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Elizabeth Robins Pennell on A Perfect Breakfast, 1900


Elizabeth Robins Pennell, an American biographer, food and art critic, and traveler who settle in London with her artist husband, Joseph Pennell, had a weakness for eating, cookery, and cookbooks. By the time of her death in 1936, she had accumulated a collection of over 400 cookbooks, all of which she bequeathed to the Library of Congress.

The Breakfast Table 1883 John Singer Sargent
The Breakfast Table, 1883 – John Singer Sargent

Breakfast means many things to many men. Ask the American, and he will give as definition: “Shad, beefsteak, hash, fried potatoes, omelet, coffee, buckwheat” cakes, waffles, cornbread, and (if he be a Virginian) batter pudding, at 8 o’clock A.m. sharp.” Ask the Englishman, and he will affirm stoutly: “Tea, a rasher of bacon, dry toast, and marmalade as the clock strikes nine, or the half after.” And both, differing in detail as they may and do, are alike barbarians, understanding nothing of the first principles of gastronomy.

Seek out rather the Frenchman and his kinsmen of the Latin race. They know: and to their guidance the timid novice may trust herself without a fear. The blundering Teuton, however, would lead to perdition; for he, insensible to the charms of breakfast, does away with it altogether, and, as if still swayed by nursery rule, eats his dinner at noon—and may he long be left to enjoy it by himself! Therefore, in this, as in many other matters that cater to the higher pleasures, look to France for light and inspiration.

Upon rising—and why not let the hour vary according to mood and inclination?—forswear all but the petit déjeuner: the little breakfast of coffee and rolls and butter. But the coffee must be of the best, no chicory as you hope for salvation; the rolls must be crisp and light and fresh, as they always are in Paris and Vienna; the butter must be pure and sweet. And if you possess a fragment of self-respect, enjoy this petit déjeuner alone, in the solitude of your chamber. Upon the early family breakfast many and many a happy marriage has been wrecked; and so be warned in time.

At noon once more is man fit to meet his fellow-man and woman. Appetite has revived. The day is at its prime. By every law of nature and of art, this, of all others, is the hour that calls to breakfast.

When soft rains fall, and winds blow milder, and bushes in park or garden are sprouting and spring is at hand, grace your table with this same sweet promise of spring. Let rosy radish give the touch of colour to satisfy the eye, as chairs are drawn in close about the spotless cloth: the tiny, round radish, pulled in the early hours of the morning, still in its first virginal purity, tender, sweet, yet peppery, with all the piquancy of the young girl not quite a child, not yet a woman. In great bunches, it enlivens every stall at Covent Garden, and every greengrocer’s window; on the breakfast table it is the gayest poem that uncertain March can sing. Do not spoil it by adding’ other h’ors d’œuvres; nothing must be allowed to destroy its fragrance and its savour. Bread and butter, however, will serve as sympathetic background, and enhance rather than lessen its charm.

Vague poetic memories and aspirations stirred within you by the dainty radish, you will be in fitting humour for œufs aux saucissons [eggs with sausages], a dish, surely, invented by the Angels in Paradise. There is little earthly in its composition or flavour; irreverent it seems to describe it in poor halting words. But if language prove weak, intention is good, and should others learn to honour this priceless delicacy, then will much have been accomplished. Without more ado, therefore, go to Benoist’s, and buy the little truffled French sausages which that temple of delight provides. Fry them, and fry half the number of fresh eggs. Next, one egg and two sausages place in one of those irresistible little French baking-dishes, dim green or golden brown in colour, and, smothering them in rich wine sauce, bake, and serve—one little dish for each guest. Above all, study well your sauce; if it fail, disaster is inevitable; if it succeed, place laurel leaves in your hair, for you will have conquered. “A woman who has mastered sauces sits on the apex of civilisation.”

Without fear of anti-climax, pass suavely on from œufs aux saucissons to rognons sautés [sauteed kidneys]. In thin elegant slices your kidneys should be cut, before trusting them to the melted butter in the frying pan; for seasoning, add salt, pepper, and parsley; for thickening, flour; for strength, a tablespoonful or more of stock; for stimulus, as much good claret; then eat thereof and you will never repent.

Dainty steps these to prepare the way for the breakfast’s most substantial course, which, to be in loving sympathy with all that has gone before, may consist of côtelettes de mouton au naturel [plain mutton chops]. See that the cutlets be small and plump, well trimmed, and beaten gently, once on each side, with a chopper cooled in water. Dip them into melted butter, grill them, turning them but once that the juice may not be lost, and thank kind fate that has let you live to enjoy so delicious a morsel. Pommes de terre sautées [fried potatoes] may be deemed chaste enough to appear —and disappear—at the same happy moment.

With welcome promise of spring the feast may end as it began. Order a salad to follow: cool, quieting, encouraging. When in its perfection cabbage lettuce is to be had, none could be more submissive and responsive to the wooing of oil and vinegar. Never forget to rub the bowl with onion, now in its first youth, ardent but less fiery than in the days to come, strong but less imperious. No other garniture is needed. The tender green of the lettuce leaves will blend and harmonise with the anemones and tulips, in old blue china or dazzling crystal, that decorate the table’s centre; and though grey may be the skies without, something of May’s softness and June’s radiance will fill the breakfast-room with the glamour of romance.

What cheese, you ask? Suisse, of course. Is not the month March? Has not the menu, so lovingly devised, sent the spring rioting through your veins? Suisse with sugar, and prolong the sweet dreaming while you may. What if work you cannot, after thus giving the reins to fancy and to appetite? At least you will have had your hour of happiness. Breakfast is not for those who toil that they may dine; their sad portion is the mid-day sandwich.

Wine should be light and not too many. The true epicure will want but one, and he may do worse than let his choice fall upon Graves, though good Graves, alas! is not to be had for the asking. Much too heavy is Burgundy for breakfast. If your soul yearns for red wine, be aristocratic in your preferences, and, like the Stuarts, drink Claret—a good St. Estéphe or St. Julien.

Coffee is indispensable, and what is true of coffee after dinner is true as well of coffee after breakfast. Have it of the best, or else not at all. For liqueur, one of the less fervent, more maidenly varieties, Maraschino, perhaps, or Prunelle, but make sure it is the Prunelle, in stone jugs, that comes from Chalon-sur-Saone. Bring out the cigarettes—not the Egyptian or Turkish, with suspicion of opium lurking in their fragrant recesses—but the cleaner, purer Virginian. Then smoke until, like the Gypsy in Lenau’s ballad, all earthly trouble you have smoked away, and you master the mysteries of Nirvana.

The Feasts of Autolycus: The Diary of a Greedy Woman (1900)

Rachel’s Edwardian Dining Experience


I was really excited to try cooking from Abbey Cooks Entertain by Pamela Foster. I knew the Edwardian Period was a time of fine dining and I found it an interesting exercise to try and recreate meals which they enjoyed. There are so many recipes in the book to choose from, for all different occasions. I decided on cooking some of the recipes in the servant hall meal section. My reasons were I felt like comfort food and the options in that section seems like they would satisfy me the most in that regard. I love simple tasty fare, best served warm, which fills the stomach and coddles the soul. Also, my family were most likely in the servant halls, cooking and cleaning for their living. It was like an instant link between me and my ancestors.

For a starter I cooked Beef and Barley Soup and for the main meal I cooked Beef Bourguignon. I started at three o’ clock in the afternoon, trying to make sure both were ready by dinner time.  All the while I was nervous about what my family would think and whether they would like it. My husband and two year old daughter are notorious fussy eaters. The smell coming from the kitchen was divine. It wafted through the house and out the open windows and I could smell it outside, as I took a quick break to do the gardening. My daughter enjoyed helping me stir the soup and watching everything cook. It was a great bonding activity, mother and daughter cooking in the kitchen. Finally it was done and around six o’ clock it was ready for the taste test. Both were full of flavor and it seriously was hard to stop at one mouthful. I loved it, but would my family love it?

We all sat down and I nervously waited for the first taste test. My husband took a taste and smiled at me and he took another bite and I knew I had a success. My daughter loved dipping her toast in the soup and dribbling the soup into her mouth with her spoon. She normally is very fussy, especially with vegetables and yet she couldn’t get enough of this soup. Now I know she must be a reincarnated Edwardian baby and only the best Edwardian food will do. Just as a well I have the Abbey Cooks Book, so I can cook Edwardian style more often. The best thing about the meal was the leftovers. I will be able to reheat it over the week and we can relive the experience again and again.


 Beef Bourguignon


Beef and Barley Soup

Feeding the House of Commons


Dinner hour at the House of Commons

DURING the last five years Colonel Mark Lockwood, M.P., was Chairman of the Kitchen Committee of the House of Commons. This post is not a bed of roses; in the consideration of some persons it is not even a post of credit, as Colonel Lockwood explains in an interesting article on the Kitchen Committee in the Strand Magazine:—

“I may mention a conversation which took place between a man who was canvassing for me at the recent election and a voter.
“My canvasser called at a house and requested the voter to promise his support in my interest; the voter, without discussing politics, immediately said: ‘I ain’t going to vote for a man who is only in the kitchen; I want a man who is in the ‘Ouse,’ so that it is evident that in his mind the position was not one of distinction. To the credit of my canvasser I ought to record the fact that he was not staggered by this false estimate of the position, but only showed his annoyance by saying: ‘Oh, you don”t want a man in the kitchen, don’t you? Well, if your man gets returned they will put him into the boot-hole, where he will have to clean the other members’ boots !'”

During Colonel Lockwood’s term of office, the total number of meals served amounted to 750,000. There would be no uncommon difficulty in providing the meals were the numbers to be provided always known beforehand; but there are many unforeseen circumstances that may arise to upset the most careful calculations:

“For instance, a delicate question may arise during the debate, and the Whips may insist on keeping all members as late as possible; or divisions may take place just before 7.30 which keeps members until eight o’clock.

“In such cases double the number of members will demand dinner, and the resources of the kitchen and the activity of the staff are taxed to the fullest extent. Then, again, in anticipation of a great full dress debate, dinner will be prepared for five hundred. The debate suddenly collapses or runs out before time, there is a count-out, and few, if any, members will require dinner.

“The stock of provisions ordered has to be consumed somehow, and a large loss has to be faced on the weekly bills. Then, again, the suspension of Standing Orders may lead to an all-night sitting, and that sitting may be carried on until twelve o’clock the next day, when suppers and breakfasts are demanded by tired members, not in the best of tempers, and therefore very difficult to please.”

Patience as regards his food is not a characteristic of the English M.P. Irritated by some trifle—failure to catch the Speaker’s eye is a common cause of bad tempered members go to their meals in a mood for finding fault with everything.

Even tea on the Terrace sometimes is followed by grumbles:
“Members with parties of ladies soon lose their patience if there is anything like delay, which is curious, as one would have thought that the longer the ladies stayed the better pleased the members would have been.

“In the old days we had waiters on the Terrace, and it was during my Chairmanship that waitresses were appointed in place of the men. Would anyone imagine that even such a simple affair as this caused us trouble? At one time there were serious heart-burnings in the minds of the wives of some of the members owing to the good looks of our excellent female staff, and those ladies did not fail to let it be known that they were anxious on the subject.”

The Epicure, 1906

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