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 Copyright © 2017, McGraw-Hill Education Ltd.

Chapter 6
Perception, Cognition, and Emotion

Overview

The basic building blocks of all social encounters include perception (how we make sense of our
environment), cognition (how we process information) and emotion (internal affective states).
Each of these factors can play a role in shaping negotiation interactions and outcomes, often in
subtle and difficult to observe ways. A working knowledge of how humans perceive and process
information is important to understanding why people behave the way they do during
negotiations. We will look at how information is perceived, filtered, distorted and framed.

Learning Objectives

The purpose of this chapter is to introduce perception, cognition, and emotion, and explain how
each can influence negotiator behaviour. After reading this chapter you should have a deeper
understanding of the following:
1. Define perception and explain the ways perceptual distortion can influence negotiator
behaviour,
2. Describe the ways in which cognition (information processing) can be affected by
framing processes and systematic errors (or cognitive biases), and
3. Recognize the effects of mood and emotion on how we interact with others in negotiation
situations.

I. Perception

A. Perception is the process by which individuals connect to their environment, by ascribing

meaning to messages and events. This process is strongly influenced by the perceiver’s
current state of mind, role and comprehension of earlier communications.

1. Perception is a “sense-making” process where people interpret their environment so

they can respond appropriately.
2. Because environments have a large array of stimuli, perception becomes selective.
People tune in and out the environmental sounds, senses, expressions and
information. These perceptional short cuts allow people to process information more
readily, but unfortunately these short cuts can be inaccurate.

B. Perception distortion

1. A perceiver’s own needs, desires, motivation and personal experiences may create a
predisposition about the other party. This can lead to biases and errors in perception
and subsequent communication.
a. Stereotyping – occurs when one individual assigns attributes to another solely on
the basis of the other’s membership in a particular social or demographic
category.

Lewicki, Essentials of Negotiation, 3rd Canadian Edition

Instructor’s Manual
 Copyright © 2017, McGraw-Hill Education Ltd.

(1) Highly resistant to change

(2) Commonly used as a resort during conflicts involving values, ideologies, and
direct competition for resources.
b. Halo effects occur when people generalize about a variety of attributes based on
the knowledge of one attribute of an individual.
(1) Research shows halo effects are most likely to occur in perception
(i) Where there is very little experience with a person along some dimension
(ii) When the person is well known
(iii)When the qualities have strong moral implications
c. Selective perception occurs when the perceiver singles out certain information
that supports or reinforces a prior belief and filters out information that does not
confirm that belief.
d. Projection occurs when people assign to others the characteristics or feelings that
they possess themselves. Projection usually arises out of a need to protect one’s
own self-concept— to see oneself as consistent and good.

2. Stereotyping and Halo Effects are perceptional distortions by generalization (using

small amounts of information to draw large conclusions about individuals). Selective
perception and Projection are perceptional distortions that involve anticipating certain
attributes by relying on certain information to arrive at a consistent view.

II. Framing

A frame is the subjective mechanism through which people evaluate and make sense out of
situations, leading them to pursue or avoid subsequent actions. Framing is a key issue in negation
because it is a way of labeling different interpretations of the issues in dispute or the situation.

A. Frames in Negotiation

1. Loss–gain—how the parties define the risk or reward associated with particular
outcomes. Being in a loss frame of mind makes you more risk seeking.
2. Outcome—a party’s predisposition to achieving a specific result or outcome from the
negotiation. Strong outcome frame makes you more likely to engage in distributive
negotiations.
3. Aspiration—a predisposition toward satisfying a broader set of interests or needs in
negotiation. Strong aspiration frame makes you more likely to engage in integrative
negotiations.
4. Process—how the parties will go about resolving their dispute. Strong process frame
makes you more likely to be concerned about how the dispute is managed.
5. Identity—how the parties define “who they are.” Strong identity frames makes you
more likely to be concerned with the social category of the parties (e.g., race, gender,
etc.).

B. The frame of an issue changes as the negotiation evolves.

Lewicki, Essentials of Negotiation, 3rd Canadian Edition

Instructor’s Manual
 Copyright © 2017, McGraw-Hill Education Ltd.

1. Several factors shape a frame: the negotiation context clearly affects the way both
sides define the issue and conversations that the parties have with each other about
the issues in the bargaining mix.

2. Remember that frames are not fixed and can be altered by persuasion. As such, rather
than focus on a parties’ initial dominant frame, focus on the patterns of change
(transformation) that can occur in the issues as parties communicate with each other.
The process of “reframing” is important because it allows the party to propose to
counterpart a new way to approach the problem.

a. At least four factors can affect how the conversation is shaped:

(1) Negotiators tend to argue for stock issues, or concerns that are raised every
time the parties negotiate.
(2) Each party attempts to make the best possible case for his or her preferred
position or perspective.
(3) In a more “macro” sense, frames may also define major shifts and transitions
in the overall negotiation.
(4) Multiple agenda items operate to shape the issue development frames.

3. The process of “reframing” is important because it allows the party to propose to

counterpart a new way to approach the problem.

Summary of Framing

Framing is about focusing, shaping, and organizing the world around us—making sense of
complex realities and defining them in ways that are meaningful to us. We discussed the
different type of frames that exist and their importance for understanding strategic choices in
negotiation. We can offer the following prescriptive advice about problem framing for the
negotiator:

• Frames shape what the parties define as the key issues and how they talk about them
• Both parties have frames
• Frames are controllable, at least to some degree
• Conversations change and transform frames in ways negotiators may not be able to
predict but may be able to control.
• Certain frames are more likely than others to lead to certain types of processes and
outcomes

III.Cognitive Biases in Negotiation

Negotiators tend to make systematic errors (i.e., cognitive biases) when processing information.
These errors tend to impede negotiator performance. Some examples of cognitive biases are:

1. Irrational escalation of commitment

Lewicki, Essentials of Negotiation, 3rd Canadian Edition

Instructor’s Manual
 Copyright © 2017, McGraw-Hill Education Ltd.

• An “escalation of commitment” is the tendency for an individual to make

decisions that stick with a failing course of action.
• Once a course of action is decided upon, negotiators often continue with that
course while seeking supportive (confirmation) evidence and ignoring
disconfirming evidence.
• Escalation of commitment is due in part to biases in individual perception seeking
consistency and saving face.

2. Mythical fixed-pie beliefs

• Many negotiators assume that all negotiations involve a fixed pie.

• Those who believe in the mythical fixed pie assume there is no possibility for
integrative settlements and mutually beneficial trade-offs, and they suppress
efforts to search for them.

3. Anchoring and adjustment

• Anchoring is to the effect of the initial standard (or offer) against which
subsequent adjustments are made during negotiation.
• Once the anchor is set or defined, parties tend to treat it as a real, valid benchmark
by which to adjust other judgments, such as the size of the other side’s counter to
the opening offer.

4. Issue framing and risk

• A frame is a perspective or point of view that people use when they gather
information and solve problems.
• The way an issue is framed (e.g., positive/negative or loss/gain) influences how
negotiators perceive risk and behave in relation to it.

5. Availability of information

• The availability bias operates when information that is presented in vivid,

colorful, or attention-getting ways becomes easy to recall, and thus also becomes
central and critical in evaluating events and options.
• The availability of information also affects negotiation through the use of
established search patterns.

6. The winner’s curse

• The winner’s curse refers to the tendency of negotiators, particularly in an auction

setting, to settle quickly on an item and then subsequently feel discomfort about a
negotiation win that comes too easily.

Lewicki, Essentials of Negotiation, 3rd Canadian Edition

Instructor’s Manual
 Copyright © 2017, McGraw-Hill Education Ltd.

7. Overconfidence

• Overconfidence is the tendency of negotiators to overestimate or believe that their

ability to be correct or accurate is greater than is actually true.
• Overconfidence has a double-edged effect:
1. It can solidify the degree to which negotiators support positions or options that
are incorrect or inappropriate, and
2. It can lead negotiators to discount the worth or validity of the judgments of
others, in effect shutting down other parties as sources of information, interests,
and options necessary for a successful integrative negotiation.

8. The law of small numbers

• The law of small numbers refers to the tendency of people to draw conclusions
from small sample sizes.
• This tendency leads to a self-fulfilling prophecy - people who expect to be treated
in a distributive manner will:
1. Be more likely to perceive the other party’s behaviors as distributive
2. Treat the other party in a more distributive manner.

9. Self-serving biases

• People often explain another person’s behavior by making attributions, either to

the person or the situation.
• There is a tendency of negotiators to overestimate the causal role of personal
internal factors (i.e., the counterpart’s personality) and underestimate the
situational, external factors (i.e., the context).
• Self-serving biases effect the negotiation process in a number of ways, for
example:
1. Perception of greater use of constructive tactics than the other party
2. Less accurate in estimating the other’s preferred outcomes
3. Influences perception of fairness in a negotiation context.

10. Endowment effect

• The endowment effect is the tendency to overvalue something you own or believe
you possess.
• The endowment effect can lead to inflated estimations of value that interfere with
reaching a good deal.

11. Ignoring others’ cognitions

• Failure to consider others’ cognitions allows negotiators to simplify their thinking

about otherwise complex processes; this usually leads to a more distributive
strategy and causes a failure to recognize the contingent nature of both sides’
behaviors and responses.
Lewicki, Essentials of Negotiation, 3rd Canadian Edition
Instructor’s Manual
 Copyright © 2017, McGraw-Hill Education Ltd.

12. Reactive devaluation

• Reactive devaluation is the process of devaluing the other party’s concessions

simply because the other party made them.
• Reactive devaluation leads negotiators to:
1. Minimize the magnitude of a concession made by a disliked other
2. Reduce their willingness to respond with a concession of equal size, or
3. Seek even more from the other party once a concession has been made

13. Egocentric bias – this should be added to the textbook chapter 6 because it is discussed
as a cognitive bias in chapter 7

• The tendency of the individual to overestimate or allocate greater amounts of

something for himself or herself, for example regarding a larger share of the
proposed outcome for oneself to be fair.
• This bias can be diminished by interactional justice, which means actually turning
one’s mind to treating the other party fairly.

IV. Managing misperceptions and cognitive biases in negotiation

Misperceptions and cognitive biases typically arise out of an unconscious awareness as

negotiators gather and process information. How best to manage the negative consequences of
misperception:
1. Be aware that they occur and assign to a colleague the task of watching for and
identifying them during negotiation preparation.
2. Tell people about a perceptual or cognitive bias - discuss them in a structured
manner within the team and with the party’s counterparts.

A. Reframing

• Reframing might involve any of a number of approaches.

1. Rather than perceiving a particular outcome as a loss, the
negotiator might reframe it as an opportunity to gain.
2. Trying to perceive or understand the situation in a different way or
from a different perspective
• Because reframing requires negotiators to be flexible during the
negotiation itself, they should anticipate—during planning—that
multiple contingencies may arise during negotiations.

V. Mood, Emotion, and Negotiation

a. Definitions
i. Mood – states of feeling that are mild in intensity, last for an extended
period of time and are not directed at anything
ii. Emotions – intense feelings that often last for a short duration and are
clearly directed at someone or something
Lewicki, Essentials of Negotiation, 3rd Canadian Edition
Instructor’s Manual
 Copyright © 2017, McGraw-Hill Education Ltd.

b. Differences between positive and negative emotions

i. Positive emotions are often lumped into the category “happiness”
ii. Negative emotions are described in more gradients (disappointment,
anxiety, fear, frustration, etc.)

Negative Emotions

When displayed to or perceived by the other side, negative emotions may lead
counterpart to act aggressively, retaliate or escape.

a. Anger - Signals irritation, with the hopes the party may settle, though this
depends on the power dynamics. If the expresser of anger is in position of
power, then it may lead to greater gains for him or her. Expressing anger in
other circumstances may not be as effective or may produce negative results.

b. Anxiety - Anxious negotiators seem to perform worse than negotiators whose

feelings were more neutral. In a study, anxious negotiators expected lower
outcomes, made lower first offers responded more quickly to offers, exited
negotiations early and obtained worse outcomes than non-anxious negotiators.

Negative emotions generally have negative consequences for negotiations.

i. Negative emotions may lead parties to define the situation as competitive

or distributive.
ii. Negative emotions may undermine a negotiator’s ability to analyze the
situation accurately, which adversely affects individual outcomes.
iii. Negative emotions may lead parties to escalate the conflict.
iv. Negative emotions may lead parties to retaliate and may thwart integrative
outcomes.

Positive Emotions

a. Positive emotions lead to these consequences:

i. Positive feelings are more likely to lead the parties toward more
integrative processes.
ii. Positive feelings also create a positive attitude toward the other side.
iii. Positive feelings promote persistence in addressing issues and concerns in
the negotiation.

b. Aspects of the negotiation interactions can lead to positive emotions:

i. Positive feelings result from fair procedures during negotiation.

Lewicki, Essentials of Negotiation, 3rd Canadian Edition

Instructor’s Manual
 Copyright © 2017, McGraw-Hill Education Ltd.

ii. Positive feelings result from favorable social comparisons.

Emotions can be used strategically as negotiation gambits

i. Given the power that emotions may have in swaying the other side toward
one’s own point of view, emotions may also be used strategically and
manipulatively as influence tactics within negotiation.
ii. Negotiators may also engage in the regulation or management of the
emotions of the other party.

Chapter Summary and Key Learning Points

In this chapter we have taken a multifaceted look at the role of perception, cognition, and
emotion in negotiation. The first portion of the chapter presented a brief overview of the
perceptual process and discussed four types of perceptual distortions: stereotyping, halo effects,
selective perception, and projection. We then turned to a discussion of how framing influences
perceptions in negotiation and how reframing and issue development both change negotiator
perceptions during negotiations. We ended with a discussion of common cognitive biases and the
effects of mood and emotion in negotiation. We conclude with a few observations of some of the
key points covered in the chapter:

1. Be on the lookout for your own tendency to be influenced by perceptual distortions and
cognitive biases. However, it is just as important to watch out for these tendencies from
your counterparts. These factors often help to explain why negotiators perceive their
counterparts to be acting irrationally. Perhaps their behaviour appears to be risk-seeking.
Could it be caused by framing effects? Or perhaps they are selling something and can’t
possibly imagine that someone else might value the thing they are selling less then they
value it. Could this be caused by the endowment effect?

2. Watch for the effects of emotions and moods on your own and your counterpart’s
behaviour. For the most part, positive emotions produce positive results, while negative
emotions create tension and frustration. Do what you can to create the right mood
because it can influence your likelihood of success.

Lewicki, Essentials of Negotiation, 3rd Canadian Edition

Instructor’s Manual
Another random document with
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“This dish of meat is too good for any but anglers, or very honest
men,” says Izaak Walton of a like concoction.

Frizzled Ham.
Do you think you would like Frizzled Ham? I do; and this is how I
cook it. Start with half a pound of rather fat ham in thin slices. Put
half a tablespoon of butter in the pan, and when very hot add the
ham. As soon as it begins to curl at the edges, dust the slices with
dry flour, which will soon turn brown. Turn the lamp down and keep
simmering. Now mix in a bowl half a tablespoon of vinegar and the
same of dry mustard. Pour it over the ham, add enough boiling
water to cover the meat, put in three drops of Tabasco, and let it all
boil up for a minute.

Ham in Hades.
Another and somewhat similar way of preparing ham, which has
been very successful, particularly at supper-time, after, say, a lobster
salad, has been christened Ham in Hades.
Make a mixture of a teaspoon of made mustard, a tablespoon of
Tarragon vinegar, a pinch of salt, a teaspoon of Paprika, a teaspoon
of Worcester sauce. Spread this mixture on both sides of half a
dozen slices of ham. Put two tablespoons of olive oil in the Chafer.
When this begins to smoke, put in the ham and brown it quickly on
both sides.

Gallimaufrey.
Gallimaufrey is a very old dish, meaning really All Sorts. Shakespeare
calls it Gaily-Mawfrey. A very excellent Modern Gallimaufrey is
prepared thus: Three thickish slices of ham with two walnuts of
butter in the Dish. Let it cook slowly. Add six peeled and washed
Jerusalem artichokes, three sliced carrots, one sliced onion. Let it go
on simmering. Now put in a couple of dozen haricot beans, a sprig
of parsley, three cloves, a wineglass of sherry, a blade of mace, salt,
pepper, and a teaspoon of sugar. Simmer it for twenty minutes,
bringing it at last just to the boil. It is then an agreeable stew, which
is probably as totally unlike the real old-fashioned Gallimaufrey as
anything possibly could be. But that really does not matter.
Gallimaufrey dates back to the time of Master Robert May, who
published a memorable cook-book in 1660, which is not without its
humours. A real old English banquet, it seems, would not be
complete without two pies, the one filled with live frogs, and the
other with birds. These are for the particular delectation of the
ladies. “They will desire to see what is in the pies; where lifting first
the lid off one pie, out skips some frogs, which makes the ladies to
skip and shreek; next after the other pie, whence come out the
birds, who, by a natural instinct, flying at the light, will put out the
candles. So that what with frogs beneath, and birds above, it will
cause much delight and pleasure to the whole company.”
They were right merry folk then!

Bubble and Squeak.

Not to know Bubble and Squeak is to admit one’s ignorance of one
of the good things of this earth. Chaffinda can tackle it, and in this
wise. It is an old Cornish version. There may be others, but there
can be none better. The dish needs cabbage, and it is most practical
to get a young fresh cabbage, boiled, pressed, and chopped into
shreds before you begin the actual cooking. It saves time and
trouble. Put a tablespoon of butter in the Chafing Dish, also one
chopped onion, and the cabbage. Let it frizzle and absorb the butter.
Just before boiling, add gradually a cupful of milk, pepper and salt.
As soon as it boils up, take it off and put it aside in a hot dish. Now
hot up three underdone slices of cooked cold roast beef in two
tablespoons of butter, turning them frequently, so that they shall be
well cooked on both sides; add a tablespoon of Worcester sauce and
the same of vinegar. Now make a mound of the cooked cabbage,
and put the slices of well-done meat around it, upright. You will
regret that you did not cook double the quantity.
There are so many kinds of sausages that it is difficult to pitch upon
the best for Chafing purposes. Slices of the Brunswick species are
excellent in pea-soup. The genuine liver sausage makes good
sandwiches. The more elaborate French kinds are akin to galantine.
The Italian Bologna and Mortadella have their friends. But, after all,
the well-made Cambridge sausage is hard to beat. I plump for the
Cambridge variety.

Hodge’s Sausages.
This is a Cambridge recipe for Hodge’s Sausages. Put as many as
you think you can eat in the dish with a walnut of butter for every
two, pepper and salt, and a tablespoon of Worcester sauce. Then
add one sliced apple for each sausage. Take out the cores, but do
not peel them. Stab the sausages with a fork to prevent their
bursting. Cook for twelve minutes. American apples are good for this
dish, and also the homegrown Keswick Codlin, Blenheim Orange, or
Hambledon Deux Ans.
There is something peculiarly bucolic about Hodge’s Sausages which
may commend itself to the rurally minded. To me, it brings the scent
of the hay over the spirit-lamp.

Goulasch.
Another appetising stew is Goulasch. Beat well a half-pound (or
larger) steak; cut it into pieces the size of a domino. Put them in the
Chafing Dish with two cold cooked potatoes chopped into dice. Pour
over the meat and the vegetables two tablespoons of olive oil, and
as soon as it simmers add an onion in slices, half a teaspoon of
Paprika, salt, and a cupful of bouillon. Cover it up, and let it cook for
ten minutes, stirring occasionally. Just before serving drop in half a
dozen stoned olives.
So much for beef. The next meat is of course mutton, for which
three recipes should suffice. The first is Mutton Steaks, and is
adapted from a Welsh recipe. I have a very interesting Welsh
cookery book, tersely entitled: “Llyfr Cogino a Chadw ty: yn cynwys
Pa fodd? A Paham? Cogyddiaeth.” I am sorry that ignorance prevents
my giving anything out of it, but I think that I have got the title
nearly right.

Mutton Steaks.
To make Mutton Steaks, cut three slices, each an inch thick, from
the middle of a cold cooked leg of mutton. Put them in the Dish with
enough water to cover them, pepper and salt, and five small onions.
Cover it up and let the meat brown thoroughly on one side, then
turn it over and add a walnut of butter and a tablespoon of flour. Do
not allow it to boil, but keep it simmering gently for at least fifteen
minutes. If raw meat be used, the result is also quite satisfactory,
but it is well in that case to replace the water by a cup of bouillon.

Turkish Mutton.
Turkish Mutton, locally termed Etena Jarvat: this is one of those
dishes which may fairly be included in Brillat-Savarin’s magistères
restoratifs. It is easy enough to chafe.
Cut half a pound of uncooked mutton (from the leg from choice, but
not absolutely necessary) into medium dice. Put the meat into the
Chafing Dish with salt, pepper and dripping, fat, oil, or butter,
according to taste, but oil is preferable. When the meat turns brown,
add half a pound of previously cooked and sliced French beans, also
half a pint of water or bouillon (latter for choice) and a bunch of
simples, either thyme or marjoram, or both. Simmer steadily for
twenty minutes, stirring occasionally. Carrots can be used instead of
beans. Just before serving turn up the flame full, and let it come just
to the boil.

Mutton Venison.
Mutton Venison is a compromise, and may be recommended as
such. We live in an age of compromise, so why not bring it into our
cookery? Make an extra strong decoction of bouillon from any good
meat-juice, three tablespoons in quantity, mince into it an onion, and
put in the pan with a tablespoonful of Worcester sauce, three drops
of Tabasco, a glass of claret, a dessert-spoon of red-currant jelly (or
guava or blackberry jelly), pepper and salt. When very hot put in
about a pound of slices of cold cooked leg of mutton, lean, cut into
strips. Let it simmer for twenty minutes. It is not a bit like venison,
but distinctly good nevertheless.

Plump and Wallop.

“Wha’ll hire me? Wha’ll hire me? Wha’ll hire me?
Three plumps and a wallop for ae bawbee.”

This advertisement, it is alleged, was addressed to the good people

of Kirkmahoe, who were so poor that they could not afford to put
any meat into their broth. A cobbler invested all his money in buying
four sheep shanks, and when a neighbour wanted to make mutton
broth, for the payment of one halfpenny the cobbler would “plump”
one of the sheep shanks into the boiling water and give it a “wallop,”
or whisk round. He then wrapped it in a cabbage leaf and took it
home. This was called a “gustin bone,” and was supposed to give a
rich “gust” to the broth.

Potatoes and Point.

A Boer recipe of much the same description was known in early
Transvaal days (long before the War) as “Potatoes and Point.” The
poor “Bijwoner” family was served all round with potatoes, and a red
herring was hung up in the middle of the room. The elders were
allowed to rub their potatoes on the herring, but the youngsters
might only point theirs towards the delicacy at the end of a fork. The
mere proximity of the highly-flavoured herring was supposed to give
the potato a flavour.
Lots of quite worthy folk gorge themselves periodically and keep
their children on the border-line of starvation. A certain
exaggeratedly selfish family man of my acquaintance, who for
economic reasons lived somewhere in the wilds of West Kensington,
made it his unholy practice to dine once a month with a couple of
boon companions of the same sex at the Carlton or Prince’s, and at
the conclusion of a remarkable dinner was wont to blurt out: “By
George, I wish I could afford to bring the wife and children here!”

Scouse.
Permit me now to suggest a trial of that very old and famous dish,
Scouse. It is prepared in the following fashion: Get one pound of
lean, dairy-fed pork, cooked and cold. Cut it into half-inch squares;
sprinkle them with flour, salt, Paprika, and dip them lightly in French
mustard. Put in the Chafing Dish three chopped onions, half a
teaspoon of sugar, one wine-glass of vinegar, three cloves, a blade of
mace and a bayleaf. Cover up and let it simmer, not boil, while the
quantity of liquid is reduced by one half. Add the pork with half a
pint of bouillon, and simmer for another ten minutes.
Young pork, like young veal, is always excellent, but it can be too
young. A sucking pig with lacklustre eye and a lemon in its jaws is
pathetic and none too appetising. Veal, in England at any rate, is
often tasteless and somewhat dull. Not so very long ago, in Ireland,
they used to kill newborn calves, bake them in an oven with
potatoes, and call the dish “Staggering Bob.”
Kabobs.
Kabobs have probably come to us from India, via the Cape. This is
an old Capetown-Malay recipe which is thoroughly reliable. Half a
pound of cold veal; the same of lean ham, both cut into slices a
quarter of an inch thick; three apples, and three onions. Cut the
meat and the vegetables into rounds with a knife or cutter, about the
size of a crown piece. Skewer them up on wooden (or, if you are a
de Beers shareholder, on silver) skewers, in the following order: (1)
a round of veal; (2) a round of apple; (3) a round of ham; (4)
around of onion. Sprinkle them with pepper, salt and curry-powder.
Put them in the Chafing Dish with a teacupful of bouillon and a
walnut of butter; simmer steadily for twenty minutes, then thicken
the gravy with a little flour, and serve either with boiled rice, or
toast, or both.

Brigands’ Fowls.
Cold fowls lend themselves in a hundred ways to the kind attentions
of Chaffinda. Mention of quite a few of these must urge the
gastronomer to further experiments and discoveries. Pollio à la
Contrabandista: this is the way brigands cook, or ought to cook,
fowls. Cut a cold cooked fowl into neat joints. Put them into the
Chafing Dish with four tablespoons of olive oil, and heat up until the
meat is of a light brown colour, turning the pieces frequently. Then
keep the flame lower and simmering all the time; add four tomatoes
cut into quarters, two chopped green chillies, one shredded Spanish
onion, one tablespoon of Worcester sauce, the same of mushroom
ketchup, and four cloves. Let it simmer, closely covered, for at least
fifteen minutes. It will then prove a most savoury mess.

Howtowdie.
From Spain to Bonnie Scotland! This is how to cook Howtowdie. Cut
up a young fowl into handy joints. Put them into the Chafing Dish
with two walnuts of butter, a cupful of bouillon, three sprigs of
parsley, three small onions, salt and pepper. Simmer continuously
until the bird is tender. When half cooked add another cupful of
bouillon to make up for evaporation. When quite cooked put the fowl
on to a hot dish, surround it with poached eggs, then thicken the
gravy in the pan with a tablespoon of flour and a tablespoon of
Worcester sauce; give it a smart boil up and pour it over the fowl.
This Howtowdie is adapted from an excellent recipe in “The Scottish
Cookery Book containing guid plain rules for makin’ guid plain meats
suitable for sma’ purses, big families, and Scotch stomachs.”

Roman Fowl.
The preparation of Roman Fowl is simplicity itself. Pour four
tablespoons of olive oil into the Chafing Dish with a pinch of salt, a
teaspoon of Paprika, three cloves, and herbs to taste, but do not
overdo the herbs. When the oil is sizzling put in all the limbs of a
lightly boiled chicken, cut up. Cook it slowly, turning the meat so
that all the flesh is equally cooked all over. When done it should be a
delicate brown. Add half a cupful of tomato sauce and the same of
bouillon, also three shredded onions. Simmer for eight minutes, then
serve.

Creamed Chicken.
This is an American recipe, copied verbatim from an American
Chafing-Dish cookery book. Two cups cold chicken cut into small
pieces, one cup chicken stock, one cup milk or cream, two
tablespoonfuls of butter, one heaping tablespoonful of flour, salt and
pepper. Cook the butter and the flour together in the Chafing Dish;
add the stock and milk and stir until smooth; put in the chicken, salt
and pepper, and cook three minutes longer.
Other times, other manners. Contrast with the severe simplicity of
the above the sort of thing that gratified the palates of our
forebears. In the fourteenth century, Sacchetti says, a baked goose
stuffed with garlic and quinces was esteemed an excellent dish in
Italy, and when the Gonfalonier of Florence entertained a famous
doctor he gave him the stomach of a calf, boiled partridges, and
pickled sardines.
Old Samuel Pepys, too, had a nice taste in food as in music, and
other things. His idea of “a fine dinner” was to this effect: “A dish of
marrowbones, a leg of mutton, a loin of veal, a dish of fowl; three
pullets and a dozen of larks, all in a dish; a great tart, a neat’s
tongue, a dish of anchovies, a dish of prawns, and cheese.”
For those who are curious in such things it is easy to find quaint
recipes in old books. For instance, if you want to know how to bake
a hedgehog in clay—and very good it is too—you have only to read
Albert Smith’s “Christopher Tadpole” and you will know all about it. It
is truly said that comparatively few people read Disraeli’s novels
nowadays, but those who are culinarily inclined would do well to
turn to the opening chapter of “Tancred,” where there is a delightful
conversation between a grand old maître de bouche, “Papa Prevost,”
and his pupil, the eminent chef, Leander. The pompous spirit of the
culinary artist is delightfully caught and the gastronomic jargon
wonderfully reproduced.
But gastronomy has never lacked its historians. Great painters have
come to its aid, as witness the glowing canvases of Snyders, Teniers,
Jordaens, Ruysdael, Jan Weenix, Melchior de Hondecoeter and Jan
Fyt. Their pictures of still life, the poulterers’ shops, the heaped
baskets of good cheer, the brilliant lobster, the callow lemon, the
russet hare, and the lustrous plumage of the pheasant, have inspired
the hand of the Masters, who must have appreciated all such
culinary delicacies in order to have painted them with such loving-
kindness.

Yesterday’s Pheasant.
 “If partridge had the woodcock’s thighs,
’Twould be the noblest bird that flies;
If woodcock had the partridge breast,
’Twould be the best bird ever drest.”

Yesterday’s Pheasant can be made into a most tempting dish by

cutting up the remains into convenient chunks, omitting the bones.
Put one tablespoon of butter in the Dish, add a tablespoon of flour,
and keep on stirring till the mixture is smooth and light brown. Add a
glass of claret, a tablespoon of Worcester sauce, pepper and salt,
and bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. Now put in the chunks of
pheasant, and simmer for eight minutes. An excellent
accompaniment to this is chestnut and celery salad.
Any game bird may be treated in like manner, save always the
woodcock, that little epitome of all that is toothsome and delicate. A
curious thing about the woodcock is its extraordinarily rapid
digestion. A single bird has been known to consume in a night more
earthworms than half filled a moderate-sized flowerpot.
Few people know the different expressions for flocks of birds. Here
are some of them: a building of rooks, a bevy of quails, a watch of
nightingales, a cast of hawks, a nide of pheasants, a muster of
peacocks, a plump of wildfowl, a flock of geese, a pack of grouse, a
chattering of choughs, a stand of plovers, and a wisp of snipe.
A woman I know had a very good cook, who was also a plain cook—
or rather, a plain-spoken cook. She had been in the place many
years, and much was forgiven her. The mistress, visiting the kitchen,
inspected a turkey, and remarked that it was a very thin bird. “Just
you wait, M’m, till I’ve stuffed it with chestnuts,” said the cook, “you
won’t know it then. It’ll be quite another thing. Just like you, M’m,
when you has your di’monds on.”
I do not advise the fabrication of elaborate entrées in the Chafing
Dish. They can be and have been done, but I mistrust them and find
ample scope for ingenuity, inventiveness, and novelty in the cates I
have already described, without venturing into the fields of fancy.
Vol-au-Vent, for instance, or Brains à la Poulette, or Spanish Cream
Pudding are all within the range of feasibility, but I leave the recipes
to those less timorous than myself. In fact, in this case, I am at one
with the waiter in the “Bab Ballads” who hurled the most awful
threat in culinary literature at his flighty sweetheart:

“Flirtez toujours, ma belle, si tu oses,

Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère:
Je lui dirai d’quoi on compose
Vol-au-Vent à la Financière!”

The good things of this life are mostly plain and wholesome (with a
few delightful exceptions), and we can all qualify to live in Bengodi,
Boccaccio’s country of content, where they tie up the vines with
sausages, where you may buy a fat goose for a penny, and have the
giblets thrown in into the bargain. In this place there is a mountain
of Parmesan cheese, and the people’s employment is making
cheese-cakes and macaroons. There is also a river which runs
Malmsey wine of the very best quality.
There are no cheap excursions to Bengodi. We have to tramp there
on foot—and earn our bread on the road as we travel thither.
 CHAPTER·VI·VEGETABLES·AND·SALADS·
“Will a man give a penny to fill his belly with hay? Or can you
persuade the turtle-dove to live upon carrion like the crow?”
John Bunyan (“Pilgrim’s Progress”).

The first vegetarian was probably Nebuchadnezzar, and he has

many followers. With the utmost love and respect for all vegetables,
without exception, I refuse to accept them as the staff of life, or
indeed as anything more than a delicious aid thereto. It is possible
that the internal economy of certain very worthy folk may be more
easily conducted on a vegetarian basis, and indeed every man is at
liberty to feed as suits him best; but as a matter of preference,
predilection and experience, I decline to follow his example. If they
are content to let me go my way unmolested, I have no desire to
interfere with their tastes. But no proselytising, please!
Here in England, although we shine in our roasts, our beef, our
chops, and maybe a few other trifles, we are woefully and culpably
ignorant of vegetable cookery. The average British cook has but one
idea with vegetables. She cooks them in water, with lumps of coarse
soda, which she thinks makes them soft and keeps their colour. As a
matter of fact, this process, especially the soda, practically destroys
their health-giving properties. Vegetables want the kindliest care, the
most delicate handling, the most knowledgeable treatment.
Otherwise they become mere parodies of their better selves. What
could be more terrible, more depressing, than the usual slab of wet
cabbage doled out at the average London restaurant? It is an insult
to the cabbage, to the guest, and to the Art of Cookery. And it is so
easy to cook it decently—even in a Chafing Dish.
Again, the average British household knows and uses only a very
limited range of vegetables, ignoring, wilfully or otherwise, scores of
edible delights, easily grown and easily cooked, but with the inbred
laziness of crass conservatism, totally overlooked, because, forsooth,
“the greengrocer does not keep it!” The greengrocer, on the other
hand, scorns the inquirer after such strange green meats, because
“they are never asked for”; and so, between the two, we are
relegated to the same dull round of vegetable monotony.
Household cookery knows nothing of the Aubergine, or Egg-plant, of
which there are fourteen edible varieties, most of which can easily
be grown in this country, although the rich purple kinds are best
suited to our climate. Then there is Salsify, which is amenable to a
dozen different treatments; as the vegetable oyster it is duly
honoured in America, but we know it not. The Good King Harry is
only known in Lincolnshire. The leaves served as cabbage are
excellent, and the tender young shoots are as delicate as asparagus.
The Cardoon, Scornzonera, Celeriac, Chicory, Buck’s Horn, Chervil,
Jew’s Mallow, Lovage, Purslane, Rampion, Scurvy-Grass and
Valerian, are only a selection from a list thrice as long.
It is useless, however, to lift up one thin quavering voice of protest
in a wilderness of deaf greengrocers. I must e’en deal with the
common vegetables of commerce, others being unprocurable, and
their cultivation a counsel of perfection.
One naturally begins with potatoes, though the reason of their
position in the hierarchy of the garden is occult. Sir Walter Raleigh,
good man and true, has much to answer for. Tobacco and potatoes!
I believe it to be a fact that throughout the length and breadth of
Ireland there is no memorial to Raleigh. This seems a distinct
omission. But then, neither is there a statue to Lord Verulam!
Between the primitive tuber, baked in the ashes, and Pommes à la
Rèjane, there lies the whole gamut of culinary ingenuity. They are
the extremes of sophistication and the opposite. But it must suffice
here to give a few only of the simplest recipes, well within
Chaffinda’s modest capability, and in their very ingenuousness fit
alike for the delectation of Prince or Pauper.

Mary’s Potatoes.
The first method is called Mary’s Potatoes for want of a better name.
Slice up half a dozen cold cooked potatoes. Put them in the Chafing
Dish with a walnut of butter and a cupful of milk; let them simmer
for five minutes, then add the juice of half a lemon, a teaspoon of
chopped parsley, pepper and salt. Simmer for five minutes more.

Potato Uglies.
Cut up half a dozen cold cooked potatoes into quarter-inch slices.
Put four slices of fat bacon into the Chafing Dish, and hot up until
the fat begins to smoke; then drop in the potatoes, add pepper and
salt, and cook for five minutes. Drain before serving.

Sala’s Potatoes.
Cut four potatoes in slices as large as a halfpenny, but twice as thick.
Put two tablespoonsful of butter in the Chafing Dish, and a dozen
delicate little onions cut into dice. Hot up the onions and butter till
the former turn a golden brown, then add the potatoes and a
teaspoon of chopped parsley, salt, pepper, and a squeeze of lemon.
Keep stirring, and when the onions are deep yellow, which should be
in about eight minutes, the dish is ready.

Fried Potatoes.
Boil half a dozen potatoes in their skins. Peel them when hot, cut
them in quarters, roll them in bread-crumbs, and then fry them for
seven minutes in two tablespoons of sizzling butter. Sprinkle
chopped parsley on them before serving.
The tomato or love-apple is a perennial joy to the eye, whether
cooked or uncooked, ripe or unripe. Its form and colour are alike
exquisite, and its flavour altogether a thing apart. Our grandfathers
knew little or nothing about it, apart from sauce, and it has been left
to our generation fully to appreciate its possibilities. It is the more
strange because it has been a staple article of food in mid and
southern Europe since time immemorial. It has even been suggested
that Eve’s apple, Paris’ apple, Nausicaa’s apple, and the apples of
Hesperides were all really tomatoes! As pommes d’amour, pomi di
mori, Liebesäpfel, Paradiesäpfel, or tomatoes, they are nowadays
honoured and appreciated by all right lovers of the good things of
the earth. They are both fruit and vegetable, and it is very difficult to
spoil them in cooking. They are best of all when grilled as an
accompaniment to chops (Mr. Pickwick, it will be remembered,
enjoyed them in the form of sauce), but the following is a very
simple and honest way of preparing them.

Fried Tomatoes.
Cut three tomatoes in halves. Pepper and salt them and coat the cut
surfaces with bread-crumbs. Put two tablespoons of butter in the
Chafing Dish, and when sizzling add the tomatoes and cook them
thoroughly for eight minutes.
The Jerusalem artichoke should not be devoted solely to soup. It is
an excellent adjunct to meats, and fully repays a little careful
attention.

Fried Artichoke Chips.

Wash and peel the outer skin of a pound of artichokes, then with a
very sharp knife peel them into ribbons (as one would peel an
apple); then put them lightly in a cloth to dry. Hot up two
tablespoons of olive oil in the Chafer to smoking-point. Put in the
artichokes, letting them fry until they rustle when stirred with a fork.
Pour off the oil and strain them. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Braised Artichokes.
Wash and peel a pound of artichokes and put them aside in a basin
of cold water. Melt a walnut of butter in the Chafing Dish; add the
artichokes after drying them well. Let them brown well in the butter;
add pepper and salt and stir them frequently, letting them simmer
for twelve minutes.

Spinach Purée.
Have your spinach thoroughly well washed in several waters till it is
perfectly clean. Boil a pint of water in the Chafing Dish, salt it and
put in the spinach. Boil it for ten minutes. Take out the spinach and
strain it. Pour cold water over it to take away the bitter taste; strain
again. Put a walnut of butter in the dish, add the spinach and half a
cupful of milk. Mix up well with a wooden spoon. Heat for five
minutes.
There are about twenty-five different kinds of edible mushrooms.
The popular test of peeling is unreliable, because some poisonous
mushrooms peel easily, and some harmless kinds do not. An
authority on mushrooms (Mr. E. Kay Robinson) says: “If a mushroom
of any kind which has been gathered from an open space is brittle
and compact in texture, and not brightly coloured, nor peculiar in
taste or unpleasant in smell, and neither exudes a milky juice when
bruised, nor changes colour when exposed to the air, you may eat it
without fear.”
Consequently, when you go mushroom-gathering you must bear in
mind nearly as many things as when you address your ball on the
tee. I always buy my mushrooms, and go to a good shop; then, I
think, you are fairly safe.
The onion is a sure poison detector. Put an onion in a dish of
mushrooms. If it does not change colour the mushrooms are all
right. If it blushes black with shame at its contiguity, they are all
wrong. A silver spoon acts in the same way and gets black in contact
with toadstools or the like. Verily, evil communications corrupt good
manners—even in onions.

Stewed Mushrooms.
Flood the Chafing Dish with really good olive oil. Put in a teaspoonful
of Paprika and a pinch of salt. Drop in the mushrooms, after having
stalked and peeled them, black part uppermost. Cover up, and listen
to the appetising sizzling for seven minutes. They should then be
done to a turn.
Mushrooms used to be dried, powdered, and used as a flavouring in
the eighteenth century. Cook-books of that period speak of the
condiment as “Cook’s Snuff.” The great and justly esteemed Grimod
de la Reynière said that it ought always to be on the dining-table
together with pepper and salt. Here is a hint for the modern
purveyors of table delicacies.
In Sir Henry Layard’s Essay on “Renaissance Cookery,” he says:
“Amongst vegetables, the thistle (Cardo) was esteemed a delicacy,
and was generally served with fruit at the end of the dinner. The
thorny thistles with well-grown white stalks are the best.” The Cardo
includes the artichoke, but that the name was usually applied to the
common thistle is shown by the quaint remark of Romoli in his
“Singolare Dottrina,” that “it should not be eaten with milk, which it
has the property of curdling, and consequently the process would
take place in your stomach, but it should be eaten with pepper,
which does not generate wind, and clears the liver; and such is the
reason why donkeys, who eat largely of this, have better stomachs
than men.”
Dr. Thudichum, an eminent authority on dietetics, does not agree
with these conclusions, which are nevertheless illuminating, and do
not detract from the merits of the nettle as a food-stuff.

Welsh Leeks.
Boil half a dozen leeks in a pint of water. Drain them well, and cut
each leek into two-inch lengths; squeeze a lemon over them, pepper
and salt them well. Set them aside. Make half a dozen croûtons of
toast and put the leeks on them. Replace them in the Chafing Dish,
pouring over each croûton a liberal dose of Sauce Robert. Heat up
and serve on a very hot plate. Sauce Robert (Escoffier brand) can be
bought ready made at the Stores.

French Beans.
Boil a pound of shredded beans till tender, and then drain them well.
Melt two tablespoons of butter in the Chafing Dish and stir into it a
small dessert-spoon of flour. Keep these simmering, and shake them
about till they are lightly browned; add salt and pepper and a cup of
milk. Just before serving, add the yolks of two eggs, slightly beaten,
and a squeeze of lemon. Stir all up thoroughly and beat up to just
below boiling-point.

Broad Beans.
Shell and wash in cold water one pint of broad beans. Put them in
the Chafing Dish and boil them with a sprinkling of salt; when nearly
soft strain them, and then replace them in the dish with a tumbler of
bouillon, a little chopped parsley, and a lump of sugar. Cook them
slowly until they are quite tender. Beat up the yolk of an egg and a
wine-glass of milk; add both to the beans with pepper and salt, and
beat up thoroughly to just below boiling-point.

Italian Broad Beans.

Shell a pint of fresh young broad beans and put them aside in a dish
of cold water. Fill the Chafing Dish with nearly two pints of water,
add a thick slice of cooked ham, a stick of celery, a bunch of parsley,
three cloves, twenty peppercorns, and a bay leaf. Boil all this for
seven minutes, then remove the ham, vegetables, and spices, and
put in the beans. When they are quite tender, take them out, strain
them, put them back in the dish; add a tablespoon of butter, and hot
them up again for three or four minutes before serving.

Brussels Sprouts.
Place a pint of small Brussels sprouts in the Chafing Dish with two
pints of boiling water, slightly salted. Boil for ten minutes; take out
the sprouts, drain them and put them aside to keep hot. Then make
the following sauce in the Chafing Dish. Two tablespoons of butter
melted, one tablespoon flour, pepper and salt, and sufficient bouillon
to make the mixture of the consistency of thick cream. Heat this to
boiling, stirring it well. Just before serving, add the juice of a whole
lemon. Pour the sauce over the hot sprouts, and serve very quickly.
Both this and the previous recipe are adapted from a most excellent
book on the cooking of vegetables: “Leaves from our Tuscan
Garden,” by Janet Ross.

Haricot Beans.
Put a pint of young green shelled haricot beans into the Chafing Dish
with two pints of boiling water. When half cooked add salt and
pepper and a tablespoon of butter. Take out the beans, drain them,
and replace them in the dish with another tablespoon of butter, a
little chopped parsley, more salt and pepper and a squeeze of lemon.
Toss them about well in the Chafing Dish and hot up for eight
minutes.

Fried Parsley.
Indispensable for flavourings. Wash the parsley thoroughly, pick off
the stalks, leaving the large heads. Dry it very carefully as, if it is left
at all damp, it will never become crisp. Put the parsley in the Chafing
Dish with a tablespoon of olive oil or butter. As soon as the oil or
butter ceases bubbling, take out the parsley and let it dry on a piece
of paper. The parsley should remain quite green; if it is brownish it is
a sign that it has been fried too long.

Green Peas.
A pint of shelled peas, a tablespoon of butter, pepper and salt, and a
good squeeze of lemon; put all these in the Chafing Dish. Add a
cupful of milk and hot up for ten minutes, then strain and serve.
Avoid mint, green or otherwise.

Chestnuts.
Shell a score of chestnuts, cover them in the Chafing Dish with
boiling water, and in four minutes take them out and remove the
skins. Return them to the boiling water, add a cup of milk, pepper
and salt, and simmer until quite tender but not soft.

“Behold, the earth hath roots;

The bounteous housewife Nature, on each bush
Lays her full mess before you.”—Timon of Athens.

It has been made plain, I trust, that it is not necessary to rely solely
on the damp-sodden vegetables of the pre-historic cuisine. It is just
as easy to cook them nicely as otherwise, and a deal more
satisfactory. The bounteous housewife Nature overwhelms us with
her treasures of root and sap, and it seems almost an outrage to
neglect the opportunities so lavishly offered to us.
I have just described a score or so of the plainer methods of cooking
vegetables, simply as an indication of their possibilities, but the
enterprising Chafer will find as he progresses in the art (and Chafing
grows upon one like any other hobby) that there are dozens of
others which lend themselves readily to his, or her, deft
manipulation.
The grandfather of Charles Darwin was a poet of parts, and in his
“Phytologica” he says:

“Oft in each month, poetic Tighe! be thine

To dish green broccoli with savoury chine;
Oft down thy tuneful throat be thine to cram
The snow-white cauliflower with fowl and ham!”

This is wise advice, because the green broccoli is far better than the
white.
There are many American vegetables which may be cooked without
a twang. They are all in tins or bottles, bearing plain directions.
Among others I can speak from personal experience of Sugar Corn,
Green Corn, Oyster Corn, Boston Beans, Lima Beans, and Succotash.
This last is a meal in itself, and of most excellent flavour and
convenience. Green corn, too, reminds those who know the South
African mealie in all its toothsomeness, of many a hearty supper of
Kaffir mealies roasted in the embers of a camp fire, or even in that
most primitive of ovens, an ant-heap, which, believe it or not as you
will, turns out better cooked meats than some of your very patent,
very modern, very “gadgetty” kitchen ranges, although not better, I
ween, than my chaste Chaffinda.
From vegetables to salads is but one step. I do not see any valid
reason for apologising for the inclusion of salads in a Chafing-Dish
book. They are not cooked in a Chafing Dish, it is true, but it is part
of my religion that no meal is complete without a salad, green for
choice, but anyhow a salad. I do not insist on salad for breakfast,
although on a blazing hot July day, after a swim or a tramp, or both,
I can imagine worse things than an omelette, some kidneys and
bacon, and a slice of real ham, and a green salad to top up with. But
no dinner is really a dinner without a salad, and by that I do not
mean three scraggy lettuce leaves, soused in vinegar, which as
Salade de saison is the usual accompaniment to that disastrous hen,
Poulet au cresson, which is a centipede as to legs and has no breast
or liver wing.
As this screed is, after all, a plain record of personal likes and
dislikes, I see no reason for concealing the fact that I have no use
whatever, no manner of use in the wide wide world, for mayonnaise
with salad. The Americans swear by it; I swear at it. My salad
mixture, which goes with everything—absolutely everything—is
simplicity itself. Eccolo!

Salad Mixture.
Into a large bowl put half a teaspoon of salt, same of Paprika, a
dash of black pepper, freshly ground by a hand-mill, and a teaspoon
of made English mustard. Mix them up well. Now add very gradually
the very best quality of olive oil, almost drop by drop, to the quantity
of three tablespoons, mixing all the time until the ingredients
assume the consistency of cream; now thin this with one tablespoon
of good wine vinegar, and amalgamate thoroughly. That is all I use.
Now and again, by way of extra titillation of the jaded palate, you
may add half a tablespoon of Tarragon vinegar, herbs to taste,
Spring onions, chives, French mustard, olives (French only), hard-
boiled eggs, dandelion leaves, nasturtium leaves, and celery salt.
But there are half a dozen rules which I would seriously enjoin the
salad mixer to bear in mind.
Only use a wooden spoon and fork for mixing.
Never cut a lettuce; always break it with the fingers.
Dry the lettuce thoroughly in a serviette or in a salad-basket before
breaking.
Make the salad ten minutes before eating it. Neither more nor less.
Do not bother about garnishing the top of a salad; see the
ingredients are well mixed. The decoration will look after itself and
be much more artistic if left natural than if fussed into geometrical
designs.
Make your mixture proportionate to your salad. This is a matter of
intuition and experience combined. The test of right mixing is that
no fluid should remain at the bottom of the bowl when finally mixed.
The “fatiguing” or turning over and over, that is, the actual mixing of
the salad, should be very thoroughly done for just as long as is
bearable to the verge of impatience. Rub a crust of bread with garlic
or onion, put it in the bottom of the bowl and take it out just before
serving. This is a chapon.
The true salad artist will never add any second dose of any
ingredient during the process of mixing the sauce. I was once
present at a salad duel between an eminent Belgian violoncellist and
a British banker. The former was an artist, the latter a well-meaning
amateur. They used the same cruet-stand, and during the mixing
process the banker politely pushed the oil and vinegar across to the
Belgian, who bowed and said: “Thanks. I never add!” The banker
appreciated the rebuke and retired from the contest. Both salads
were excellent.
The old salad-proverb about the oil-spendthrift, the vinegar-miser,
and all the rest of it, is too old to quote, but it expresses a truism
aptly enough. Three to one is, according to my view, a fair
proportion of oil to vinegar, but this, as indeed most things in this
so-called twentieth century of ours, is only a matter of individual
taste, and I have no desire to suggest that my opinion should be
given the force of law. I have known a salad enthusiast who coated
each leaf of lettuce with oil on a camel’s-hair brush, but this I think
is an exaggeration of artistry. On the other hand, the wild stirring of
dollops of the four condiments .in the salad spoon, which is then
emptied vaguely into the salad, is childish and inefficient. The
Italians have a proverb that runs:

“L’insalata non è buon’ ne bella

Ove non è la pimpinella.”

The pimpernel is our burnet.

It is quite unnecessary to give full recipes for all the following salads.
I have already indicated the mixture, and the choice of ingredients
need only be hinted at.
Lettuce should be young, fresh, and crisp. There are many varieties,
the most delicate of which perhaps is the Romaine.
Endive is good when quite young. It should be very light in colour.
Do not mix it with lettuce. A few dandelion leaves are quite
permissible.
Chicory makes an excellent salad, and radishes mix well with it.
Celery and Parmesan cheese go well together. The celery must be
cut into half-inch pieces.
Cauliflower, cooked and cold, mixed with celery, or a very few slices
of cold cooked carrot, is cool and pleasant.
Tomatoes and lettuce go well together, and onions are a good
addition.
Potato salad requires firm round little potatoes cooked, cold, and cut
into slices. The best kind is known as Hamburg Potatoes, and they
may be had at the German Delikatessen shops. Avoid anchovies and
olives with potato salad, but encourage chives and a sprinkling of
cheese.
Celeriac.
This is a variety of celery, sometimes known as Dutch celery, a tuber
which has a quite peculiar and characteristic flavour. It needs no
addition whatever, and is an excellent accompaniment to all meats.
Cut it in slices, after boiling it for twelve minutes, and mix carefully
with plenty of liquid.

Mashed Potato Salad.

Beat up ordinary mashed potatoes with a little lukewarm weak stock
or warm water instead of milk, and no butter. Then dress them with
a little chopped chive, oil and vinegar, pepper and salt. This can be
endlessly varied with chopped hard-boiled eggs, beetroot,
cucumbers, anchovies, &c. This salad comes from that most
excellent compendium of quaint conceits, “More Potpourri from a
Surrey Garden,” by Mrs. C. W. Earle.
Old-fashioned salads, according to a seventeenth-century cook-book,
were more diversified than ours. Among the ingredients of “Grand
Sallets of divers compounds” were broom buds, pickled mushrooms,
pickled oysters, blew figs, Virginia potato, caperons, crucifix pease,
sage, mint, balm, burnet, violet leaves, red coleworts, raisins of the
sun, charvel and ellicksander buds. Some of these we know under
other names, but “blew figs” and “ellicksander buds” are
untraceable. The list has a Rabelaisian smack, and gives one some
idea of the crude admixture of flavourings which was acceptable to
our forebears.
In a very charming old book, “Travels in England in 1702,” by C. P.
Moritz, a Prussian clergyman, the following passage seems quotable:
“An English dinner generally consists of a piece of half-boiled, or
half-roasted, meat; and a few cabbage leaves boiled in plain water;
on which they pour a sauce made of flour and butter. This, I assure
you, is the usual method of dressing vegetables in England. The
slices of bread and butter which they give you with your tea are as
thin as poppy leaves. But there is another kind of bread and butter
usually eaten with tea, which is toasted by the fire, and is
incomparably good. You take one slice after the other, and hold it to
the fire on a fork till the butter is melted, so that it penetrates a
number of slices at once; this is called toast.”
Another part of the same book describes the kitchen in a country
inn, and gives a picture which seems to describe some old Dutch
interior. “I now, for the first time, found myself in one of these
kitchens which I had so often read of in Fielding’s fine novels; and
which certainly give one, on the whole, a very accurate idea of
English manners. The chimney, in this kitchen, where they were
roasting and boiling, seemed to be taken off from the rest of the
room, and enclosed by a wooden partition, the rest of the apartment
was made use of as a sitting and eating room. All round on the sides
were shelves with pewter dishes and plates, and the ceiling was well
stored with provisions of various kinds, such as sugar-loaves, black
puddings, hams, sausages, flitches of bacon, &c.”
A modern Dr. Syntax in search of the picturesque would vainly
nowadays look for anything approaching this homely simplicity in
any English hostelry. The modern tendency seems all directed
towards spurious finery, meretricious decoration, and uncomfortable
New Art. The old inns are neglected, and the new hotels merely
vulgarly gorgeous. The food is ambitious and basely imitative of bad
French models. The advent of the ubiquitous motor car on old
country roads, away from the railways, may in time improve matters,
and revive, to a certain extent, the extinct glories of the old coaching
inns; but as yet there is little, if any, improvement to be marked. In
the meanwhile, I would suggest that every travelling motor car be
provided with a Chafing Dish, and thus mitigate or improve the dull
pretentious meals which the country hotel proprietor thinks proper
to provide. The Chafing Dish and the motor car seem made for one
another. Will somebody try the combination?
There are just a few more salads which I should like to recommend,
premising, however, that they are not altogether orthodox. By this I
mean that they are not wholly composed of greenstuffs, but require
the addition of extraneous appetisers.

Walnuts and Green Peas.

Boil and blanch a dozen walnuts; break them in halves, mix them
with a pint of green peas, cooked and cold, and toss them about in a
small quantity of dressing.

Sprouts and Chestnuts.

Boil and skin a dozen chestnuts. Break them up and mix with a pint
of cold cooked Brussels sprouts. Toss them in a small amount of
mixture.

Jardinière.
Almost any cold cooked vegetables. For choice, use equal portions of
sliced potatoes, green peas, carrots, beans, celery, tomatoes, and
onions. Add plenty of dressing.

Cucumbers and Anchovies.

Wash, scrape and dry the anchovies. Chop them up. Have the
cucumber thinly sliced and thoroughly drained; plenty of salt, and
little mixture. Sprinkle the anchovies over the sliced cucumber.

Cauliflower and Bacon.

Dry the cauliflower and break up into small pieces, using all the
flower and very little stalk or green. Cut a couple of slices of bacon
into dice, sprinkle it about in the cauliflower, and use plenty of
dressing.
Bread Salad.
Cut three slices of stale bread (crumb only) into half-inch squares;
same amount of sliced cold cooked potatoes; three tomatoes in
quarters, one onion; toss all well together with a good deal of
dressing. This sounds very simple, but as Sam Weller’s pieman said,
“It’s the seasoning as does it.”
Lest I be thought quite unspeakably impossible in these last recipes,
let me assure the worthy sceptics that they are in no wise guess-
work, but one and all duly approved, and that I have merely taken
the trouble to collate them and set them down here. They are
excellent and original. I think that many folks will be grateful for
them.
 CHAPTER·VII·EGGS·AND·SAVOURIES
“The vulgar boil, the learned roast an egg.”
Pope.

In the name of the profit: Eggs! Although farming in England may

spell ruin, poultry almost always pays, and if intelligently and
economically managed, one rarely hears of the failure of a poultry-
farm. We import a vast number of millions of eggs annually (many of
which come to a deservedly unrighteous end in villainous omelettes),
but it would be easy, with capital, initiative, and incubators, to
produce them one and all in Great Britain and make the egg trade a
national industry.
A couple of generations ago, when any one walked gingerly in the
street, he or she was said to be going at an “egg-trot,” because it
reminded one of a good housewife riding to market at a jog-trot
pace with eggs in her panniers. Let us therefore approach the
subject of eggs at an “egg-trot.”
A good egg is never bad. That is not such an inept truism as it looks.
A good egg is unspoilable, even by the worst cook. There are over
four hundred and fifty ways of cooking eggs, each of which has
some peculiar excellence denied to the others. You cannot even
make an omelette without breaking eggs, and most people find
breakfast almost impossible without the regulation hen-fruit. To
teach one’s grandmother how to suck eggs is a futile labour
partaking of juvenile presumption, but it is at least easier than
persuading the average cook that the fried egg of commerce is only
one out of scores of simple breakfast egg-dishes. “There is reason in
roasting eggs.” Even the most trivial culinary conjuring trick has
some good motive for being performed in one way rather than in
another. When wood fires were usual it was more common to roast
eggs than to boil them, and great care was required to prevent their
being “ill-roasted, all on one side,” as Touchstone says in the play.
Which is an additional reason for keeping strictly to the formula.
Eggs are ticklish things to monkey with, and it is much easier to
break them than to make them.
Learned disquisitions have before now been written on “How to boil
an egg.” It is not in my province to touch on that subject. The votary
of the Chafing Dish may be presumed to have enough common
sense to come in out of the rain, and to be able to boil an egg. It is
not much to ask. Pope, by the way, thought it vulgar to boil an egg,
but then we are all vulgar nowadays—and glory in it. Neither do I
propose to expatiate upon egg-flip, egg-nog, and kindred “dulceties.”
I will give a few plain straightforward recipes for eggs in the Chafing
Dish, and leave egg-eccentricities to my betters. I have only to
premise that there is but one kind of egg. The Best. Real new-laid
eggs are reliable friends. All others are base impostors!

Poached Eggs.
The Chafing Dish should be more than half full of boiling water.
Break each egg separately into a saucer and slip it steadily and
dexterously into the Chafing Dish. Light the lamp, cover up the
water and eggs, and put the dish over the lower hot-water pan,
which should have in it a pint of hot water. Let it heat until the
whites of the eggs are set; then remove the eggs from the pan with
the special flat implement ad hoc. Put the eggs on rounds of toast.
Sprinkle them with pepper, salt and parsley, and put a tiny piece of
butter on top of each egg.