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Test Bank—Chapter Six (Programming Languages)

Multiple Choice Questions

1. Which of the following is an example of a language that is based on the functional paradigm?

A. LISP B. PROLOG C. C D. C++

ANSWER: A

2. Which of the following is an example of a language that is based on the object-oriented paradigm?

A. LISP B. PROLOG C. C D. C++

ANSWER: D

3. Most machine languages are based on the

A. Imperative paradigm B. Declarative paradigm

C. Functional paradigm D. Object-oriented paradigm

ANSWER: A

4. Which of the following is not a type of statement found in a typical high-level imperative programming
language?

A. Imperative statement B. Exclamatory statement

C. Declarative statement D. Comment statement

ANSWER: B

5. Which of the following does not require a Boolean structure?

A. If-then-else statement B. While loop statement

C. Assignment statement D. For loop statement

ANSWER: C

6. Which of the following is not a control statement?

A. If-then-else statement B. While loop statement

C. Assignment statement D. For loop statement

ANSWER: C

7. Which of the following is not a control statement?

A. If-then-else statement B. While loop statement

C. Assignment statement D. For loop statement

ANSWER: C

8. Which of the following is not a step in the process of translating a program?

A. Executing the program B. Parsing the program

 C. Lexical analysis D. Code generation

ANSWER: A

9. Which of the following is not associated with object-oriented programming?

A. Inheritance B. Resolution C. Encapsulation D. Polymorphism

ANSWER: B

10. Which of the following is not associated with the concept of data type?

A. Coercion B. Boolean C. Operator precedence D. Strongly typed language

ANSWER: C

11. Positions within arrays are identified by means of numbers called

A. Indices B. Parameters C. Instance variables D. Constants

ANSWER: A

12. Which of the following is ignored by a compiler?

A. Control statements B. Declarations of constants

C. Procedure headers D. Comment statements

ANSWER: D

13. Which of the following is not a possible value of the expression 4 + 6  2 - 1

A. 4 B. 5 C. 6 D. 10

ANSWER: B

14. Which of the following is not a way of referring to a value in a program?

A. Variable B. Literal C. Constant D. Type

ANSWER: D

15. Which of the following is the scope of a variable?

A. The number of characters in the variable’s name

B. The portion of the program in which the variable can be accessed
C. The type associated with the variable
D. The structure associated with the variable

ANSWER: B

16. Which of the following is a means of nullifying conflicts among data types?

A. Inheritance B. Parsing C. Coercion D. Code optimization

ANSWER: C
17. Which of the following is not constructed by a typical compiler?

A. Source code B. Symbol table C. Parse tree D. Object program

ANSWER: A

18. Which of the following is a means of defining similar yet different classes in an object-oriented
program?

A. Inheritance B. Parsing C. Coercion D. Code optimization

ANSWER: A

19. Which of the following is not a parse tree of an expression based on the following grammar?

A. B. C.

ANSWER: C

20. Which of the following statements is not a resolvent of the following clauses?

P OR Q OR R P OR T Q OR T R OR T

A. Q OR R OR T B. T OR P C. P OR R OR T D. Q OR T

ANSWER: B

21. Which of the following can Prolog conclude from the following program?

parent(jill, sue).
parent(jill, sally).
parent(john, sue).
parent(john, sally).
sibling(X, Y) :- parent(Z, X), parent(Z, Y).

A. parent(jill, john) B. sister(sue, sally)

C. sibling(sue, sally) D. sibling(jill, sue)

ANSWER: C
Fill-in-the-blank/Short-answer Questions
1. In contrast to _______________ languages such as English and Spanish, programming languages are

considered _______________ languages and are rigorously defined by their grammars.

ANSWER: natural, formal

2. List two disadvantages of both machine languages and assembly languages that are overcome by high-
level programming languages.

_____________________________________

_____________________________________

ANSWER: They are machine dependent and they require that algorithms be expressed in small machine-
related steps rather that larger application-oriented steps.

3. Indicate how each of the following types of programming languages is classified in terms of generation
(first generation, second generation, or third generation).

A. High-level languages _____________

B. Machine languages _____________

C. Assembly languages _____________

ANSWER: A. Third generation B. First generation C. Second generation

4. List four data types that occur as primitive types in many high-level programming languages.

____________________ ____________________

____________________ ____________________

ANSWER: Possible answers include: integer, real (or float), Boolean, and character.

5. What encoding system is commonly used to encode data of each of the following types?

A. Integer ___________________________

B. Real __________________________

C. Character ___________________________

ANSWER: (CAUTION: This question relies on material from chapter 1)

A. Two’s complement
B. Floating-point
C. ASCII or Unicode

6. A data structure in which all elements have the same type is called ___________________, whereas a
________________ may have elements of different types.

ANSWER: an array; record, structure or heterogeneous array

7. In programming languages that use + to mean concatenation of character strings, the expression

“2x” + “3x”

will produce what result?

________________

ANSWER: “2x3x”

8. Rewrite the following instructions using a single if-then-else statement.

if (X = 5) goto 50
goto 60
50 print the value of Z
goto 100
60 print the value of Y
100 . . .

ANSWER: if (X = 5) then (print the value of Z) else (print the value of Y)

9. The following is a program segment and the definition of a procedure named sub.

.
.
X  3; procedure sub (Y)
sub (X); Y  5;
print the value of X;
.
.

A. What value will be printed by the program segment if parameters are passed by value?

____________

B. What value will be printed by the program segment if parameters are passed by reference?

____________

ANSWER: A. 3 B. 5

10. The following is a program segment and the definition of a procedure named sub.

. procedure sub
. .
X  8; .
apply procedure sub; X  2;
print the value of X; .
. .
.

A. What value will be printed by the program segment if X is a global variable?

____________
 B. What value will be printed by the program segment if X is a declared as a local variable
within the procedure?

____________

ANSWER: A. 8 B. 2

11. To say that a grammar is ambiguous means that ___________________________________________

_____________________________________________________________________ .

ANSWER: the grammar allows more than one parse tree for a single string

12. List three items of information that would be contained in a typical parser’s symbol table.

________________________

________________________

________________________

ANSWER: Possible answers include: names of variables, data types associated with variables, data
structures associated with variables, and others.

13. Give three examples of key words that are often found in high-level imperative or object-oriented
languages.

___________________ _____________________ ______________________

ANSWER: Possible answers are numerous and include: if, while, for, class, int, etc.

14. In addition to the procedure’s name, what other information is contained in a typical procedure header?

____________________________________

ANSWER: A list of the formal parameters

15. In the context of the object-oriented paradigm, ____________ are templates from which

____________ are constructed. We say that the latter is an instance of the former.

ANSWER: classes, objects

16. In the context of the object-oriented paradigm, a __________________ is an imperative program unit
that describes how an object should react to a particular stimulus.

ANSWER: method (or member function for C++ programmers)

17. Based on the sketch of a class definition below, which methods can be invoked from outside an
instance of the class?

class Example
{public void method1( )
{ . . . }
private void method2( )
{ . . . }
 public void method3( )
{…}
private void method4( )
{ . . .}
}

_________________________________________________________

ANSWER: method1 and method3

18. What clause would produce the resolvent

P OR R OR S

when resolved with the clause

P OR Q

__________________

ANSWER: Q OR R OR S

19. What general rule should be added to the Prolog program below so that Prolog can conclude that ice
cream is better than spinach?

better(icecream, peanutbutter).
better(peanutbutter, spinach).

___________________________________________________________

ANSWER: The equivalent of: better(X, Z) :- better(X, Y), better(Y, Z).

20. Based on the Prolog program below, what goal should be used to find the siblings of sue?

parent(jill, sue).
parent(jill, sally).
parent(john, sue).
parent(john, sally).
sibling(X, Y) :- parent(Z, X), parent(Z, Y).

_________________________________________

ANSWER: Either sibling(X, sue) or sibling(sue, X)

Vocabulary (Matching) Questions

The following is a list of terms from the chapter along with descriptive phrases that can be used to produce
questions (depending on the topics covered in your course) in which the students are ask to match phrases
and terms. An example would be a question of the form, “In the blank next to each phrase, write the term
from the following list that is best described by the phrase.”

Term Descriptive Phrase

assembly language A step up from machine language
programming paradigm A program development methodology
structured programming A methodology that applies well-designed control structures to
produce well-organized software
grammar The rules defining the syntax of a programming language
parse tree A “pictorial” representation of the grammatical structure of a string
compiler A program that translates other programs into machine language
interpreter A program that executes other programs written in a high-level
language without first translating them into machine language
high-level language A notational system for representing algorithms in human compatible
terms rather than in the details of machinery
semantics Meaning as opposed to appearance
syntax Appearance as opposed to meaning
operator precedence Dictates the order in which operations are performed
data structure A conceptual organization of information
parameter A means of passing information to a procedure or function
data type Encompasses both an encoding system and a collection of operations
syntax diagrams A way of representing a grammar
source program A program expressed in a high-level language

General Format Questions

1. What does it mean to say that a programming language is machine independent?

ANSWER: It means that programs written in the language do not refer to properties of a specific machine
and are therefore compatible with any computer.

2. Explain the distinction between the imperative and declarative programming paradigms.

ANSWER: The imperative paradigm requires that a programmer describe an algorithm for solving the
problem at hand. The declarative paradigm requires that the programmer describe the problem.

3. Explain why the generation approach to classifying programming languages fails to capture the full
scope of today’s languages.

ANSWER: The generation approach fails to reflect the array of distinct programming paradigms.

4. Explain the distinction between translating a program (in a high-level language) and interpreting the
program.

ANSWER: To translate a program is to convert it to another (usually low-level) language without

executing it. To interpret a program is to execute it directly from its high-level language form.

5. Why is the straightforward “goto” statement no longer popular in high-level programming languages?

ANSWER: Its use led to poorly structured programs that were hard to understand.

6. Explain the distinction between a formal parameter and an actual parameter.

ANSWER: A formal parameter is a term used in a subprogram unit to refer to data that will be given to the
subprogram when it is executed. An actual parameter is the data that is given to the subprogram unit when
it is executed. (A formal parameter is a “place holder” that is “filled in” with an actual parameter when the
subprogram unit is executed.)

7. Explain the distinction between global and local variables.

ANSWER: A global variable is readily accessible throughout the program whereas a local variable is
accessible only within a specific area.

8. Explain the distinction between a procedure and a function.

ANSWER: A procedure returns values via parameters and global variables whereas a function returns a
value as “the value of the function.”

9. Based on the grammar below, draw a parse tree showing that the string “drip drip drip” is a Leak.

ANSWER:

10. Show that the grammar below is ambiguous by drawing two distinct parse trees for the string “drip drip
drip.”

ANSWER: Possible answers include:

11. In the context of the object-oriented paradigm, what is a constructor?

ANSWER: A constructor is a special “method” that is executed when an object is first constructed,
normally for the purpose of performing initialization activities.
12. Briefly describe the task of each of the following.

A. Lexical analyzer

B. Parser

C. Code Generator

ANSWER: A. Groups symbols together to form tokens

B. Ascertains the grammatical role of program’s components
C. Constructs object program

13. Explain why key words in a programming language are often reserved words.

ANSWER: Key words are used to help the parser identify grammatical structures in a program. Thus, using
these words are used for other purposes could confuse the parser.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
head o’er muckle ye ken,” after a course of haggis washed down
with sparkling wines and old port.
“Tell me what a man eats,” said Brillat Savarin, “and I’ll tell you what
he is.”

Peter the Great

did not like the presence of “listening lacqueys” in the dining-room.

Peter’s favourite dinner was, like himself, peculiar: “A soup, with four
cabbages in it; gruel; pig, with sour cream for sauce; cold roast
meat with pickled cucumbers or salad; lemons and lamprey, salt
meat, ham, and Limburg cheese.”
“Lemons and lamprey” must have had a roughish seat, atop of pig
and sour cream. I once tasted lampreys—only once. It was in
Worcestershire, and said lampreys were stewed (I fancy) in
burgundy, and served in a small tureen—en casserole, our lively
neighbours would have called the production, which was grateful,
but much embarrassed with richness.

Napoleon the Great,

whose tastes were simple, is said to have preferred a broiled breast

of mutton to any other dinner-dish. Napoleon III., however,
encouraged extravagance of living; and Zola tells us in Le Débâcle
that the unfortunate emperor, ill as he was, used to sit down to so
many courses of rich foods every night until “the downfall” arrived at
Sédan, and that a train of cooks and scullions with (literally) a
“batterie” de cuisine, was attached to his staff.

Her Majesty

Queen Victoria’s dinner-table is invariably graced with a cold sirloin

of beef, amongst other joints; and the same simple fare has satisfied
the aspirations and gratified the palate of full many a celebrity. The
great

Duke of Wellington

was partial to a well-made Irish stew; and nothing delighted Charles

Dickens more than a slice out of the breast of a hot roast-goose.
A word about the mushroom. Although said to be of enormous value
in sauces and ragouts, I shall always maintain that the mushroom is
best when eaten all by his quaint self. His flavour is so delicate that
’tis pitiful to mix him with fish, flesh, or fowl—more especially the
first-named. I have seen mushrooms and bacon cooked together,
and I have seen beef-steak (cut into small pieces) and bacon cooked
together, and it was with some difficulty that my Irish host got me
out of the kitchen. If ever I am hanged, it will be for killing a cook.
Above all never eat mushrooms which you have not seen in their
uncooked state. The mushroom, like the truffle, loses more flavour
the longer he is kept; and to “postpone” either is fatal.
“The plainer the meal the longer the life.” Thus an eminent physician
—already mentioned in these pages. “We begin with soup, and
perhaps a glass of cold punch, to be followed by a piece of turbot, or
a slice of salmon with lobster sauce; and while the venison or South-
down is getting ready, we toy with a piece of sweetbread, and
mellow it with a bumper of Madeira. No sooner is the mutton or
venison disposed of, with its never-failing accompaniments of jelly
and vegetables, than we set the whole of it in a ferment with
champagne, and drown it with hock and sauterne. These are quickly
followed by the wing and breast of a partridge, or a bit of pheasant
or wild duck; and when the stomach is all on fire with excitement,
we cool it for an instant with a piece of iced pudding, and then
immediately lash it into a fury with undiluted alcohol in the form of
cognac or a strong liqueur; after which there comes a spoonful or so
of jelly as an emollient, a morsel of ripe Stilton as a digestant, a
piquant salad to whet the appetite for wine, and a glass of old port
to persuade the stomach, if it can, into quietness. All these are more
leisurely succeeded by dessert, with its baked meats, its fruits, and
its strong drinks, to be afterwards muddled with coffee, and
complicated into a rare mixture with tea, floating with the richest
cream.”
Hoity, toity! And not a word about a French plât, or even a curry,
either! But we must remember that this diatribe comes from a
gentleman who has laid down the theory that cold water is not only
the cheapest of beverages, but the best. Exception, too, may be
taken to the statement that a “piquant salad” whets the appetite for
wine. I had always imagined that a salad—and, indeed, anything
with vinegar in its composition—rather spoilt the human palate for
wine than otherwise. And what sort of “baked meats” are usually
served with desert?

How the Poor Live.

An esteemed friend who has seen better days, sends word how to
dine a man, his wife, and three children for 7½d. He heads his letter

The Kent Road Cookery.

A stew is prepared with the following ingredients: 1 lb. bullock’s

cheek (3½d.), ½ pint white beans (1d.), ½ pint lentils (1d.), pot-
herbs (1d.), 2 lb. potatoes (1d.)—Total 7½d.
When he has friends, the banquet is more expensive: 1 lb. bullock’s
cheek (3½d.), ½ lb. cow-heel (2½d.), ½ lb. leg of beef (3d.), 1 pint
white beans (2d.), ½ pint lentils (1d.), pot-herbs (1d.), 5 lb.
potatoes (2d.)—total 1s. 3d.
As we never know what may happen, the above menus may come in
useful.

Doctor Nansen’s Banquet

on the ice-floe, to celebrate his failure to discover the Pole, was
simple enough, at all events. But it would hardly commend itself to
the fin de siècle “Johnny.” There was raw gull in it, by way of a full-
flavoured combination of poisson and entrée; there was meat
chocolate in it, and peli—I should say, pemmican. There were
pancakes, made of oatmeal and dog’s blood, fried in seal’s blubber.
And I rather fancy the relevé was Chien au nature. For in his most
interesting work, Across Greenland, Doctor Nansen has inserted the
statement that the man who turns his nose up at raw dog for dinner
is unfit for an Arctic expedition. For my own poor part, I would take
my chance with a Porterhouse steak, cut from a Polar bear.

Prison Fare.

Another simple meal. Any visitor to one of H.M. penitentiaries may

have noticed in the cells a statement to the effect that “beans and
bacon” may be substituted for meat, for the convicts’ dinners, on
certain days. “Beans and bacon” sounds rural, if not absolutely
bucolic. “Fancy giving such good food to the wretches!” once
exclaimed a lady visitor. But those who have sampled the said
“beans and bacon” say that it is hardly to be preferred to the six
ounces of Australian dingo or the coarse suet-duff (plumless) which
furnish the ordinary prison dinner. For the tablespoonful of pappy
beans with which the captive staves off starvation are of the genus
“haricot”; and the parallelogram of salted hog’s-flesh which
accompanies the beans does not exceed, in size, the ordinary
railway ticket.
 CHAPTER X
VEGETABLES
“Herbs and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses.”

Use and abuse of the potato—Its eccentricities—Its origin—

Hawkins, not Raleigh, introduced it into England—With or
without the “jacket”?—Don’t let it be à-la-ed—Benevolence and
large-heartedness of the cabbage family—Peas on earth—
Pythagoras on the bean—“Giving him beans”—“Haricot” a
misnomer—“Borston” beans—Frijoles—The carrot—Crécy soup—
The Prince of Wales—The Black Prince and the King of Bohemia.

Item, the Potato, earth-apple, murphy, or spud; the most useful, as

well as the most exasperating gift of a bountiful Providence. Those
inclined to obesity may skip the greater part of this chapter. You can
employ a potato for almost anything. It comes in very handy for the
manufacture of starch, sugar, Irish stew, Scotch whisky, and
Colorado beetles. Cut it in half, and with one half you restore an old
master, and with the other drive the cat from the back garden. More
deadly battles have been waged over the proper way to cook a
potato, than over a parish boundary, or an Irish eviction. Strong-
headed men hurl the spud high in air, and receive and fracture it on
their frontal bones; whilst a juggler like Paul Cinquevalli can do what
he likes with it. Worn inside the pocket, it is an infallible cure for
chronic rheumatism, fits, and tubercular meningitis. Worn inside the
body it will convert a living skeleton into a Daniel Lambert. Plant
potatoes in a game district, and if they come up you will find that
after the haulms have withered you can capture all your rich
neighbour’s pheasants, and half the partridges in the country. A
nicely-baked potato, deftly placed beneath the root of his tail, will
make the worst “jibber” in the world travel; whilst, when combined
with buttermilk, and a modicum of meal, the earth-apple has been
known to nourish millions of the rising generation, and to give them
sufficient strength and courage to owe their back rents, and
accuracy of aim for exterminating the brutal owner of the soil.
The waiter, bless ye! the harmless, flat-footed waiter, doesn’t know
all this. Potatoes to him are simply 2d. or 3d. in the little account,
according to whether they be “biled, mash, or soty”; and if
questioned as to the natural history of the floury tuber, he would
probably assume an air of injured innocence, and assure you that
during his reign of “thirty-five year, man and boy,” that establishment
had “never ’ad no complaints.”
The potato is most eccentric in disposition, and its cultivator should
know by heart the beautiful ode of Horace which commences

Aequam memento rebus in arduis . . .

The experiences of the writer as a potato grower have been

somewhat mixed, and occasionally like the following:—Set your
snowflakes in deeply-trenched, heavily-manured ground, a foot
apart. In due time you will get a really fine crop of groundsel,
charlock, and slugs, with enough bind-weed to strangle the sea-
serpent. Clear all this rubbish off, and after a week or two the eye
will be gladdened with the sight of the delicate green leaf of the
tuber peeping through the soil. Slow music. Enter the Earl of Frost.
No; they will not all be cut off. You will get one tuber. Peel it
carefully, and place it in the pig-stye—the peeling spoils the quality
of the pork. Throw the peeling away—on the bed in which you have
sown annuals for choice—and in the late Spring you will have a row
of potatoes which will do you credit.
But this is frivolous. The origin of the potato is doubtful; but that it
was used by the ancients, in warfare, is tolerably certain. Long
before the Spaniards reached the New World it was cultivated largely
by the Incas; and it was the Spaniards who brought the tuber to
Europe, in the beginning of the sixteenth century. It was brought to
England from Virginia by Sir John Hawkins in 1563; and again in
1586 by Sir Francis Drake, to whom, as the introducer of the potato,
a statue was erected at Offenburg, in Baden, in 1853. In schools and
other haunts of ignorance, the credit for the introduction of the
tuber used to be and is (I believe) still given to Sir Walter Raleigh,
who has been wrongly accredited with as many “good things” as
have been Theodore Hook or Sidney Smith. And I may mention en
parenthèse, that I don’t entirely believe that cloak story. For many
years the tuber was known in England as the “Batata”—overhaul
your Lorna Doone—and in France, until the close of the eighteenth
century, the earth apple was looked upon with suspicion, as the
cause of leprosy and assorted fevers; just as the tomato, at the
close of the more civilised nineteenth century, is said by the vulgar
and swine-headed to breed cancer.
Now then, With or without the jacket? And the reader who imagines
that I am going to answer the question has too much imagination.
As the old butler in Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone observes, there is
much to be said on both sides. Personally I lean to the “no-jacket”
side, unless the tuber be baked; and I would make it penal to serve
a potato in any other way than boiled, steamed, or baked.[5] The
bad fairy Ala should have no hand in its manipulation; and there be
few æsthetic eaters who would not prefer the old-fashioned “ball of
flour” to slices of the sodden article swimming in a bath of grease
and parsley, and called a Sauté. The horrible concoction yclept
“preserved potatoes,” which used to be served out aboard sailing
vessels, after the passengers had eaten all the real articles, and
which tasted like bad pease-pudding dressed with furniture polish,
is, happily, deceased. And the best potatoes, the same breed which
our fathers and our forefathers munched in the Covent Garden
“Cave of Harmony,” grow, I am credibly informed, in Jermyn Street.
Moreover if you wish to spoil a dish of good spuds, there is no surer
way than by leaving on the dish-cover. So much for boiling ’em—or
steaming ’em.
The Cabbage is a fine, friendly fellow, who makes himself at home,
and generally useful, in the garden; whilst his great heart swells,
and swells, in the full knowledge that he is doing his level best to
please all. Though cut down in the springtime of his youth, his
benevolence is so great that he will sprout again from his headless
trunk, if required, and given time for reflection. The Romans
introduced him into Great Britain, but there was a sort of cow-
cabbage in the island before that time which our blue forefathers
used to devour with their bacon, and steaks, in a raw state.
“The most evolved and final variety of the cabbage,” writes a savant,
“is the Cauliflower, in which the vegetative surplus becomes poured
into the flowering head, of which the flowering is more or less
checked; the inflorescence becoming a dense corymb instead of an
open panicle, and the majority of the flowers aborting”—the head
gardener usually tells you all this in the Scottish language—“so as to
become incapable of producing seed. Let a specially vegetative
cabbage repeat the excessive development of its leaf parenchyma,
and we have the wrinkled and blistered Savoy, of which the hardy
constitution, but comparative coarseness, become also more
intelligible; again a specially vegetative cauliflower gives us an easily
grown and hardy winter variety, Broccoli”—Broccilo in Costerese
—“from which, and not from the ordinary cauliflower, a sprouting
variety arises in turn.”
In Jersey the cabbage-stalks are dried, varnished, and used as spars
for thatched roofs, as also for the correction of the youthful
population. Cook all varieties of the cabbage in water already at the
boil, with a little salt and soda in it. The French sprinkle cheese on a
cauliflower, to make it more tasty, and it then becomes

Choufleur aû Gratin.

Remove the green leaves, and underboil your cauliflower. Pour

over it some butter sauce in which have been mixed two ounces
of grated cheese—half Gruyère and half Parmesan. Powder with
 bread crumbs, or raspings, and with more grated cheese. Lastly,
pour over it a teaspoonful of oiled butter. Place in a hot oven
and bake till the surface is a golden brown, which should be in
from ten to fifteen minutes. Serve in same dish.

Vegetarians should be particularly careful to soak every description

of cabbage in salt and water before cooking. Otherwise the
vegetarians will probably eat a considerable portion of animal food.
Here occurs an opportunity for the recipe for an elegant dish, which
the French call Perdrix aux Choux, which is simply

Partridge Stewed with Cabbage, etc.

A brace of birds browned in the stewpan with butter or good

dripping, and a portion of a hand of pickled pork in small pieces,
some chopped onion and a clove or two. Add some broth, two
carrots (chopped), a bay-leaf, and a chopped sausage or two.
Then add a Savoy cabbage, cut into quarters, and seasoned
with pepper and salt. Let all simmer together for an hour and a
half. Then drain the cabbage, and place it, squashed down, on a
dish. Arrange the birds in the middle, surround them with the
pieces of pork and sausage, and pour over all the liquor from
the stew.

This is an excellent dish, and savours more of Teutonic than of

French cooking. But you mustn’t tell a Frenchman this, if he be
bigger than yourself.
The toothsome Pea has been cultivated in the East from time
immemorial, though the ancient Greeks and Romans do not appear
to have had knowledge of such a dainty. Had Vitellius known the
virtues of duck and green peas he would probably have not been so
wrapt up in his favourite dormice, stuffed with poppy-seed and
stewed in honey. The ancient Egyptians knew all about the little
pulse, and not one of the leaders of society was mummified without
a pod or two being placed amongst his wrappings. And after
thousand of years said peas, when sown, have been known to
germinate. The mummy pea-plant, however, but seldom bears fruit.
Our idiotic ancestors, the ancient Britons, knew nothing about peas,
nor do any of their descendants appear to have troubled about the
vegetable before the reign of the Virgin Queen. Then they were
imported from Holland, together with schnapps, curaçoa, and other
things, and no “swagger” banquet was held without a dish of “fresh-
shelled ’uns,” which were accounted “fit dainties for ladies, they
came so far and cost so dear.” In England up-to-date peas are
frequently accompanied by pigeon pie at table; the dove family
being especially partial to the little pulse, either when attached to
the haulm, in the garden, or in a dried state. So that the crafty
husbandman, who possesses a shot gun, frequently gathereth both
pea and pigeon. A chalky soil is especially favourable to pea
cultivation; and deal sawdust sprinkled well over the rows
immediately after the setting of the seed will frustrate the knavish
tricks of the field mouse, who also likes peas. The man who
discovered the affinity between mint and this vegetable ought to
have received a gold medal, and I would gladly attend the execution
of the caitiff who invented the tinned peas which we get at the
foreign restaurants, at three times the price of the English article.
Here is a good simple recipe for Pea Soup, made from the dried
article:

Soak a quart of split peas in rain-water for twelve hours. Put

them in the pot with one carrot, one onion, one leek, a sprig or
two of parsley (all chopped), one pound of streaky bacon, and
three quarts of the liquor in which either beef, mutton, pork, or
poultry may have been boiled. Boil for nearly three hours,
remove the bacon, and strain the soup through a tammy. Heat
up, and serve with dried mint, and small cubes of fat bacon
fried crisp.

Green-Pea Soup is made in precisely the same way; but the peas will
not need soaking beforehand, and thrifty housewives put in the
shells as well.
Harmless and nutritious a vegetable as the Bean would appear to be,
it did not altogether find favour with the ancients. Pythagoras, who
had quaint ideas on the subject of the human soul, forbade his
disciples to eat beans, because they were generated in the foul ooze
out of which man was created. Lucian, who had a vivid imagination,
describes a philosopher in Hades who was particularly hard on the
bean, to eat which he declared was as great a crime as to eat one’s
father’s head. And yet Lucian was accounted a man of common
sense in his time. The Romans only ate beans at funerals, being
under the idea that the souls of the dead abode in the vegetable.
According to tradition, the “caller herrin’” hawked in the streets of
Edinburgh were once known as “lives o’ men,” from the risks run by
the fishermen. And the Romans introduced the bean into England by
way of cheering up our blue forefathers. In the Roman festival of
Lemuralia, the father of the family was accustomed to throw black
beans over his head, whilst repeating an incantation. This ceremony
probably inspired Lucian’s philosopher—for whom, however, every
allowance should be made, when we come to consider his place of
residence—with his jaundiced views of the Faba vulgaris. Curiously
enough, amongst the vulgar folk, at the present day, there would
seem to be some sort of prejudice against the vegetable; or why
should “I’ll give him beans” be a synonymous threat with “I’ll do him
all the mischief I can?”
There is plenty of nourishment in a bean; that is the opinion of the
entire medical faculty. And whilst beans and bacon make a favourite
summer repast for the farm-labourer and his family, the dish is also
(at the commencement of the bean season) to be met with at the
tables of the wealthy. The aroma of the flower of the broad bean
was once compared, in one of John Leech’s studies in Punch, to “the
most delicious ’air oil,” but, apart from this fragrance, there is but
little sentiment about the Faba vulgaris. A much more graceful
vegetable is the Phaseolus vulgaris, the kidney, or, as the idiotic
French call it, the haricot bean. It is just as sensible to call a leg of
Welsh mutton a pré salé, or salt meadow. No well-behaved hashed
venison introduces himself to our notice unless accompanied by a
dish of kidney beans. And few people in Europe besides Frenchmen
and convicts eat the dried seeds of this form of bean, which is
frequently sown in suburban gardens to form a fence to keep out
cats. But the suburban cat knows a trick worth a dozen of that one;
and no bean that was ever born will arrest his progress, or turn him
from his evil ways. It is criminal to smother the kidney bean with
melted butter at table. A little oil, vinegar, and pepper agree with
him much better.
In the great continent of America, the kidney-bean seed, dried, is
freely partaken of. Pork and “Borston” beans, in fact, form the
national dish, and right good it is. But do not attempt any violent
exercise after eating the same. The Mexicans are the largest bean-
eaters in the world. They fry the vegetables in oil or stew them with
peppers and onions, and these frijoles form the principal sustenance
of the lower orders. An English “bean feast” (Vulg. beano) is a feast
at which no beans, and not many other things, are eaten. The
intelligent foreigner may take it that beano simply means the
worship of Bacchus.
With the exception of the onion there is no more useful aid to
cookery of all sorts than the lowly carrot, which was introduced into
England—no, not by the Romans—from Holland, in the sixteenth
century. And the ladies who attended the court of Charles I. were in
the habit of wearing carrot leaves in the hair, and on their court
robes, instead of feathers. A similar fashion might be revived at the
present epoch, with advantage to the banking account of vile man.
As the Flemish gardeners brought over the roots, we should not
despise carrots cooked in the Flemish way. Simmer some young
carrots in butter, with pepper and salt. Add cream (or milk and yolk
of eggs), a pinch of sugar, and a little chopped parsley.
H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, according to report, invariably eats
carrot soup on the 26th of August. The French call it “Crécy” soup,
because their best carrots grow there; and Crécy it may be
remembered was also the scene of a great battle, when one
Englishman proved better than five Frenchmen. In this battle the
Black Prince performed prodigies of valour, afterwards assuming the
crest of the late Bohemian King—three ostrich feathers (surely these
should be carrot tops?) with the motto “Ich Dien.”

Crécy Soup.

Place a mirepoix of white wine in the pot, and put a quantity of

sliced carrots atop. Moisten with broth, and keep simmering till
the carrots are done. Then pour into a mortar, pound, and pass
through a tammy. Thin it with more broth, sweeten in the
proportion of one tablespoonful of sugar to two gallons of soup;
heat up, pop a little butter in at the finish, and in serving it add
either small cubes of fried bread, or rice boiled as for curry (see
page 145).
 CHAPTER XI
VEGETABLES (continued)
“Earth’s simple fruits; we all enjoy them.
Then why with sauces rich alloy them?”

The brief lives of the best—A vegetable with a pedigree—

Argenteuil—The Elysian Fields—The tomato the emblem of love
—“Neeps”—Spinach—“Stomach-brush”—The savoury tear-
provoker—Invaluable for wasp-stings—Celery merely cultivated
“smallage”—The “Apium”—The parsnip—O Jerusalem!—The
golden sunflower—How to get pheasants—A vegetarian banquet
—“Swelling wisibly.”

It is one of the most exasperating laws and ordinations of Nature

that the nicest things shall last the shortest time. “Whom the gods
love die young,” is an ancient proverb; and the produce of the
garden which is most agreeable to man invariably gives out too
soon. Look at peas. Every gardener of worth puts in the seed so that
you may get the different rows of marrow-fats and telephones and
ne plus ultras in “succession”; and up they all come, at one and the
same time, whilst, if you fail to pick them all at once, the combined
efforts of mildew and the sun will soon save you the labour of
picking them at all. Look at strawberries; and why can’t they stay in
our midst all the year round, like the various members of the
cabbage family?
Then look at Asparagus. The gardener who could persuade the heads
of this department to pop up in succession, from January to
December would earn more money than the Prime Minister. The
favourite vegetable of the ancient Romans was introduced by them,
with their accustomed unselfishness, into Britain, where it has since
flourished—more particularly in the alluvial soil of the Thames valley
in the neighbourhood of Mortlake and Richmond, ground which is
also especially favourable to the growth of celery. In an ancient work
called De Re Rustica, Cato the Elder, who was born 234 B.C., has
much to say—far more, indeed, than I can translate without the aid
of a dictionary or “crib”—about the virtues and proper cultivation of
asparagus; and Pliny, another noble Roman, devotes several
chapters of his Natural History (published at the commencement of
the Christian era) to the same subject. “Of all the productions of
your garden” says this Mr. Pliny, “your chief care will be your
asparagus.” And the cheerful and sanguine householder of to-day
who sows his asparagus, and expects to get it “while he waits” has
ample consolation for disappointment in the reflection that his
labours will benefit posterity, if not the next tenant.
The foreigners can beat us for size, in the matter of asparagus; but
ours is a long way in front for flavour. In France the vegetable is very
largely grown at Argenteuil on the Seine, a district which has also
produced, and still produces, a wine which is almost as dangerous to
man as hydrocyanic acid, and which was invariably served in the
restaurants, after the sitting had been a lengthy one, no matter what
special brand might have been ordered. English hosts play the same
game with their “military” ports and inferior sherries. The Argenteuil
asparagus is now grown between the vines—at least 1000 acres are
in cultivation—hence the peculiar flavour which, however grateful it
may be to Frenchmen, is somewhat sickly and not to be compared
with that of the “little gentleman in Green,” nearly the whole of
whom we English can consume with safety to digestion.
According to Greek mythology, asparagus grew in the Elysian fields;
but whether the blessed took oil and vinegar with it, or the “bill-
sticker’s paste,” so favoured in middle-class kitchens of to-day, there
is no record. It goes best, however, with a plain salad dressing—a
“spot” of mustard worked into a tablespoonful of oil, and a dessert-
spoonful of tarragon vinegar, with pepper and salt ad lib.
Asparagus is no longer known in the British pharmacopœia, but the
French make large medicinal use of its root, which is supposed to
still the action of the heart, like foxglove, and to act as a preventive
of calculi. In cooking the vegetable, tie in small bundles, which
should be stood on end in the saucepan, so that the delicate heads
should be steamed, and not touched by the boiling water. Many
cooks will contest this point; which, however, does not admit of
argument.
There was once a discussion in a well-known hostelry, as to whether
the

Tomato

was a fruit or a vegetable. Eventually the head-waiter was invited to

solve the great question. He did so on the spot.
“Tumarter, sir? Tumarter’s a hextra.”
And as a “hextra” it has never since that period ceased to be
regarded. A native of South America, the plant was introduced into
Europe by the Spaniards, late in the sixteenth century, and the
English got it in 1596. Still until a quarter of a century ago the
tomato has not been largely cultivated, save by the market
gardener; in fact in private gardens it was conspicuous by its
absence. Those who eat it do not invariably succumb to cancer; and
the dyspeptic should always keep it on the premises. As the tomato
is also known as the “love-apple,” a great point was missed by our
old friend Sergeant Buzfuz, in the celebrated Bardell v. Pickwick trial,
when referring to the postscript, “chops, and tomato sauce.” Possibly
Charles Dickens was not an authority on veget—— I beg pardon,
“hextras.”
Here is a French recipe for

Tomate au Gratin:
 Cut open the tops and scoop out the pulp. Pass it through a
sieve, to clear away the pips, and mix with it either a modicum
of butter, or oil, some chopped shalot and garlic, with pepper
and salt. Simmer the mixture for a quarter of an hour, then stir
in some bread-crumbs, previously soaked in broth, and some
yolks of egg. When cold, fill the tomato skins with the mixture,
shake some fine bread raspings over each, and bake in quick
oven for ten or twelve minutes.

The

Turnip

is not, as might be sometimes imagined, entirely composed of

compressed deal splinters, but is a vegetable which was cultivated in
India long before the Britons got it. The Scotch call turnips “neeps”;
but the Scotch will do anything. Probably no member of the
vegetable family is so great a favourite with the insect pests sent on
earth by an all-wise Providence to prevent mankind having too much
to eat. But see that you get a few turnips to cook when there is
roast duck for dinner.

Spinach

was introduced into Spain by the Arabs, and as neither nation

possessed at that time, at all events, the attribute of extra-
cleanliness, they must have eaten a great deal of “matter in the
wrong place,” otherwise known as dirt. For if ever there was a
vegetable the preparation of which for table would justify any cook
in giving notice to leave, it is spinach.
The Germans have nick-named it “stomach-brush,” and there is no
plant growing which conduces more to the health of man. But there
has been more trouble over the proper way to serve it at table than
over Armenia. The French chop up their épinards and mix butter, or
gravy, with the mess. Many English, on the other hand, prefer the
leaves cooked whole. It is all a matter of taste.
But I seem to scent a soft, sweet fragrance in the air, a homely and
health-giving reek, which warns me that I have too long neglected
to touch upon the many virtues of the

Onion.

Indigenous to India in the form of

Garlic

(or gar-leek, the original onion), the Egyptians got hold of the tear-
provoker and cultivated it 2000 years before the Christian era. So
that few of the mortals of whom we have ever read can have been
ignorant of the uses of the onion, or gar-leek. But knowledge and
practice have enabled modern gardeners to produce larger bulbs
than even the most imaginative of the ancients can have dreamt of.
To mention all the uses to which the onion is put in the kitchen
would be to write a book too weighty for any known motive power
to convey to the British Museum; but it may be briefly observed of
the juice of the Cepa that it is invaluable for almost any purpose,
from flavouring a dish fit to set before a king, to the alleviation of
the inflammation caused by the poison-bearing needle which the
restless wasp keeps for use within his, or her, tail. In fact, the
inhabited portion of the globe had better be without noses than
without onions.
Like the tomato, Celery is a “hextra”—and a very important one. If
you buy the heads at half-a-crown per hundred and sell them at
threepence a portion, it will not exercise your calculating powers to
discover the profits which can be made out of this simple root.
Celery is simply cultivated “smallage”; a weed which has existed in
Britain since the age of ice. It was the Italians who made the
discovery that educated smallage would become celery; and it is
worthy of note that their forefathers, the conquerors of the world,
with the Greeks, seem to have known “no touch of it”—as a relish,
at all events; though some writers will have it that the “Apium,” with
which the victors at the Isthmian and other games were crowned
was not parsley but the leaf of the celery plant. But what does it
matter? Celery is invaluable as a flavourer, and when properly
cultivated, and not stringy, a most delightful and satisfactory
substance to bite. In fact a pretty woman never shows to more
advantage than when nibbling a crisp, “short” head of celery—
provided she possess pretty teeth.
With boiled turkey, or ditto pheasant, celery sauce is de rigueur; and
it should be flavoured slightly with slices of onion, an ounce of butter
being allowed to every head of celery. The French are fond of it
stewed; and as long as the flavour of the gravy, or jus, does not
disguise the flavour of the celery, it is excellent when thus treated.
Its merits in a salad will be touched upon in another chapter.
The Parsnip is a native of England, where it is chiefly used to make
an inferior kind of spirit, or a dreadful brand of wine. Otherwise few
people would trouble to cultivate the parsnip; for we can’t be having
boiled pork or salt fish for dinner every day. The Vegetable Marrow is
a member of the pumpkin family and is a comparatively tasteless
occupant of the garden, its appearance in which heralds the
departure of summer. In the suburbs, if you want to annoy the
people next door, you cannot do better than put in a marrow plant
or two. If they come to anything, and get plenty of water, they will
crawl all over your neighbour’s premises; and unless he is fond of
the breed, and cuts and cooks them, they make him mad. The frugal
housewife, blessed with a large family, makes jam of the surplus
marrows; but I prefer a conserve of apricot, gooseberry, or
greengage. Another purpose to which to put this vegetable is—

Scoop out the seeds, after cutting it in half, lengthways. Fill the
space with minced veal (cooked), small cubes of bacon, and
plenty of seasoning—some people add the yoke of an egg—put
on the other half marrow, and bake for half-an-hour.
This Baked Marrow is a cheap and homely dish which, like many
another savoury dish, seldom finds its way to the rich man’s dining-
room.
The Artichoke is a species of thistle; and the man who pays the usual
high-toned restaurant prices for the pleasure of eating such insipid
food, is an—never mind what. Boil the thing in salt and water, and
dip the ends of the leaves in oil and vinegar, or Holland sauce,
before eating. Then you will enjoy the really fine flavour of the—oil
and vinegar, or Holland sauce.
The so-called Jerusalem Artichoke is really a species of sunflower. Its
tuber is not a universal favourite, though it possesses far from a
coarse flavour. The plant has nothing whatever to do with Jerusalem,
and never had. Put a tuber or two into your garden, and you will
have Jerusalem artichokes as long as you live on those premises. For
the vegetable will stay with you as long as the gout, or the rate-
gatherer. Pheasants are particularly partial to this sort of crop.
By far the best vegetable production of the gorgeous East is the

Brinjal

’Tis oval in shape, and about the size of a hen’s egg, the surface
being purple in colour. It is usually cut in twain and done “on the
grating”; I have met something very like the brinjal in Covent
Garden; but can find no record of the vegetable’s pedigree in any
book.
Although there are still many vegetarian restaurants in our large
towns, the prejudice against animal food is, happily, dying out; and
if ridicule could kill, we should not hear much more of the “cranks”
who with delightful inconsistency, would spurn a collop of beef, and
gorge themselves on milk, in every shape and form. If milk, butter,
and cheese be not animal food I should like to know what is? And it
is as reasonable to ask a man to sustain life on dried peas and
mushrooms as to feed a tiger on cabbages.
Once, and only once, has the writer attempted a

Vegetarian Banquet.

It was savoury enough; and possessed the additional merit of being

cheap. Decidedly “filling at the price” was that meal. We—I had a
messmate—commenced with (alleged) Scotch broth—which
consisted principally of dried peas, pearl barley, and oatmeal—and a
large slice of really excellent brown bread was served, to each, with
this broth. Thereupon followed a savoury stew of onions and
tomatoes, relieved by a “savoury pie,” apparently made from
potatoes, leeks, bread crumbs, butter, and “postponed” mushrooms.
We had “gone straight” up to now, but both shied a bit at the
maccaroni and grated cheese. We had two bottles of ginger beer
apiece, with this dinner, which cost less than three shillings for the
two, after the dapper little waitress had been feed. On leaving, we
both agreed to visit that cleanly and well-ordered little house again,
if only from motives of economy; but within half an hour that
programme was changed.
Like the old lady at the tea-drinking, I commenced to “swell wisibly”;
and so did my companion.
“Mon alive!” he gasped. “I feel just for all the wor-rld like a captive
balloon, or a puffy-dunter—that’s a puffing whale, ye ken. I’ll veesit
yon onion-hoose nae mair i’ ma life!”
And I think it cost us something like half a sovereign in old brandy to
neutralise the effects of that vegetarian banquet.
 CHAPTER XII
CURRIES
“Thou com’st in such a questionable shape
That I will speak to thee.”

Different modes of manufacture—The “native” fraud—“That

man’s family”—The French kari—A Parsee curry—“The oyster in
the sauce”—Ingredients—Malay curry—Locusts—When to serve
—What to curry—Prawn curry—Dry curry, a champion recipe—
Rice—The Bombay duck.

The poor Indian grinds his coriander seeds, green ginger, and other
ingredients between two large flat stones; taking a whiff at the
family “hubble-bubble” pipe at intervals. The frugal British housewife
purchases (alleged) curry powder in the warehouse of Italy—where
it may have lived on, like Claudian, “through the centuries”—stirs a
spoonful or two into the hashed mutton, surrounds it with a wall of
clammy rice, and calls it Benares Curry, made from the recipe of a
very dear uncle who met his death while tiger-shooting. And you will
be in the minority if you do not cut this savoury meat with a knife,
and eat potatoes, and very often cabbage, with it. The far-seeing
eating-house keeper corrals a Lascar or a discharged Mehtar into the
firm, gives him his board, a pound a month, and a clean puggaree
and Kummerbund daily, and “stars” him in the bill as an “Indian
chef, fresh from the Chowringhee Club, Calcutta.” And it is part of
the duties of this Oriental—supposed by the unwary to be at least a
prince in his native land—to hand the portions of curry, which he
may or may not have concocted, to the appreciative guests, who
enjoy the repast all the more from having the scent of the Hooghly
brought across the footlights. I was once sadly and solemnly
reproved by the head waiter of a very “swagger” establishment
indeed for sending away, after one little taste, the (alleged) curry
which had been handed me by an exile from Ind, in snow-white
raiment.
“You really ought to have eaten that, sir,” said the waiter, “for that
man’s family have been celebrated curry-makers for generations.”
I smole a broad smile. In the Land of the Moguls the very babies
who roll in the dust know the secret of curry-making. But that “that
man” had had any hand in the horrible concoction placed before me
I still resolutely decline to believe. And how can a man be cook and
waiter at the same time? The “native curry-maker,” depend on it, is
more or less of a fraud; and his aid is only invoked as an excuse for
overcharging.
At the Oriental Club are served, or used to be served, really excellent
curries, assorted; for as there be more ways than one of killing a
cat, so are there more curries than one. The French turn out a
horrible mixture, with parsley and mushrooms in it, which they call
kari; it is called by a still worse name on the Boulevards, and the
children of our lively neighbours are frequently threatened with it by
their nurses.
On the whole, the East Indian method is the best; and the most
philanthropic curry I ever tasted was one which my own Khitmughar
had just prepared, with infinite pains, for his own consumption. The
poor heathen had prospected a feast, as it was one of his numerous
“big days”; so, despising the homely dhal, on the which, with a plate
of rice and a modicum of rancid butter, he was wont to sustain
existence, he had manufactured a savoury mess of pottage, the
looks of which gratified me. So, at the risk of starting another
Mutiny, it was ordained that the slave should serve the refection at
the table of the “protector of the poor.” And a pukkha curry it was,
too. Another dish of native manufacture with which the writer
became acquainted was a

Parsee Curry.
The eminent firm of Jehangeer on one occasion presented a petition
to the commanding-officer that they might be allowed to supply a
special curry to the mess one guest-night. The request was probably
made as an inducement to some of the young officers to pay a little
on account of their “owings” to the firm; but it is to be feared that
no special vote of thanks followed the sampling of that special curry.
It was a curry! I tasted it for a week (as the Frenchman did the soup
of Swindon); and the Parsee chef must have upset the entire
contents of the spice-box into it. I never felt more like murder than
when the hotel cook in Manchester put nutmeg in the oyster sauce;
but after that curry, the strangling of the entire firm of Jehangeer
would, in our cantonments, at all events, have been brought in
“justifiable homicide.”
“Oyster sauce” recalls a quaint simile I once heard a bookmaker
make use of. He was talking of one of his aristocratic debtors, whom
he described as sure to pay up, if you could only get hold of him.
“But mark you,” continued the layer of odds, “he’s just about as easy
to get hold of as the oyster in the sauce, at one of our moonicipal
banquets!” But return we to our coriander seeds. There is absolutely
no reason why the frugal housewife in this country should not make
her own curry powder from day to day, as it may be required. Here
is an average Indian recipe; but it must be remembered that in the
gorgeous East tastes vary as much as elsewhere, and that Bengal,
Bombay, Madras (including Burmah), Ceylon, and the Straits
Settlements, have all different methods of preparing a curry.

A few coriander and cumin seeds—according to taste—eight

peppercorns, a small piece of turmeric, and one dried chili, all
pounded together.
When making the curry mixture, take a piece of the heart of a
cabbage, the size of a hen’s egg; chop it fine and add one sour
apple in thin slices the size of a Keswick codlin, the juice of a
medium-sized lemon, a salt-spoonful of black pepper, and a
tablespoonful of the above curry powder. Mix all well together;
then take six medium-sized onions which have been chopped
 small and fried a delicate brown, a clove of garlic, also chopped
small, two ounces of fresh butter, two ounces of flour, and one
pint of beef gravy. Boil up this lot (which commences with the
onions), and when boiling stir in the rest of the mixture. Let it
all simmer down, and then add the solid part of the curry, i.e.
the meat, cut in portions not larger than two inches square.

Remember, O frugal housewife, that the turmeric portion of the

entertainment should be added with a niggard hand. “Too much
turmeric” is the fault which is found with most curries made in
England. I remember, when a boy, that there was an idea rooted in
my mind that curries were made with Doctor Gregory’s Powder, an
unsavoury drug with which we were periodically regaled by the head
nurse; and there was always a fierce conflict at the dinner-table
when the bill-of-fare included this (as we supposed) physic-al terror.
But it was simply the taste of turmeric to which we took exception.
What is Turmeric? A plant in cultivation all over India, whose tubers
yield a deep yellow powder of a resinous nature. This resinous
powder is sold in lumps, and is largely used for adulterating
mustard; just as inferior anchovy sauce is principally composed of
Armenian Bole, the deep red powder with which the actor makes up
his countenance. Turmeric is also used medicinally in Hindustan, but
not this side of Suez, although in chemistry it affords an infallible
test for the presence of alkalies. The Coriander has become
naturalised in parts of England, but is more used on the Continent.
Our confectioners put the seeds in cakes and buns, also comfits, and
in Germany, Norway, Sweden, and (I fancy) Russia, they figure in
household bread. In the south of England, coriander and caraway
seeds are sown side by side, and crops of each are obtained in
alternate years. The coriander seed, too, is largely used with that of
the caraway and the cumin, for making the liqueur known as Kümmel.
Cumin is mentioned in Scripture as something particularly nice. The
seeds are sweet-savoured, something like those of the caraway, but
more potent. In Germany they put them into bread, and the Dutch
use them to flavour their cheeses. The seeds we get in England
come principally from Sicily and Malta.
And now that my readers know all about the ingredients of curry-
powder—it is assumed that no analysis of the chili, the ginger-root,
or the peppercorn, is needed—let them emulate the pupils of Mr.
Wackford Squeers, and “go and do it.”
Another Recipe for curry-powder includes fenugreek, cardamoms,
allspice, and cloves; but I verily believe that this was the powder
used in that abominable Parsee hell-broth, above alluded to, so it
should be cautiously approached, if at all. “Fenugreek” sounds evil;
and I should say a curry compounded of the above ingredients
would taste like a “Number One” pick-me-up. Yet another recipe
(Doctor Kitchener’s) specifies six ounces of coriander seed, five
ounces of turmeric (ower muckle, I’m of opeenion) two ounces each
of black pepper and mustard seed (ochone!), half an ounce of cumin
seed, half an ounce of cinnamon (donner und blitzen!), and one
ounce of lesser cardamoms. All these things are to be placed in a
cool oven, kept therein one night, and pounded in a marble mortar
next morning, preparatory to being rubbed through a sieve.
“Kitchener” sounds like a good cooking name; but, with all due
respect, I am not going to recommend his curry-powder.
A Malay curry is made with blanched almonds, which should be fried
in butter till lightly browned. Then pound them to a paste with a
sliced onion and some thin lemon-rind. Curry powder and gravy are
added, and a small quantity of cream. The Malays curry all sorts of
fish, flesh, and fowl, including the young shoots of the bamboo—and
nice tender, succulent morsels they are. At a hotel overlooking the
harbour of Point de Galle, Ceylon, “run,” at the time of the writer’s
visit, by a most convivial and enterprising Yankee, a canning
concocter of all sorts of “slings” and “cocktails,” there used to be
quite a plethora of curries in the bill-of-fare. But for a prawn curry
there is no place like the City of Palaces. And the reason for this
super-excellence is that the prawns—but that story had, perhaps,
best remain untold.
Curried Locusts formed one of the most eccentric dishes ever tasted
by the writer. There had come upon us that day a plague of these
all-devouring insects. A few billions called on us, in our kitchen
gardens, in passing; and whilst they ate up every green thing—
including the newly-painted wheelbarrow, and the regimental
standard, which had been incautiously left out of doors—our faithful
blacks managed to capture several impis of the marauding scuts, in
revenge; and the mess-cook made a right savoury plât of their hind-
quarters.
It is criminal to serve curry during the entrée period of dinner. And it
is worse form still to hand it round after gooseberry tart and cream,
and trifle, as I have seen done at one great house. In the land of its
birth, the spicy pottage invariably precedes the sweets. Nubbee Bux
marches solemnly round with the mixture, in a deep dish, and is
succeeded by Ram Lal with the rice. And in the Madras Presidency,
where dry curry is served as well as the other brand, there is a
procession of three brown attendants. Highly-seasoned dishes at the
commencement of a long meal are a mistake; and this is one of the
reasons why I prefer the middle cut of a plain-boiled Tay salmon, or
the tit-bit of a lordly turbot, or a flake or two of a Grimsby cod, to a
sole Normande, or a red mullet stewed with garlic, mushrooms, and
inferior claret. I have even met homard à l’Américaine, during the
fish course, at the special request of a well-known Duke. The soup,
too, eaten at a large dinner should be as plain as possible; the edge
being fairly taken off the appetite by such concoctions as bisque,
bouillabaisse, and mulligatawny—all savoury and tasty dishes, but
each a meal in itself. Then I maintain that to curry whitebait is
wrong; partly because curry should on no account be served before
roast and boiled, and partly because the flavour of the whitebait is
too delicate for the fish to be clad in spices and onions. The lesson
which all dinner-givers ought to have learnt from the Ancient
Romans—the first people on record who went in for æsthetic
cookery—is that highly-seasoned and well-peppered dishes should
figure at the end, and not the commencement of a banquet. Here
follows a list of some of the productions of Nature which it is
allowable to curry.

What to Curry.

Turbot. Sole. Cod.

Lobster. Crayfish. Prawns,—but not the so-called “Dublin Prawn,”
which is delicious when eaten plain boiled, but no good in a
curry.
Whelks.[6] Oysters. Scallops.
Mutton. Veal. Pork. Calf’s Head. Ox Palate. Tripe.[6]
Eggs. Chicken. Rabbit (the “bunny” lends itself better than
anything else to this method of cooking). Pease. Kidney Beans.[6]
Vegetable Marrow. Carrots. Parsnips. Bamboo Shoots. Locust Legs.

A mistaken notion has prevailed for some time amongst men and
women who write books, that the Indian curry mixture is almost red-
hot to the taste. As a matter of fact it is of a far milder nature than
many I have tasted “on this side.” Also the Anglo-Indian does not
sustain life entirely on food flavoured with turmeric and garlic. In
fact, during a stay of seven years in the gorgeous East, the writer’s
experience was that not one in ten touched curry at the dinner
table. At second breakfast—otherwise known as “tiffin”—it was a
favoured dish; but the stuff prepared for the meal of the day—or the
bulk thereof—usually went to gratify the voracious appetite of the
“mehters,” the Hindus who swept out the mess-rooms, and whose
lowness of “caste” allowed them to eat “anything.” An eccentric meal
was the mehter’s dinner. Into the empty preserved-meat tin which
he brought round to the back door I have seen emptied such
assorted pabulum as mock turtle soup, lobster salad, plum pudding
and custard, curry, and (of course), the surplus vilolif; and in a few
seconds he was squatting on his heels, and spading into the mixture
with both hands.
In the Bengal Presidency cocoa-nut is freely used with a curry
dressing; and as some men have as great a horror of this addition,
as of oil in a salad, it is as well to consult the tastes of your guests
beforehand.
A Prawn Curry I have seen made in Calcutta as follows, the
proportions of spices, etc., being specially written down by a
munshi:—

Pound and mix one tablespoonful of coriander seed, one

tablespoonful of poppy seed, a salt-spoonful of turmeric, half a
salt-spoonful of cumin seed, a pinch of ground cinnamon, a
ditto of ground nutmeg, a small lump of ginger, and one salt-
spoonful of salt. Mix this with butter, add two sliced onions, and
fry till lightly browned. Add the prawns, shelled, and pour in the
milk of a cocoa-nut. Simmer for twenty minutes, and add some
lime juice.

But the champion of curries ever sampled by the writer was a dry
curry—a decided improvement on those usually served in the Madras
Presidency—and the recipe (which has been already published in the
Sporting Times and Lady’s Pictorial), only came into the writer’s
possession some years after he had quitted the land of temples.

Dry Curry.

1 lb. of meat (mutton, fowl, or white fish).

1 lb. of onions.
1 clove of garlic.
2 ounces of butter.
1 dessert-spoonful of curry powder.
1 dessert-spoonful of curry paste.
1 dessert-spoonful of chutnee (or tamarind preserve,
according to taste).
A very little cassareep, which is a condiment (only obtainable at
a few London shops) made from the juice of the bitter cassava,