“Yes, sir; the cook knows—I’ll tell him it is for you.”
“But how is it you never vary your supper bill of fare? it is very scanty of choice for such a large tavern as this. I do not mean to complain, but give a little change now and then, by introducing a few new dishes.”
“Ah! you’re right, sir; it would please the customers, and be much better for us waiters, to have something new to offer; but, bless you, sir! I have been many years in this place, and it was always the same; and no doubt will remain so for as long again, unless a gentleman like you takes it in hand—they would then attend to it; but, of course, you have something else to do.”
“So I have; yet I don’t see why, in my next book upon cookery, I should not devote a few pages to the London suppers. I intend doing so, and, when published, I shall be happy to present you with a copy.”
“That will be first-rate, sir; I thank you, and wont I recommend the new dishes à la Soyer, as some of our customers call them!”
“Well, my man, upon second thoughts, as you seem so anxious about it, and I am not going to join my friends, give me a pen and ink, and while supper is preparing, I will write a few practical receipts, which can be easily introduced without interfering with your duty or the kitchen; they will, no doubt, prove agreeable to your customers, who are in general a class of bon vivants, fond of good things as well as of variety in the bill of fare.”
“Here is the pen, paper, and ink, sir.”
“Thank you; come again in about twenty minutes, and they shall be ready; or, if you are not in a hurry, stay.”
“No, sir, I am not; our supper business is over.”
“Well, now listen: first, I do not intend to criticise your bill of fare, which is as much varied, if not more so, than that offered at other large taverns, and it is quite as well executed. Now, respecting kidneys—you consume a large quantity of them?”
“So we do, sir.”
“Then I will give you a receipt or two for dressing them:—
No. 1.—Take two kidneys, split them lengthways as close to the sinew as possible without parting them; remove the thin skin, lay them flat upon the table, and season rather highly with salt and pepper; then run them crossways upon a wooden, metal, or silver skewer, forcing the sinew upwards; this will prevent their curling up again while cooking. Next dip them in some well-beaten eggs, to which you have added about a table-spoonful of dissolved butter; or rub them over with a paste-brush, which will do it more equally; roll them in fine bread-crumbs, and slightly beat them on both sides with the flat of your knife to cause the ‘crumbs to stick to the kidneys. Put them upon the gridiron, over a sharp fire, at a proper distance; they will require from five to eight minutes doing, according to size.
For the uninitiated, the following plan is the best to ascertain when they are properly done. Press with the prongs of a fork or the point of the knife upon the thick part of the kidney; if done through, it will feel firm and elastic to the touch. When the kidneys are done, slip them off the skewer on to a hot dish, and place in each a piece of butter, à la maître d’hôtel, about the size of a small walnut; send to table, and by the time it reaches the guest, the butter will be half melted; quite so when the kidney is cut by the customer, who, by turning the pieces and blending the butter with the gravy, will make a rich sauce, and partake of a delicious as well as a wholesome dish.
“Partaking of overdone kidneys at night is the forerunner of the nightmare.”
“You’re right, sir; that it is,” said Little Jack; “for at times we have some left, and keep them warm for supper; and they get as tough as pieces of leather, when after eating three or four—and I am always very tired at night—I never can sleep. Now I think of it, the tough kidneys must be the cause; and if I do sleep, Mr. Soyer, I have such awful dreams that I feel more fatigued when I rise than when I go to bed.”
“Of course,” I replied, “I am well aware of that; they cannot digest; therefore, you see the importance of having them properly done.”
“Very much so indeed; I quite understand it now, and perceive that if they cannot at all times be done to perfection, underdone is much preferable to overdone. I perfectly understand you, sir; but you see we require such a quantity.”
“Well, I have only given you the receipt for two. I will now, if you like, give you the receipt for a hundred.”
“Do, sir; that will suit us better.”
“I suppose they are most in request for supper?”
“Indeed they are, sir.”
“Then, in the course of the day, the cook should prepare a hundred precisely as the first—viz., ready for cooking. They should be put upon skewers, two, three, or four in a row; so that, when called for, he has only to remove them from the larder to the gridiron. About two pounds of butter à la maître d’hôtel should be prepared and kept in a cool place to be ready when required. By following this plan, you could easily cook several hundred during the evening, if called for. Should any remain unsold, they will keep till the next day, and will only require rolling in the crumbs again previous to broiling.”
“I see, sir; it will save a great deal of time by having them prepared beforehand.”
“But suppose you had none prepared beforehand, a dozen can soon be got ready by an active cook. The addition of the dissolved butter to the eggs keeps the kidneys fresh and moist, and inserting them upon the skewer retains them flat, and they are cooked more regularly in half the time; while without the skewer they curl up, and are frequently underdone on one side and cooked too much on the other.”
“I plainly understand what you mean.”
“These details upon the same subject are perhaps tedious to you.”
“Not at all, sir; I see the importance of them.”
“Well, the other receipts will come quite plain and easy to you. To tell the truth, I have had those overdone kidneys upon my conscience for some time. Mind, I do not intend to erase the plain broiled kidneys from the supper bill of fare, for I am very fond of them when properly cooked.”
“They are very good; and many gentlemen will not have them any other way.”
“Well, I do not blame them, for they are both agreeable and nutritious that way; but here is another appetizing receipt, which we will call à la Roberto Diavolo.”
No. 2.—Put two plain kidneys upon a skewer, and with a paste-brush butter them over. Set them upon the gridiron as near the fire as possible, for they cannot be done too fast; turn them every minute, and when half done season with salt, pepper, and a small spoonful of cayenne; chop some gherkins and a little green chillies, if handy; or, instead of either, a table-spoonful of chopped picolilli with the liquor. Put these on a hot plate, with a tea-spoonful of lemon-juice and a pat of butter. Take up the kidneys, and slip them burning hot from the skewer to the plate; turn them round four or five times in the mixture, and serve immediately. A small piece of glaze added to the butter will prove a great addition. Three, four, or five minutes will do them, according to the size.
Kidneys à la brochette, Paris fashion.
The
