed, and took a sip of the Grand Marnier. Take that, for instance. She knew now how to select and order things. Names which not long ago had meant nothing to her. Grand Marnier, Cointreau, Drambuie, and white wine with fish, red with meat, sole bonne femme and tournedos Rossini.

They dined well by candlelight in a room where time-darkened oil paintings of past Chickleys looked down on them. The food was excellent for Mrs Paget was a first-class cook. They had an excellent bottle of Meursault-Charmes with their Dover sole, almost the whole of a bottle of Château Latour 1965 with their roast leg of lamb and some glasses of excellent port before moving to the terrace for coffee and liqueurs.

For the first time in his life—for not even in his old master’s house had this happened to him—Baradoc ate in Roman fashion, reclining on one of the three sloping couches set around the low table and waited on by the steward. Although Truvius showed little hunger, shifting often, too, in discomfort from his rheumatism on his couch, he and Tia did full justice to the stuffed olives and preserved plovers’ eggs, the cold lobster—which had been brought upriver from Abonae [Bristol]—and the young broad beans and carrots, followed by slices of grilled venison, their appetite lasting right through to the dessert of dried figs and walnuts. Throughout the meal the steward hovered round, refilling their wine glasses, bringing fresh napkins and water bowls for them to clean their hands.

He brought her a salad of young lettuce hearts and green peppers and a cheese omelette which she found herself eating with relish. It was with some first small surprise that she found herself reaching without any reservations lingering from the past for the glass of dry white wine which he poured for her.
She said, “You’re a very good cook, and also very kind.”
He shrugged his shoulders, pleased with the compliment and said, “Well, the first is a sort of professional thing. I used to run a ristorante on the coast down here. Went bust though—good cooking isn’t all. You’ve got to have good management with it, and I’m a lousy manager.”

'There’s a little restaurant in Monchique. ... Come on, now. Go and get your best bib and tucker on. They do a marvellous lobster flambé with aguardente de medronho …’

Half an hour after their return Dolly telephoned Branton from Cheltenham to say that, after a succcessful afternoon’s shopping, they had decided to have an early dinner in Cheltenham and then they were going to the theatre as a treat for Sarah. She was sure that the two of them were perfectly capable of looking after their own evening meal. Which they were. They made a fryup of eggs and bacon and sausages which they ate with a bottle of an anonymous Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and then retired to the study to deal with the already decanted Croft’s 1955.

Though not a Cordon bleu cook, but an enthusiastic one, Quint was careful to keep the meals he served to guests simple. … So, there was avocado pear for what some people disgustingly called ‘starters’, celery rolled in ham with a cheese sauce for the main dish—with a Petit Chablis from the Wine Society and, not unsurprisingly, very good—and then fresh peaches trempé in brandy. A simple little meal well within the capabilities of himself and his tiny flat kitchen. The whole costing him—for he was careful of money—less than a third of the amount which would have been charged him at even a normally decent West End restaurant. Vivat home-cooking, good home-cooking, he said to himself as he began to make the roux for the cheese sauce with a kitchen glass of the lunch Chablis at his side.

Because he had that kind of memory, he could recall exactly the details of the meal he had last served to her father in this flat—two days before he was taken up, and knowing perfectly well that it was going to happen and too sensible to try and avoid it. Details hung like sleeping bats in the great vault of his memory. An amber-clear julienne, a fillet steak and fresh peas, and strawberry ice cream with fresh Devonshire cream—this last a concession to his guest who, as well as being very stupid for an intelligent man, had a sweet tooth. No wine—since his guest did not drink it. Just a glass of Perrier water which he drank too out of politeness.

“I had lunch today at the Savoy with Grandison and Felbeck. Arranged, of course. I’d only met Felbeck once before. It was felt that I should come a little closer. Boiled turbot with a Scharzhofberger and then saddle of mutton with a Chateau Léoville, this last ‘A shapely filly out of Scharzberg Flint by Phoebus Apollo; the sire passionate; the dame highly bred but so cold.’ ”
Quint grinned. “Only one man could ever have said that. Dear André Simon?”

When Quint had telephoned Kerslake that day to recall him to London, he had also invited him, no matter how late he got back, to come to dinner. An invitation in view of the ‘no matter how late’ Kerslake had interpreted as an order. But it was one which he was glad to accept and obey, one because he liked and respected Quint and was over-indebted to him, and two because it would save him from the bleak foraging with eggs and bacon and baked beans in his own flat or the bleaker interval of a service station meal on the motor-way.
Sitting now with brandy before them, and behind them a fresh salmon mousse and then fillets of sole à la panetière followed by dry biscuits and Camembert cheese, the whole accompanied by a bottle of Chablis, Quint said, “Well, all that was very enjoyable, though I say it myself.

Quint, peering into his little oven to watch the cheese sauce over the dish of ham and celery hearts turning a golden brown, a glass of Chablis in one hand, said, “You’ve got what you wanted for your father, done some good work, I gather, in Herefordshire—your drawings I mean.