Mutton
I hope it will not be found very inconvenient, but there has been so much to say about mutton under special and interesting names, that there is little left for remark under its own proper name. The subject of mutton broth has been discussed under the names of Scotch Broth and Hotch Potch. The principles of boiled mutton have been set forth in the article on Boiling. The principles of roast mutton are set forth in the articles on Roasting, on the Saddle of Mutton, and on the Breton way of serving the gigot or leg. The Carbonade has an article to itself, Navarin and is further handled in the articles on the Shoulder of Mutton and on the Prince of Soubise. The stews of mutton will be found amply described under the various names of Haricot of Mutton, Hotch Potch, Irish Stew, Navarin, and Ragout of Mutton. There remain the mutton chops and cutlets, for which directions will be found in the articles on the Grill, on the cutlet à la Bretonne, à la Maintenon, à la Soubise. The mutton pie, otherwise known as the Devonshire, the Cornish or Squab pie, is described in the article on Irish Stew. The smaller mutton pie should have been described in recording the merits of the celebrated Kit- Kat. And there is more about mutton in the articles on Kidneys, Sheep's Head, Sheep's Trotters and Epigrams. N AVARIN is a stupid word which has arisen from a desire to get rid of the unintelligible and misleading name, Haricot de mouton, without falling back on the vulgar phrase, Ragoût de mouton. It was at first selected with a thought of punning upon the navet or turnip, which is so prominent in the Haricot de mouton as not exactly to have suppressed, but to have thrown into the background and concealed in the sauce, the other vegetablescarrots and onions—which went along with it. On this understanding the word may be allowed to pass, although punning titles are not to be desired. Let us say, therefore, that a navarin is a ragout of mutton in the garniture of which the navet or turnip is supreme. When the combined English and French fleets gained the battle of Navarino, Lord Aberdeen, who was the English Foreign Minister described it as "an untoward event," and the phrase has never been forgotten. Let it be a warning to the cooks, Navarin and never let it be said that the Navarino of the kitchen is an untoward event.
Take the breast of mutton and cut it in pieces, which are to be well trimmed of fat. Line the bottom of a saucepan with slices of onion, on which lay the mutton, and with it two sliced carrots, two bayleaves, some thyme, and half a pint of broth, which is to be boiled until it falls to a glaze. Then add two ladlefuls either of broth or of water, together with salt, and let all simmer for two hours; at the end of which time the sauce, all except the thyme and bayleaf, is to be pressed through a sieve, and the meat may be boned. Now turn some turnips nicely, and pass them in butter till they are of a light-brown tint: dredge them with a tablespoonful of flour, give them a shake, pour over them the sauce of the mutton, add a pinch of sugar, and let them cook. When they are done enough, see that the sauce is not too thin. If too thin, reduce it, first taking out the turnips. In any case, remove the top fat. Then add turnips and sauce to the mutton, and let them get hot together.
A quicker way. Cut the mutton (be it neck, shoulder or breast) in pieces, and trim them. Make a roux of butter and flour, in which as soon as it takes colour the meat is to be fried for a quarter of an hour. Hot water is then to be added, and the meat turned in it till it boils; and the scum can be removed. In the meantime turnips are prepared as before, and are added to the mutton, along with pepper, salt, a faggot of herbs, and an onion pricked with a couple of cloves. Cook this for threequarters of an hour. Finally take out the onion and the faggot of herbs; get rid of all grease, add a pinch of sugar, and see that the salting is right.
It must be evident that the above ragout may be made to include other vegetables-as a Jardinière-either in place of the turnips or in addition to them. The English have long since made up their minds that turnips and Nesselrode Pudding mutton go well together-but they always understand by this, boiled mutton and turnips plain boiled or mashed. Here it will be seen that the French are so far in accord, but they insist upon a stew in which both the mutton and the turnips shall be browned; and to attain this fine conjunction pure and simple, they have gradually put out of sight, though they have not utterly swept away from their world-famous ragout or haricot, the other vegetables, the onions and carrots, which used to figure in it. May I recommend my English friends to study this simplicity. Better take one good friend the turnip to your breast of mutton, than trouble it with a crowd of vegetables.