To us Bohemianism means the naturalism of refined people.

That it may be protected from vulgarians Society prescribes conventional rules and regulations, which, like morals, change with environment.

Bohemianism is the protest of naturalism against the too rigid, and, oft-times, absurd restrictions established by Society.

The Bohemian requires no prescribed rules, for his or her innate gentility prevents those things Society guards against. In Bohemia men and women mingle in good fellowship and camaraderie without finding the sex question a necessary topic of conversation. They do not find it necessary to push exhilaration to intoxication; to increase their animation to boisterousness. Their lack of conventionality does not tend to boorishness.

Some of the most enjoyable Bohemian affairs we know of have been full dress gatherings, carefully planned and delightfully carried out; others have been impromptu, neither the hour, the place, nor the dress being taken into consideration.

The unrefined get everywhere, even into the drawing rooms of royalty, consequently we must expect to meet them in Bohemia. But the true Bohemian has a way of forgetting to meet obnoxious personages and, as a rule, is more choice in the selection of associates than the vaunted “400.” With the Bohemian but one thing counts: Fitness. Money, position, personal appearance and even brains are of no avail if there be the bar sinister—unfit.

In a restaurant, one evening, a number of men and women were seated conspicuously at a table in the center of the room. Flowing neckties such as are affected by Parisian art students were worn by the men; all were coa

Paris – The original land of bohemia.

rse, loud and much in evidence. They not only attracted attention by their loudness and outre actions, but they called notice by pelting other diners with missiles of bread. To us they were the last word in vulgarity, but to a young woman who had come to the place because she had heard it was “so Bohemian” they were ideal, and she remarked to her companion:

“I do so love to associate with real Bohemians like these. Can’t we get acquainted with them?”

“Sure,” was the response. “All we have to do is to buy them a drink.”

In San Francisco there are Bohemians and Near-Bohemians, and if you are like the young woman mentioned you are apt to miss the real and take the imitation for the genuine article.

We mean no derogation of San Francisco’s restaurants when we say that San Francisco’s highest form of Bohemianism is rarely in evidence in restaurants. We have enjoyed wonderful Bohemian dinners in restaurants, but the other diners were not aware of it. Some far more interesting gatherings have been in the rooms of Bohemian friends. Not always is it the artistic combination of famous chef that brings greatest delight, for we have as frequently had pleasure over a supper of some simple dish in the attic room of a good friend.

This brings us to the crux of Bohemianism. It depends so little on environment that it means nothing, and so much on companionship that it means all.

To achieve a comprehensive idea of San Francisco’s Bohemianism let us divide its history into five eras. First we have the old Spanish days—the days “before the Gringo came.” Then reigned conviviality held within most discreet bounds of convention, and it would be a misnomer, indeed, to call the pre-pioneer days of San Francisco “Bohemian” in any sense of the word.

Courtesy unfailing, good-fellowship always in tune, and lavish hospitality, marked the days of the Dons—those wonderfully considerate hosts who always placed a pile of gold and silver coins on the table of the guest chamber, in order that none might go away in need. Their feasts were events of careful consideration and long preparation, and those whose memories carry them back to the early days, recall bounteous loading of tables when festal occasion called for display.

Lips linger lovingly over such names as the Vallejos, the Picos, and those other Spanish families who spread their hospitality with such wondrous prodigality that their open welcome became a by-word in all parts of the West.

But it was not in the grand fiestas that the finest and most palatable dishes were to be found. In the family of each of these Spanish Grandees were culinary secrets known to none except the “Senora de la Casa,” and transmitted by her to her sons and daughters.

Most married dames would have been content, if they wished to dine at a restaurant on the occasion of their birthday, with one dinner; but Mrs. Daffodil—if I may so call her, from her favourite flower—insisted on having a dinner out on Saturday, and another on Sunday, and another on Monday, because, though her twenty-first birthday really fell on Saturday, she was going to keep it on Monday, when a great party of her husband’s people were to meet at the Savoy, and on Sunday her people were organising a feast at the Berkley; but Mrs. Daffodil said that unless she dined out on the evening of her real birthday she was sure she would have no luck during the coming year, and I was told that I was to have the privilege of being the third at the little dinner which was to be the veritable birthday dinner, and that, as a return for this great favour, I was to order the dinner and choose the restaurant.

I was too wise to take the full responsibility of anything so important, and in a council of three we ran down the list of dining places. Of those we paused over in consideration, the Princes’ Hall was the nearest to Mrs. Daffodil’s flat, and the little lady remembered that she had not dined there this year, and suddenly decided that it was the very place for a birthday dinner; and should she wear her new white dress, or would the black dress with the handsome bit of lace suit her better? Her husband looked a little helpless at the mention of dress, and I at a venture suggested the black, for I remembered that the roof of the grand salon of the Princes’, with its heavy mouldings, was white picked out with gold, while the great panels of brick red, powdered with golden fleurs-de-lys and the palms filling-in the corners, would show up a black dress just as well as a white one.
Black it was to be, and, this important matter decided, I was sent off as an advance messenger in a hansom cab to order the best table available and a dinner, not too elaborate and not too small, which was to be ready by the time little Mrs. Daffodil had dressed and could drive down to the restaurant in her brougham.

My hansom was a fleet one. A party of guests at one of the tables by the windows, evidently bound for a theatre, had finished their dinner and were just off and away as I arrived, and I pounced like a hawk upon the table they left vacant. The first preliminaries were soon over, for the little dapper maître d’hôtel, whom I had known in previous days at the East Room of the Criterion, had the table cleared at once, found some yellow flowers which, if they were not daffodils, were very like them, and had big bouquets of them put upon the table. Then came the important question of the dinner. Hors-d’œuvre variés, suggested the little maître d’hôtel; but I moved as an amendment that it should be caviar, for the caviar at the Princes’ is Benoist’s, and no man imports better. “Turtle,” suggested the maître d’hôtel, a little doubtfully, after being defeated in his first venture, and as I passed the suggestion with a nod potage tortue went down on the slip of paper. Mrs. Daffodil had made a suggestion as to salmon which she withdrew as soon as made, but I had remembered it, and saumon à la Grenobloise was scribbled down. “Now,” said the maître d’hôtel a little decisively, “since the soup and the fish are brown, we must have a white entrée,” and as I was not prepared at the moment with any practical suggestion, having thought of noisettes de mouton and a woodcock as the rest of the solid part of the dinner, I allowed the proposal to go by default, and fricassée de poulet à l’Ancienne was ordered. “A tiny saddle of lamb?” was the next suggestion, and although I regretted my prospective woodcock I let the matter go, for we had a bird already in the menu. “Pommes nouvelles risolées. Salade de mâche, céleri, betterave. Asperges anglaises,” reeled off my mentor, and I nodded at the mention of the English asparagus; and then to show that I was going to have a word in the ordering of the dinner I added macédoine de fruits à l’orientale and friandises without requiring any prompting.

I waited in the bright, French-looking entrance hall, with its mirrors and screens decorated with painted flowers, and watched the people coming in and going out. A party of smart young men from the Stock Exchange, most of whom I knew, on their way to a row of stalls they had taken at the Gaiety, passed and chaffed me for my waiting; but the sound of the band within in the great white railed-in musicians’ gallery was cheerful—and an excellent band it is, each artist in it being a soloist of some celebrity—and presently M. Fourault, the manager, who is the brother-in-law of M. Benoist, came out and talked to me, saying that M. Azema, the chef, was personally superintending the cooking of the dinner, to which I replied that I was much obliged that the great artist from the Café Anglais should have paid me the compliment. Then M. Fourault launched forth into details of the service and the building: how the dishes are brought direct to the guests by hand so as to avoid the chance of draughts in lifts; of the beauty of the kitchen; the arrangements to keep in touch with and co-operate with the Royal Institute on the top floor, and a variety of other topics. And as he talked Signor Bocchi’s band inside was softly playing, and I was growing hungry waiting for little Mrs. Daffodil, for I knew that it would not be her husband who caused the delay.

The brougham drew up before the glass portico with its brass ornamentations, and Mrs. Daffodil in the wonderful black dress was helped out. She would bring her ermine cape in with her, she thought; and having arrived at the table smiled graciously at seeing her name-flowers there. I explained that the table by the door protected by the glass screens was my favourite one, and that I should have taken it if possible, but that it had been engaged for days, and Mrs. Daffodil was pleased to think the one we had obtained was quite as nice. Didn’t she think the room, with its big panels, its few long mirrors, its clusters of electric lights and electric candles on the tables, and its musicians’ gallery over the entrance to the offices and kitchen, very handsome? I asked. And as she helped herself to the caviar, each little ball as separate as if they had been pellets of shot, she assented; but to show that she was critical, thought there ought to have been more palms. Then the little lady took up the questioning, and wanted to know who everybody was who was dining. I was able to point out a well-known artist taking a quiet meal with his wife, who at one time was an ornament of the comedy-stage; a party of soldier officers up from Aldershot (and I had a story of the gallantry of one of them, and how he should have won by right a Victoria Cross); an ex-Gaiety girl who was the heroine of a breach of promise case, and who had at the table she occupied quite a crowd of gilded youths; a youngster whose good looks have won him a very rich but not too young wife—and there I had to pause, for though the room was full of well-dressed, smart-looking people, I knew no more of them by name.

I was reproved for not knowing my London better, and tried to turn the conversation by telling my host that I would sooner share the burgundy with him than drink the champagne which Mrs. Daffodil thought a necessary part of her birthday dinner, but at that moment, the soup being brought, we all relapsed into serious criticism. The turtle soup was good undoubtedly, as good as at any City dinner, with its jade-coloured semi-solid floating in the darker liquor, and we praised that unreservedly, but I was told that I was in a carping mood because I stated that I like my salmon as plainly cooked as possible. As to the fricassée, I liked it immensely; but Mrs. Daffodil, because her shoe pinched, or for some other good reason, said that she hated truffles. The lamb, the most delicate little selle d’agneau de lait, with the potatoes and the dark green salad relieved by the crimson of the beetroot, was admirable. English asparagus never can be anything but good, and though my hostess insisted on my eating a cherry from among the friandises, I left the sweets, as is my custom, alone.

It was in Paris that a world traveler said to us:

“San Francisco! That wonderful city where you get the best there is to eat, served in a manner that enhances its flavor and establishes it forever in your memory.”

Were one to write of San Francisco and omit mention of its gustatory delights the whole world would protest, for in San Francisco eating is an art and cooking a science, and he who knows not what San Francisco provides knows neither art nor science.

Here have congregated the world’s greatest chefs, and when one exclaims in ecstasy over a wonderful flavor found in some dingy restaurant, let him not be surprised if he learn that the chef who concocted the dish boasts royal decoration for tickling the palate of some epicurean ruler of foreign land.

And why should San Francisco have achieved this distinction in the minds of the gourmets?

Do not other cities have equally as good chefs, and do not the people of other cities have equally as fine gastronomic taste?

They have all this but with them is lacking “atmosphere.”

Where do we find such romanticism as in San Francisco? Where do we find so many strange characters and happenings? All lending almost mystic charm to the environment surrounding queer little restaurants, where rare dishes are served, and where one feels that he is in foreign land, even though he be in the center of a high representative American city.

San Francisco’s cosmopolitanism is peculiar to itself. Here are represented the nations of earth in such distinctive colonies that one might well imagine himself possessed of the magic carpet told of in Arabian Nights Tales, as he is transported in the twinkling of an eye from country to country. It is but a step across a street from America into Japan, then another step into China. Cross another street and you are in Mexico, close neighbor to France. Around the corner lies Italy, and from Italy you pass to Lombardy, and on to Greece. So it goes until one feels that he has been around the world in an afternoon.

But the stepping across the street and one passes from one land to the other, finding all the peculiar characteristics of the various countries as indelibly fixed as if they were thousands of miles away. Speech, manners, customs, costumes and religions change with startling rapidity, and as you enter into the life of the nation you find that each has brought the best of its gastronomy for your delectation.

San Francisco has called to the world for its best, and the response has been so prompt that no country has failed to send its tribute and give the best thought of those who cater to the men and women who know.

This aggregation of cuisinaire, gathered where is to be found a most wonderful variety of food products in highest state of excellence, has made San Francisco the Mecca for lovers of gustatory delights, and this is why the name of San Francisco is known wherever men and women sit at table.

It has taken us years of patient research to learn how these chefs prepare their combinations of fish, flesh, fowl, and herbs, in order that we might put them down, giving recipes of dishes whose memories linger in the minds of world wanderers, and to which their thoughts revert with a sigh as they partake of unsatisfactory viands in other countries and other cosmopolitan cities.

Those to whom only the surface of things is visible are prone to express wonder at the love and enthusiasm of the San Franciscan for his home city. The casual visitor cannot understand the enchantment, the mystery, the witchery that holds one; they do not know that we steal the hours from the night to lengthen our days because the gray, whispering wraiths of fog hold for us the very breath of life; they do not know that the call of the wind, and of the sea, and of the air, is the inspiration that makes San Francisco the pleasure-ground of the world.

It is this that makes San Francisco the home of Bohemia, and whether it be in the early morning hours as one rises to greet the first gray streaks of dawn, or as the sun drops through the Golden Gate to its ocean bed, so slowly that it seems loth to leave; whether it be in the broad glare of noon-day sun, or under the dazzling blaze of midnight lights, San Francisco ever holds out her arms, wide in welcome, to those who see more in life than the dull routine of working each day in order that they may gain sufficient to enable them to work again on the morrow.

Prominence is given in this work to those foods, as flour, bread, cereals, vegetables, meats, milk, dairy products, and fruits, that are most extensively used in the dietary, and to some of the physical, chemical, and bacteriological changes affecting digestibility and nutritive value which take place during their preparation for the table. Dietary studies, comparative cost and value of foods, rational feeding of men, and experiments and laboratory practice form features of the work. Some closely related topics, largely of a sanitary nature, as the effect upon food of household sanitation and storage, are also briefly discussed. References are given in case more extended information is desired on some of the subjects treated. While this book was prepared mainly for students who have taken a course in general chemistry, it has been the intention to present the topics in such a way as to be understood by the layman also.

This work completes a series of text-books undertaken by the author over ten years ago, dealing with agricultural and industrial subjects: “Chemistry of Plant and Animal Life,” “Dairy Chemistry,” “Soils and Fertilizers,” and “Human Foods and their Nutritive Value.” It has been the aim in preparing these books to avoid as far as possible repetition, but at the same time to make each work sufficiently complete to permit its use as a text independent of the series.

One of the greatest uses that science can serve is in its application to the household and the everyday affairs of life. Too little attention is generally bestowed upon the study of foods in schools and colleges, and the author sincerely hopes the time will soon come when more prominence will be given to this subject, which is the oldest, most important, most neglected, and least understood of any that have a direct bearing upon the welfare of man.

In its most comprehensive sense, the oxygen of the air is a food; as although it is admitted by the lungs, it passes into the blood, and there re-acts upon the other food which has passed through the stomach. It is usual, however, to restrict the term food to such nutriment as enters the body by the intestinal canal. Water is often spoken of as being distinct from food, but for this there is no sufficient reason.

Many popular writers have divided foods into flesh-formers, heat-givers, and bone-formers. Although attractive from its simplicity, this classification will not bear criticism. Flesh-formers are also heat-givers. Only a portion of the mineral matter goes to form bone.

These last are not strictly foods, if we keep to the definition already given; but they are consumed with the true foods or nutrients, comprised in the other two classes, and cannot well be excluded from consideration.

Water forms an essential part of all the tissues of the body. It is the solvent and carrier of other substances.

Mineral Matter

Mineral Matter or Salts, is left as an ash when food is thoroughly burnt. The most important salts are calcium phosphate, carbonate and fluoride, sodium chloride, potassium phosphate and chloride, and compounds of magnesium, iron and silicon.

Mineral matter is quite as necessary for plant as for animal life, and is therefore present in all food, except in the case of some highly-prepared ones, such as sugar, starch and oil. Children require a good proportion of calcium phosphate for the growth of their bones, whilst adults require less. The outer part of the grain of cereals is the richest in mineral constituents, white flour and rice are deficient. Wheatmeal and oatmeal are especially recommended for the quantity of phosphates and other salts contained in them. Mineral matter is necessary not only for the bones but for every tissue of the body.

When haricots are cooked, the liquid is often thrown away, and the beans served nearly dry, or with parsley or other sauce. Not only is the food less tasty but important saline constituents are lost. The author has made the following experiments:—German whole lentils, Egyptian split red lentils and medium haricot beans were soaked all night (16 hours) in just sufficient cold water to keep them covered. The water was poured off and evaporated, the residue heated in the steam-oven to perfect dryness and weighed. After pouring off the water, the haricots were boiled in more water until thoroughly cooked, the liquid being kept as low as possible. The liquid was poured off as clear as possible, from the haricots, evaporated and dried. The ash was taken in each case, and the alkalinity of the water-soluble ash was calculated as potash (K2O). The quantity of water which could be poured off was with the German lentils, half as much more than the original weight of the pulse; not quite as much could be poured off the others.

The loss on soaking in cold water, unless the water is preserved, is seen to be considerable. The split lentils, having had the protecting skin removed, lose most. In every case the ash contained a good deal of phosphate and lime. Potatoes are rich in important potash salts; by boiling a large quantity is lost, by steaming less and by baking in the skins, scarcely any. The flavour is also much better after baking.

The usual addition of common salt (sodium-chloride) to boiled potatoes is no proper substitute for the loss of their natural saline constituents. Natural and properly cooked foods are so rich in sodium chloride and other salts that the addition of common salt is unnecessary. An excess of the latter excites thirst and spoils the natural flavour of the food. It is the custom, especially in restaurants, to add a large quantity of salt to pulse, savoury food, potatoes and soups. Bakers’ brown bread is usually very salt, and sometimes white is also. In some persons much salt causes irritation of the skin, and the writer has knowledge of the salt food of vegetarian restaurants causing or increasing dandruff. As a rule, fondness for salt is an acquired taste, and after its discontinuance for a time, food thus flavoured becomes unpalatable.

Organic Compounds

Organic Compounds are formed by living organisms (a few can also be produced by chemical means). They are entirely decomposed by combustion.

The Non-Nitrogenous Organic Compounds are commonly called carbon compounds or heat-producers, but these terms are also descriptive of the nitrogenous compounds. These contain carbon, hydrogen and oxygen only, and furnish by their oxidation or combustion in the body the necessary heat, muscular and nervous energy. The final product of their combustion is water and carbon dioxide (carbonic acid gas).

The Carbohydrates comprise starch, sugar, gum, mucilage, pectose, glycogen, &c.; cellulose and woody fibre are carbohydrates, but are little capable of digestion. They contain hydrogen and oxygen in the proportion to form water, the carbon alone being available to produce heat by combustion. Starch is the most widely distributed food. It is insoluble in water, but when cooked is readily digested and absorbed by the body. Starch is readily converted into sugar, whether in plants or animals, during digestion. There are many kinds of sugar, such as grape, cane and milk sugars.

The Oils and Fats consist of the same elements as the carbohydrates, but the hydrogen is in larger quantity than is necessary to form water, and this surplus is available for the production of energy. During their combustion in the body they produce nearly two-and-a-quarter times (4 : 8.9 = 2.225) as much heat as the carbohydrates; but if eaten in more than small quantities, they are not easily digested, a portion passing away by the intestines. The fat in the body is not solely dependent upon the quantity consumed as food, as an animal may become quite fat on food containing none. A moderate quantity favours digestion and the bodily health. In cold weather more should be taken. In the Arctic regions the Esquimaux consume enormous quantities. Nuts are generally rich in oil. Oatmeal contains more than any of the other cereals (27 analyses gave from 8 to 12.3 per cent.)

The most esteemed and dearest oil is Almond. What is called Peach-kernel oil (Oleum Amygdalæ Persicæ), but which in commerce includes the oil obtained from plum and apricot stones, is almost as tasteless and useful, whilst it is considerably cheaper. It is a very agreeable and useful food. It is often added to, as an adulterant, or substituted for the true Almond oil. The best qualities of Olive oil are much esteemed, though they are not as agreeable to English taste as the oil previously mentioned. The best qualities are termed Virgin, Extra Sublime and Sublime. Any that has been exposed for more than a short time to the light and heat of a shop window should be rejected, as the flavour is affected. It should be kept in a cool place. Not only does it vary much in freedom from acid and rancidity, but is frequently adulterated. Two other cheaper oils deserve mention. The “cold-drawn” Arachis oil (pea-nut or earth-nut oil) has a pleasant flavour, resembling that of kidney beans. The “cold-drawn” Sesamé oil has an agreeable taste, and is considered equal to Olive oil for edible purposes. The best qualities are rather difficult to obtain; those usually sold being much inferior to Peach-kernel and Olive oils. Cotton-seed oil is the cheapest of the edible ones. Salad oil, not sold under any descriptive name, is usually refined Cotton-seed oil, with perhaps a little Olive oil to impart a richer flavour.

The solid fats sold as butter and lard substitutes, consist of deodorised cocoanut oil, and they are excellent for cooking purposes. It is claimed that biscuits, &c., made from them may be kept for a much longer period, without showing any trace of rancidity, than if butter or lard had been used. They are also to be had agreeably flavoured by admixture with almond, walnut, &c., “cream.”

The better quality oils are quite as wholesome as the best fresh butter, and better than most butter as sold. Bread can be dipped into the oil, or a little solid vegetable fat spread on it. The author prefers to pour a little Peach-kernel oil upon some ground walnut kernels (or other ground nuts in themselves rich in oil), mix with a knife to a suitable consistency and spread upon the bread. Pine-kernels are very oily, and can be used in pastry in the place of butter or lard.

Before the question as to meat eating and vegetarianism can be solved, we must consider the first principle of nature, which is the law of self preservation. Thereafter we may be able to think and strive to save the lives of animals, now cruelly sacrificed largely for the sense gratification of man. The artificial preparation of food is a fine art, and no doubt has helped much toward the development of our central nervous system.

The ordinary mixed diet with the addition of meat two or three times per week is the safest method for most people who are compelled to work eight, ten, or twelve hours out of every twenty-four and have to deprive themselves of the proper amount of fresh air, sunshine and physical exercise, which brings all the muscles and organs of the body into proper action.

Inharmony, disease, and misfortune are largely caused by living a life contrary to the laws of nature.

The fulfillment of high ideals must be accompanied by common sense and judgment, so it becomes an evolution instead of revolution. The evolving of man from the stage of a jelly fish to a being possessed of a bony framework in an upright position by the eating of animals has developed a higher self. After having reached this stage of evolution the nature of some people has become so highly sensitized that meat, as a food, becomes repugnant to them. What they need is a stepping stone. The very food which has produced this state of over refinement or destruction must be used for construction and minimized by degrees.

In examining the claims of the disciples of vegetarianism it is well to consider those nations whose constitution and customs of work and education resemble our own. And in doing so we find that while nearly all European nations, as well as many of the Orient, practice moderation in meat eating, still they are for the most part only “near vegetarians,” and therefore should not be used as examples in an argument for vegetarianism.

It is possible for normal individuals under fairly normal conditions of life to nourish perfectly their bodies on a vegetarian diet, provided they are willing to live mainly on sun-kissed foods instead of on a mass of sloppily-cooked, devitalized, starchy vegetables, and soft nitrogenous foods that burden the digestive organs and produce obesity and slow consumption.

I hope that the menus on the following pages will be a help to all who seek simplicity from a standpoint of health as well as economy.

And in the hundred pages or so of preface—or perhaps overture would be the better word, since in it a group of literary men, while contributing recondite recipes, flourish trumpets in every key—to his huge volume he says, “I wish to be read by people of the world, and practiced by people of the art” (gens de l’art); and although I wish, like every one who writes, to be read by all the world, I wish to aid the practice, not of the professors of the culinary art, but those whose aspirations point to an enjoyment of the good things of life, but whose means of attaining them are limited.

There is a great deal of talk just now about cooking; in a lesser degree it takes its place as a popular topic with ceramics, modern antiques, and household art. The fact of it being in a mild way fashionable may do a little good to the eating world in general. And it may make it more easy to convince young women of refined2 proclivities that the art of cooking is not beneath their attention, to know that the Queen of England’s daughters—and of course the cream of the London fair—have attended the lectures on the subject delivered at South Kensington, and that a young lady of rank, Sir James Coles’s daughter, has been recording angel to the association, is in fact the R. C. C. who edits the “Official Handbook of Cookery.”

But, notwithstanding all that has been done by South Kensington lectures in London and Miss Corson’s Cooking School in New York to popularize the culinary art, one may go into a dozen houses, and find the ladies of the family with sticky fingers, scissors, and gum pot, busily porcelainizing clay jars, and not find one where they are as zealously trying to work out the problems of the “Official Handbook of Cookery.”

I have nothing to say against the artistic distractions of the day. Anything that will induce love of the beautiful, and remove from us the possibility of a return to the horrors of hair-cloth and brocatel and crochet tidies, will be a stride in the right direction. But what I do protest against, is the fact, that the same refined girls and matrons, who so love to adorn their houses that they will spend hours improving a pickle jar, mediævalizing their furniture, or decorating the dinner service, will shirk everything that pertains to the preparation of food as dirty, disagreeable drudgery, and sit down to a commonplace, ill-prepared meal, served on those artistic plates, as complacently as if dainty food were not a refinement; as if heavy rolls and poor bread, burnt or greasy steak, and wilted potatoes did not smack of the shanty, just as loudly as coarse crockery or rag carpet—indeed far more so; the carpet and crockery may be due3 to poverty, but a dainty meal or its reverse will speak volumes for innate refinement or its lack in the woman who serves it. You see by my speaking of rag carpets and dainty meals in one breath, that I do not consider good things to be the privilege of the rich alone.

There are a great many dainty things the household of small or moderate means can have just as easily as the most wealthy. Beautiful bread—light, white, crisp—costs no more than the tough, thick-crusted boulder, with cavities like eye-sockets, that one so frequently meets with as home-made bread. As Hood says:

“Who has not met with home-made bread,
A heavy compound of putty and lead?”

Delicious coffee is only a matter of care, not expense—and indeed in America the cause of poor food, even in a boarding-house, is seldom in the quality of the articles so much as in the preparation and selection of them—yet an epicure can breakfast well with fine bread and butter and good coffee. And this leads me to another thing: many people think that to give too much attention to food shows gluttony. I have heard a lady say with a tone of virtuous rebuke, when the conversation turned from fashions to cooking, “I give very little time to cooking, we eat to live only”—which is exactly what an animal does. Eating to live is mere feeding. Brillat-Savarin, an abstemious eater himself, among other witty things on the same topic says, “L’animal se repait, l’homme mange, l’homme d’esprit seul sait manger.”

Nine people out of ten, when they call a man an epicure, mean it as a sort of reproach, a man who is averse to every-day food, one whom plain fare would fail to satisfy; but Grimod de la Reyniere, the most cel4ebrated gourmet of his day, author of “Almanach des Gourmands,” and authority on all matters culinary of the last century, said, “A true epicure can dine well on one dish, provided it is excellent of its kind.” Excellent, that is it. A little care will generally secure to us the refinement of having only on the table what is excellent of its kind. If it is but potatoes and salt, let the salt be ground fine, and the potatoes white and mealy. Thackeray says, an epicure is one who never tires of brown bread and fresh butter, and in this sense every New Yorker who has his rolls from the Brevoort House, and uses Darlington butter, is an epicure. There seems to me, more mere animalism in wading through a long bill of fare, eating three or four indifferently cooked vegetables, fish, meat, poultry, each second-rate in quality, or made so by bad cooking, and declaring that you have dined well, and are easy to please, than there is in taking pains to have a perfectly broiled chop, a fine potato, and a salad, on which any true epicure could dine well, while on the former fare he would leave the table hungry.

Spenser points a moral for me when he says, speaking of the Irish in 1580, “That wherever they found a plot of shamrocks or water-cresses they had a feast;” but there were gourmets even among them, for “some gobbled the green food as it came, and some picked the faultless stalks, and looked for the bloom on the leaf.”

Thus it is, when I speak of “good living,” I do not mean expensive living or high living, but living so that the table may be as elegant as the dishes on which it is served.

To his many friends in St. Louis, Louisville, Cincinnati, Chicago and elsewhere, my word will be superfluous, but to those who do not know him, and who are to be the gainers by following his advices, it may prove at the very beginning a stimulus to know something of his record of achievement.

For the past quarter of a century he has refreshed and delighted the members and their friends of the Pendennis Club of Louisville and the St. Louis Country Club of St. Louis. In all that time I doubt if he has erred in even one of his concoctions. Thus if there is “many a slip twixt the cup and the lip” it has been none of his doing, but rather the fault of those who have appreciated his art too highly. But why go on! His work is before you. It is the best to be had. Follow on, and as you sip the nectar of his schemings tell your friends, to the end that both they and he may be benefitted.

Perhaps I had never thought of this Method of communicating my little knowledge, had it not been for many gentlemen in the counties of Gloucester, Hereford and Worcester for whom I have done a great deal of business, in the cyder-way particularly; and who have often express’d their desire of seeing my directions for the management of cyders. made public.

And no doubt such a thing was wanting; for it’s hardly credible how much liquors of almost every kind is spoiled by mismanagement. Few people know the nature of fermentation, without which no vinous spirit can be produced; nor any liquor be rendered fine and potible.

Fermentation separates the particles of bodies, and from liquids throws off the gross parts from the finer, which, without it, could not be effected. There is what is called a fret, which is only a partial fermentation, that nature is strong enough in some liquors to bring on, without the assistance of art; but this fret, or partial fermentation, is never strong enough to discharge the liquor of its foul parts; and if they should ever happen to subside, the least alteration in weather, as well as a hundred other accidents, will occasion their commixing, and render the liquor almost, or altogether as foul as ever; to prevent which we call in the assistance of art, and which our method will effectually prevent.

In brewing beer, yest is apply’d to it, in order to ferment it, without which it would never be beer. This opens the body of the liquor, and renders it spirity and fine.

The reason that cyder is not often fine, is owing to its not being fermented. After it is got into the hogshead, the generality of people think they have acquitted themselves very well, and done all the necessary business, except racking it. But I can assure them, the more any liquor is rack’d, the more it is weaken’d. By often racking, it loseth its body, and so becomes acid for want of strength to support it.

Another gross error many people are guilty of, in keeping the bungs out of the casks. Nothing is more pernicious to fermented liquors, than their being exposed to the open air, whereby they lose their strength and flavour. Take a bottle of wine, draw the cork, and let it stand exposed to the open air for twenty-four hours only, and you will then find it dead, flat, and insipid; for the spirit is volatile, and has been carried off by the air, and what remains is the gross, elementary part chiefly. A cyder-cask should never be kept open more than fourteen or fifteen days, that is, ’till the ferment is stopt; but so contrary is the practice, that I have known them very commonly kept open three or four months. It hath been objected to me by cyder and sweet-makers, that stopping up the cask so soon will endanger the head being blown out or bursted; but their fears are groundless, provided the ferment is stopt. The bottoms are quite confined, and it is impossible they should rise, unless a forcing be added to raise them.

The best time for bottling your cyder, is in the winter, or cool weather, when it is down, otherwise you will hazard breaking most of the bottles. The best method of keeping it, is to put it up in dry saw-dust, which will keep it in a due temperature of heat, without the colour’s subsiding, unless you have laid a high colour on it, which, by long keeping, will subside in the same manner port-wine doth in bottles. For ’tis impossible to set a colour on cyder so strong, as to have it stand the bottle more than twelve or eighteen months, at farthest. The natural colour will change but little in a much longer time.

What I have said of the sweet-making-business, (which I have been constantly concerned in for more than twenty years) is principally relating to fermentation; for it is in all kinds of made-wines the chief thing to be observed. I shall just take notice here of one or two things, by way of caution.

If your fruit be candied, the best way to clean them is by bagging, and then you may easily take the stems from them.

It is very seldom that the fruit is all of the same goodness, I would therefore recommend, that the best fruit be made separate from the ordinary, it being easy, and much more prudent, to mix the liquors to your palate, than to run the hazard of making the good fruit with the bad, a small quantity of which will sometimes spoil the flavour of the liquor, and turn it acid.

As to the method of brewing malt-liquors, I shall only here observe, that the practice of boiling the wort so long as is often done, is very injudicious. Five minutes is long enough: a longer time serves only to evaporate the spirit, without having any good effect.

Under the head of malt-liquor, I have confined myself to giving proper instructions for curing their disorders, such as fining ’em. which must be of great use to victuallers as well as private families, who, by reason of the badness of malt, mismanagement, bad weather, or other accidents, have frequently quantities by them, which for want of knowing how to cure, lie useless, and are sometimes thrown away.

In the course of these receipts, I have endeavoured to lay down every thing as plain as possible, preferring, in these cases, plainness to elegance, even tho’ I were capable of it, which indeed I have no pretensions to.

The desire of the average man is to remain in bed until the very last moment. A hurried breakfast of food long cooked awaits the late riser, who will not masticate it properly when he finally arrives at the breakfast-table, and the best of housekeepers is discouraged and prevented from ever attempting culinary surprises, when they are not to be appreciated. In this way she is innocently driven into a rut from which it is difficult to escape when occasions present themselves for offering novelties.

“Dinner may be pleasant,
So may social tea;
But yet methinks the breakfast
Is best of all the three.“

The following recipes and remarks will be found valuable assistants to those so situated, and will offer many practical suggestions intended to develop ingenuity and skilfulness in this much-neglected branch of cookery. Avoid asking that innocent but often annoying question, “What shall we have for breakfast?” Rely upon your own resources and inventiveness, and you will soon master the situation. The average business man generally knows but little of what is or is not in market, and he dislikes to have his gastronomic knowledge constantly analyzed.

Should your domestic duties prevent you from occasionally visiting the public markets, it will be found expedient to subscribe for a reliable newspaper that makes a specialty of reporting the latest gastronomic news. This cannot be accomplished by cook-books, owing to the fluctuations in prices and the constant arrival of “good cheer” at seasons when least expected.

Steaks and chops are looked upon as the substantials of the breakfast-table, but when served continually they do not give satisfaction, be they ever so good, and are not duly appreciated unless interspersed occasionally with lighter dishes.