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The Why and the Wherefore of Boiling, Grilling, and Frying

If we understood more than we do the principles on which cooking depends, the fact of being able to make one dish, combined with knowing the reasons for the result, would often lead to our being able to make a large variety of similar dishes, which a very slight inventive talent would enable us to vary so much in flavour that, instead of knowing one recipe, we should know twenty. It is evident that in all cooking one of two great principles must constantly be brought into play. One, to keep the flavour in; another, to get the flavour out.

Let us for one moment contrast boiling a leg of mutton and making good mutton broth. It is evident that in the one case, since we eat the mutton, our endeavour should be to keep as much flavour in the meat as possible; but in the second, since what we want is the broth, not the meat, our endeavour should be to extract as much flavour out of the mutton as possible. Now there are many persons who positively proceed to prepare both in almost the same way. There is a certain principle, or rather chemical fact, and that is, that albumen coagulates and becomes hard at boiling-point. This very important fact should never be lost sight of in cooking meat, for it should be remembered that meat largely consists of albumen in the form of fibrin. First, then, to boil the leg of mutton. Place the leg of mutton in boiling water; this will take the water off the boil; let the saucepan remain on the fire till the water boils up again, then remove the saucepan to the side of the fire, or place it on top of the range after closing the aperture, and let it simmer, not boil, very gently, till the leg of mutton is done. The time, of course, varies with the size, but one about nine pounds should take about two hours and a half.

Next, let us inquire, Why did we do this?

The leg of mutton, by contact with this boiling water, acquires a rim or coating of coagulated albumen. Were we to leave the leg to actually boil for long, the whole would become hardened, and consequently the mutton would be tough; but by removing the saucepan off the fire we get the mutton to cook slowly, surrounded as it is by a thin casing of hard meat, not thicker than a thin sixpence, which keeps in the gravy and flavour. Now, in making mutton broth, we must proceed on exactly contrary principles. Our object is to extract all the flavour we possibly can from the meat and get it into the broth; we therefore cut up the meat into small pieces, and put them into cold water, and let them simmer as long as possible without boiling. By this means all the juices of the meat gradually get extracted, and the solid part of the meat that is left, after the broth is well drained off, contains scarcely any nourishment at all.

I may here add, however, as some may possibly not know how to make mutton broth, that for invalids, to whom vegetables are forbidden, the proper proportions for the broth are about two pounds of mutton and two ounces of pearl barley and a little salt to one quart of water. For ordinary mutton broth the barley (and, if desired, dried peas soaked over-night) should be put in along with the meat to simmer. When it comes to boiling point two carrots cut into dice should be added. An hour afterwards add two leeks, a couple of turnips (cut up), and a little thyme. Shortly before lifting add a little fresh parsley, chopped up fine. Skim thoroughly all the time. The pieces of mutton should be served up in the soup.

This same principle of keeping in the flavour applies to a large variety of dishes. For instance, suppose we want to have that good old-fashioned English dish, rumpsteak and oyster-sauce, how rarely is it that you get the latter fit to eat! Too often oyster-sauce is simply thick melted butter, with a few oysters in it that feel like leather-they are so hard. Now oysters are a great delicacy, and require great care in cooking; I will describe as briefly as possible how to make oyster-sauce, and at the same time explain the reasons for what we do.

In the first place, if an oyster if an oyster is becomes quite hard and indigestible; secondly, an oyster, if put into hot liquid, very quickly loses all its flavour.

Suppose, then, we have a dozen large oysters. First of all have them opened so that every drop of the liquor is saved. Take off the beards, and place the oysters in a small separate basin, taking care, of course, that no little pieces of shell are left adhering to them. Next take half a pint of milk, and add to it the oyster liquor, and put this on the fire to simmer gently. Thicken it with a little butter and flour previously mixed together. This is done by adding the butter and flour little by little, and stirring the sauce while it gently boils over the fire. As soon as the sauce has by this means become about as thick as cream, melt in about an ounce and a half more butter, and stir gently. Should the sauce appear to run oily, it shows you have too much butter, and by suddenly checking the heat, and keeping on stirring, the sauce will become all right again--a little piece of ice is the best, or a table-spoonful of cold milk will do. Now add a little pepper and a tea-spoonful of anchovy sauce. It is wonderful how anchovy sauce brings out the flavour of oysters. I would advise cooks to taste the sauce which is flavoured only with the oyster liquor before adding the anchovy sauce, and after it has been added. The change in the flavour is so wonderful that they will have a good practical lesson of the importance of little things for flavouring purposes.

The next point is the oysters, which we left in a little basin. First have ready the sauce tureen, empty, but thoroughly hot. Have also ready on the fire a large saucepan or stewpan with boiling water. Next take a small strainer in the right hand, and hold it in the boiling water with the metal part of the strainer in it. Lift the strainer just above the boiling water, and pour the oysters out of the little basin into it. Let the oysters be in contact with the boiling water not more than two or three seconds; let the water strain off them, and then throw them into the hot tureen. Pour the sauce on to them, and the oyster sauce is ready.

Now a moment's consideration will show that we have treated the oysters just on the same principle that we did the leg of mutton--viz. we have surrounded each oyster with a very thin film that keeps in the flavour. Had we allowed the oysters to remain in the boiling water for two or three minutes instead of two or three seconds, we should have made them as tough as leather; had we not put them in at all, they would have lost much of their as soon as they were put into the sauce, besides having a some-what flabby taste. By doing what I have said, the hardening process went on just long enough to surround each oyster with a coating not thicker, perhaps, than a piece of gold-beater's skin, but then, when the oyster arrived at its destination--the mouth--the moment this coating was broken the whole of the flavour could be tasted. Why does a well-cooked chop or steak look black outside and red in? and why does it require a clear, bright fire? Because this is the only way in which it can be cooked to keep the flavour in. The fierceness of the fire surrounds the chop or steak, as the case may be, with a hard coating almost directly the meat is placed on the gridiron. When the steak comes up and is cut, you can then see the red gravy run out, and not before. Many a chop and steak is spoilt by turning it with a fork, as of course it lets out the gravy, which runs into the fire.

I will now turn to quite another subject--viz. omelets. The principle of cooking here to be considered is how to make things light. Now how often do you get an omelet in a private house fit to eat? Very seldom--at least, that is my experience. And yet an omelet is really a very easy thing to make. The secret of a light omelet is to froth the eggs. But I will go through the recipe ab initio.

Suppose first the omelet to be a savoury one. First take an omelet-pan; it is no use trying to make an omelet in a frying-pan that has been used for all sorts of purposes. Take three eggs, and break them one by one into a cup, to see if they are good, and put them in a basin. Add a small onion, about the size of a small hazel-nut, chopped finely, and about half a tea-spoonful of parsley chopped equally fine, about a salt-spoonful of salt, and half that measure of pepper. Add two table-spoonfuls of milk.

Now place in the omelet-pan a small spoonful of fresh butter. Place the pan on the fire, to melt the butter till it froths. Next, with a fork--a wooden fork is best--beat up the eggs with the milk, chopped onion, and parsley, and pepper and salt, till it is quite frothy. Keep on beating it till the last moment, and then pour it quickly into the butter which, as I have said, must be frothing in the pan.

Take a large spoon and stir it all up very quickly, scraping the bottom of the pan all the time, to prevent the omelet from sticking and burning. As soon as it begins to set take the pan a little from the fire, and with a spoon work the omelet into a half-moon shape. When it is nearly set, take the pan off the fire, and hold it in front of the fire, resting the edge of the pan on the bottom bar, and slanting the pan as much as possible; but, of course, care must be taken not to let the omelet slip right into the fire. Hold the pan like this for a couple of minutes or so. This causes the omelet to rise, and it thereby becomes lighter. In large French kitchens, where there is no open fire, they hold a red-hot salamander over the omelet, which has the same effect. A red-hot shovel does very well if you have a shut-up range. The omelet-pan must never be washed, as, if you wash it, the omelet will stick to the bottom of the pan. Before using it wipe it clean with a cloth, and be careful of damp or rust.

A sweet omelet is made in exactly the same manner, only of course there is no pepper, onion, or parsley, and only a tiny pinch of salt. Add, however, instead, a tea-spoonful of very finely powdered sugar, and half a tea-spoonful of essence of vanilla. This last is an immense improvement. When an "omelette au confiture" is required, the omelet must be kept in the frying-pan round, a spoonful of the jam placed in the centre, and covered with the ends of the omelet. These omelets must be made very quickly in order to be tender, and iced with sugar on top. A little rum, brandy, or kirsch may be poured over and set alight when being served.

For a souffle omelet the yolks must be separated from the whites. Whip the whites till firm, and mix with the yolks, to which sugar has been previously added. Flavour with vanilla or lemon. An omelet must be served directly it is cooked; so do not begin to prepare it until just before it is required to be served, as it only takes two or three minutes to make. As I said before, the secret of a light omelet is frothing the eggs. Why? Because by so doing you mix the omelet up with an infinite number of tiny air-bubbles. Now we all know that heat expands everything, air included. These little bubbles, therefore--some, perhaps, the size of a pin's point--become under the action of heat the size, possibly, of a pin's head; and as long as the omelet remains hot it is light--puffed out, in fact, by air-bubbles expanded by heat.

If you let the omelet get partially cold, it in consequence gets heavy. This point is, however, more strongly exemplified in the case of souffles. A cheese souffle is a very nice thing to finish dinner with, and if you know how to make one, is a capital extra dish in case some one comes in to dinner quite unexpectedly. I will try and tell you how to make it, and also, as far as I can, explain why.

I will describe how to make as small a one as possible, as it is easy to increase the size, and experiments are always most economical on a small scale. Take a round tin or silver-plated vegetable dish about four inches in diameter, and quite three deep. Next take two table-spoonfuls of finely-grated cheese--Parmesan is the best--and place it in a basin with a quarter of a pint (half a tumbler) of milk, about half a salt-spoonful of salt, and a quarter of that quantity of pepper. Next break a couple of eggs, keeping the whites separate from the yolks in a small basin. Mix up the yolks with the milk, cheese, etc., thoroughly. Now take these two whites, and whip them up into a stiff froth, and then mix in quickly the milk, etc. Butter the inside of the tin, and put it in the oven until it is very hot. Pour the mixture into the tin quickly, and place it in the oven. The oven must be of moderate heat, otherwise the souffle gets burnt outside and remains pappy in the middle. The average time of baking is about twenty-five minutes to half an hour. The souffle, which when placed in the tin did not half fill it, will rise up a couple of inches above the tin. Everything, however, depends upon its being served quickly. Probably the souffle, if it is two inches above the edge of the tin when it leaves the oven, will sink nearly level with the top before it reaches the table. This cannot be helped, but everything that saves time must be thought of beforehand. For instance, some people delay to pin a dinner-napkin round the tin. Of course, the best plan is to have a silver-plated souffle-case, and then there is no occasion for any delay. These, however, are not always obtainable.

Have a piece of clean white ornamented paper with a frill ready, and let there be plenty of room for the souffle to rise. Drop the tin into the round paper, which should not be higher than the edge of the tin; but whatever you do, or however you do it, be quick. Have a hot cover ready to pop on, and run with it to the dinner-table.

The next point to consider is, Why did the souffle rise? Because of the air-bubbles. It is easy to whisk the whites of eggs into a foam, but not the yolks. By separating the whites, therefore, and beating them up separately, we increased our number of air-bubbles to an enormous extent. These bubbles expand with the heat, hence the lightness of the souffle. On the other hand, as the souffle cools, the bubbles contract, the souffle goes down, and a cold souffle would be as heavy as a hot one is light.

Now the principle is the thing to grasp. For instance, in making a cake, you want, of course, to make it light; therefore remember the souffle--i.e., beat the whites up separate from the yolks. This will have the effect of considerably lightening the cake, though, of course, as the process of baking a large cake is slower than that of baking a souffle, the cake would not rise in anything like the same proportion.

Another important point on which we ought to examine into the principles of cooking is that of frying. And here we may observe that there are two distinct and separate processes of cookery both known by that name--viz. frying in deep fat, and dry frying. The first of these is used in the frying of fish, rissoles, etc., and requires a deep frying kettle or saucepan; while the second denotes frying with a small quantity of dripping or butter in a shallow frying-pan. A few rules for frying in deep fat will be useful. It is essential that the fat be very hot before anything is immersed in it, otherwise the food cooked will not brown properly and will be fatty, a defect which cannot be remedied by raising the temperature afterwards. To test if it is the proper heat, throw in a small piece of bread; if it browns in a few seconds, the fat is hot enough; if it burns, the fat is too hot for frying. A few drops of water thrown in will make the fat bubble violently if it reaches from, say, 360 deg. to 400 deg., which is the proper temperature. A gas stove is very suitable for frying in deep fat, as the heat can be regulated to a nicety. A cook will soon be able to judge for herself by its appearance when the fat is hot enough. It will be perfectly still, differing in this respect from water, as the latter bubbles when at boiling point, whereas fat bubbles only until the moisture has evaporated. When a thin blue vapour rises it is fit to use; this is a certain test, but the saucepan must be seen against the light to discern it, and many kitchens are too dark to allow of this. There should be enough fat to cover whatever is being fried. Anything to be fried in deep fat should be dry; fish should be floured before being egged and bread-crumbed or dipped in batter. Potato chips should be dried in a cloth. Rissoles should not be soft and wet. If this important rule is not attended to, the different preparations will turn out flabby or burnt, and this cannot afterwards be rectified. If dark meat, such as beef, be used for rissoles, a second application of egg and breadcrumb will make them fry a nicer brown, and will lessen their chance of bursting.

Four or five pieces at most, whether fillets of fish, potato balls, fritters, or what not, are sufficient to fry at a time, even in a large saucepan; if more are placed in the fat the temperature will become too low for successful results. From three to ten minutes is the average time taken to cook in hot fat; if anything becomes brown before the centre is cooked, draw the pan to the side of the fire for a few minutes. A wire frying basket is a very useful adjunct; it should be somewhat smaller than the saucepan, or frying kettle, as wire expands with heat. Place the fillets or rissoles in it, and immerse in the boiling fat. When cooked, lift the basket, and hold it over the saucepan for a second or two to drain. Take out the fillets, and lay them on a hot dish, or, better still, on a tin baking sheet covered with blotting paper, where they can lie until all are cooked and ready to be arranged on a dish for table. A fish-slicer and spoon will be found useful to lift out of the fat whatever is being cooked, when a frying basket is not used. After the fat has been used a few times it is well--when it cools, but before it cakes--to pour on it some cold water; this will clarify it, and the impurities will sink to the bottom. Cooks must not fear to fry fish, rissoles, cheese dainties, and even sweets, in the same fat, for if it be heated to the proper temperature not the slightest taste will remain. There is, perhaps, no word in the English language so little understood as the word economy. Just as political economists are too often considered by the vulgar to be men of hard hearts, so, too, in the art of cookery is economy often associated with meanness and stinginess. I have no hesitation in saying it will invariably be found that the better the cook, the more economy will be practised. There is more waste in the cottage than in the palace, for the simple reason that the cottage cook is entirely ignorant of an art which the chef has brought to perfection. What your so-called good plain cooks throw away, an ingenious French artiste will make into entrees. The French are a nation of cooks, and they cannot afford to dine without soup. Probably the contents of the dustbins of England would more than fill the soup tureens of France. I will give a very simple instance of what I term economy in the ordinary living of middle-class families. We all know that grand old-fashioned piece de resistance, the British sirloin. Who has not seen it in its last stages?--the under-cut gone, the upper part dug out, on which some greedy individual has evidently grasped after the under-done piece in the middle, but who, at the same time, has entirely ignored the end. The kitchen more than follows suit to the dining-room, and what is despised above is scorned below, and perhaps the real destination of the end of the sirloin, which the young housekeeper fondly imagines has done for the servants' supper, has been the dog-kennel. Suppose, now, this end had been cut off before the joint was roasted, and placed in a little salt water, a nice, wholesome, and agreeable hot dinner would have been obtainable with the assistance of some boiled greens and potatoes. A little forethought in these matters constitutes real economy. Scraps of meat, fag ends of pieces of bacon, too often wasted, will, with a little judicious management, make a nice dish of rissoles. I have called attention above to the principles on which joints should be boiled, and I will now say a few words on an equally important subject, namely, the principle on which joints should be roasted. Just as in the former case, so in the latter, the one point to be borne in mind is to keep in the flavour. Now, in roasting a joint, perhaps some people may think that to lose the flavour is impossible. Such, however, is not the case. Just as in turning a steak on the gridiron you let out the gravy if you stick a fork in it, so in roasting a leg of mutton you do, to a certain extent, though not equally great, let out the gravy if you run a hook right into the meat itself. There are ingenious machines made--which, however, are chiefly intended for haunches, particularly haunches of venison--by which the whole joint is surrounded by thin metal rods expressly intended to obviate the necessity of sticking anything into the meat. These cradles, nowadays, are very rarely met with. Some little ingenuity will be sufficient, however, for the purpose in point. All practical cooks know the difficulty of hanging a leg of mutton or a haunch on the spit. After an hour or so the joint, under the influence of the heat, is apt to give, and the thin bone adjoining the shank breaks away. Now by placing a small piece of wood underneath the bottom of the joint, and fastening a piece of copper wire to either end of the wood, and bringing it up to the top or knuckle end, the joint is supported in a kind of cradle. The copper wire, however, is very apt to slip, but by tying two pieces of string round the centre of the joint, this difficulty will be overcome. Again, in basting a joint, that part requires most basting which is least covered with fat. Should you have a haunch in which a part of what we may term the breast had the appearance when raw of being somewhat lean, then slices of fat placed over it, and tied on to it, not skewered in, or a few sheets of well-oiled foolscap paper, will have the effect of checking the heat during the earlier period of roasting, and consequently will prevent the joint from having the outside dried up, a fault too often met with.

But in these days of close ranges and gas stoves, a roast joint, cooked on a spit before the fire, is almost a rarity, and the various ingenious appliances that were once in common use for turning the meat at a properly regulated speed are looked upon with curiosity by the rising generation. There can be no doubt that the most economical institution in any kitchen is the stock-pot; and it is in this respect that our French neighbours show their enormous superiority over ourselves. It is obvious that the larger the kitchen, and the greater the number of persons to be supplied with food, the greater will be the number of odds and ends that find their way back from the dining-room. In private houses it will be too often found that huge plates of what are ingenuously termed "broken victuals" are given to the dog, the greater portion of which, if placed in the stock-pot, would have been converted into most excellent soup. Now, it is unquestionably not agreeable to the English taste to use for culinary purposes bones that have been left upon plates. The economy of boning a joint--for instance, a loin of mutton--before cooking it, is very considerable, as the bones, which in the one case would have been left only half scraped upon the plates, are in the other converted into excellent soup.

As we have before pointed out, when once the principles of cooking are understood, one recipe will often lead to another. Cooking is an art--a high art--and cannot be learnt in a day, nor can it be learnt by simply reading a book on the subject. The study of cookery must be combined with practice. Now there is perhaps no part of this practice so important as the knowledge of varying recipes as occasion may require. It will be evident that no work on cooking, however large or however good, can adapt its recipes to meet the requirements of every family in quantity as well as quality. We have endeavoured, therefore, when it is possible, to give in our present work different methods of preparing the various dishes, etc.; but, of course, it would be impossible to give separate recipes, adapted to various families differing perhaps as much in temperament as in size. We will illustrate what we mean by referring to an excellent recipe for preparing bechamel sauce, which will be found in its proper place. We have there recommended the cook to boil down an old fowl, three pounds of knuckle of veal, and three pounds of very lean ham. This is, of course, for the preparation of a large quantity. Now, we will suppose the case of a family consisting of but two persons, and say two servants--a by no means uncommon occurrence. Of course, to purchase such quantities for two would be extravagant to a degree; however, are we, say our newly-married couple, to be debarred from the occasional taste of sauce bechamel? By no means. If the cook is in possession of some little education and common sense, she would have no difficulty whatever in grasping the principle of the recipe to which we have referred.

We will suppose the house to possess such very ordinary dishes as the remains of a cold fowl and a piece of boiled bacon. Now, suppose the cook to read the recipe carefully, and see in about what proportions the different ingredients should be mixed. The carcase of the fowl is cut up and placed in a saucepan, with one or two of the bacon bones, which, being lean, form the best substitute for the lean ham. A little piece of veal--say a quarter of a pound, or indeed a spoonful of gelatine would do--must be added. Add to these a slice of carrot, or even the whole of a small one, a good slice of onion, a tiny piece of mace, one or two peppercorns, and salt to taste. Let all these simmer gently for a couple of hours or so, and then strain off, water having been added in a due proportion. Now, this stock would, of course, make excellent bechamel sauce, for the simple reason that every ingredient in the recipe has been used, the difference between the lean bacon bones and the lean ham being too trifling to make any material change in the flavour. If this broth be well strained and well skimmed, and every particle of grease removed, and then be simmered down to about three-quarters of a tumbler in quantity, it has, of course, just like the other broth, only to be mixed with an equal quantity of good boiling cream, and slightly thickened with a little arrowroot, to be equal in flavour and excellence to any bechamel sauce served up in a first-class large hotel.

In many hundreds of the recipes we shall give, it will be the duty of the cook, in order to render such recipes practical, or, in other words, to make the recipe fit in to the exceptional circumstances of the family or place, to make such little alterations as we have described. Of course, in some instances, the quantities must be increased, such as in the case of large schools, and in others decreased.