PREFACE.
THE Author of this work begs to inform his readers that his principal object in producing his “Culinary Campaign” is to perpetuate the successful efforts made by him to improve the dieting of the Hospitals of the British army in the East, as well as the soldiers’ rations in the Camp before Sebastopol.
The literary portion the Author has dished up to the best of his ability; and if any of his readers do not relish its historical contents, he trusts that the many new and valuable receipts, applicable to the Army, Navy, Military and Civil Institutions, and the public in general, will make up in succulence for any literary deficiencies that may be found in its pages.
At the same time, the Author takes this opportunity of publicly returning his most grateful thanks to the late authorities at the seat of war for their universal courtesy, friendship, and great assistance, without which success would have been an impossibility.
ERRATA.
In page 6, for “Little Jack,” read “Little Ben.”
Page 32, line 12, for “I think,” read “She thinks.”
INTRODUCTION.
A SUPPER AT THE “ALBION,” AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Old Drury—Juvenile mirth—A sudden arrest—An invitation—No excuse—Getting home—Mind your pockets—A trip to the “Wellington”—An intelligent waiter—Reading the news—A sudden inspiration—Letter to the Times—The stupid waiter again—Little Jack—Supper fare—Receipts—Tough kidneys—How to cook them—Kidneys à la Roberto Diavolo—Kidneys à la brochette—New bill of fare for London Suppers.
“Hurrah! hurrah! bravo! bravo!” For a few minutes rounds of applause and shouts of laughter from the juveniles were heard and loudly re-echoed throughout the vast cupola of Old Drury, sending home the delighted spectators, in fits of sneezing and coughing, through a variegated atmosphere. Sir Henry W——, turning to me, exclaimed, “Hallo, Mr. Soyer, the pantomime is over early this evening!” and looking at his watch, continued, “Why, it is only half-past eleven o’clock.”
“Yes, Sir Henry; but quite late enough for children, who after this time begin to mingle gaping with laughter.”
“True enough,” replied Sir Henry; “it is painful to see those dear cherubs kept at the theatre till midnight, or even later. Have you been long here?”
“No,” I replied, “only a few minutes; just time enough to witness the grand finale, and to hear the screaming and laughter of the children, which to me is always very amusing.”
“Very true, very true; I am of your opinion, and never tire of children’s mirth.”
In a few minutes the theatre was nearly emptied of spectators, but still full of smoke. Considering myself that evening as free as a butterfly on a spring morning, though unable, like that light-hearted insect, to flit from flower to flower, I was trying to escape, with the swiftness of an eel, down the gigantic and crowded staircase, hoping to get off unobserved, as I had to start early in the morning for the country, when suddenly a friendly hand pressed me forcibly by the arm. The owner of the same cried, “Stop! stop! my friend; I have been hunting all over the theatre for you.” I at once recognised an old Devonshire acquaintance, whom I was indeed much pleased to see, having received a most kind reception from him at my last visit to that delightful county—so justly named the garden of England.
“Well, my dear sir,” said he, “myself and several acquaintances of yours are here for a few days, and have ordered a supper this evening at the ‘Albion.’ We heard you were at Drury Lane, and I have come to ask you to join us.”
“I must say it is very kind of you, Mr. Turner; but you must excuse me, as I am going as far as St. James’s-street, by appointment; besides, I leave for the country early to-morrow morning. But I shall be happy to spend to-morrow evening with you and your friends; therefore, I beg you will apologise for me.”
“To-morrow very likely we shall be off again; we only came for a couple of days, to breathe the London air, and then return.”
“I beg your pardon—you mean London fog, not air.”
“Why, yes, fog should be the word; but for all that, I love London in any season; so no excuse—I shall not leave you; you must join us, or your friend the squire will be greatly disappointed. He came from the Great Western Hotel this evening on purpose to see you.”
Finding it almost impossible to get out of it, and my friend having promised we should break up early, I accepted, saying, “You must allow me to go as far as the ‘Wellington,’ as I have an appointment there; I will be back in about half-an-hour.”
My incredulous country friend would not grant permission till I had assured him that I would faithfully keep my promise, and return.
This dialogue took place in the entrance of the vestibule, where a number of ladies and children were waiting—some for their carriages and broughams, others for those public inconveniences called cabs. This bevy of beauty and group of children, the pride of young England, seemed to interest my provincial friend so much, that I had some trouble to get him out. It was then nearly twelve o’clock. The front steps were also crowded; the weather was chilly and damp; a thick yellowish fog, properly mixed with a good portion of soot, formed a shower of black pearls, which, gracefully descending through the murky air, alighted, without asking permission, upon the rosy cheeks of unveiled fair dames, spotting their visages, if not à la Pompadour or à la Watteau, at least à la Hogarth. A few steps lower we entered a dense crowd—a most unpicturesque miscellany of individuals, unclassically called, the London mob. “Mind your pockets,” said I to my country friend.
“By Jove, it’s too late,” said he, feeling in his pocket—“my handkerchief is gone!”
“Is that all?” I inquired.
“Well, let me see,” he observed, feeling again: “yes, thank God! my watch and purse are quite safe.”
“Ah,” I continued, laughing, “the old adage which prompts us to thank God for all things is quite correct; for you are actually thanking Him for the loss of your handkerchief.”
“Not at all,” he replied; “I was thanking Him for the safety of my watch and purse.” After a hearty laugh we parted, he going to the “Albion,” and I to the “Wellington.”
On my arrival there, I found that my friend had been and was gone. My intelligent cabby soon brought me back through the dense atmosphere to that far-famed temple of Comus, at which crowds of celebrities meet nightly—some to restore themselves internally, others to sharpen their wits at that tantalising abode of good cheer. Upon entering, I inquired of a waiter, a stranger to me, if he could inform me where my six friends intended to sup.
“Yes, sir, directly.” Speaking down the trumpet: “Below! a Welsh rabbit and fresh toast—two kidneys underdone—scalloped oyster—a