miracle! how shall I explain about these others? Reader, have you ever watched a mad fellow careering round a Circus, who even whilst the horse is at full speed throws off covering after covering; and is now a Highlander, now a Swiss peasant, now a jockey, now a British Grenadier. You have there a faint analogy to Japan’s last word in fish-stews. With such consummate art do the illustrious Cooks of that far distant land combine the flavours of their great chef-d’œuvre—keeping them apart even in combination—that flavour after flavour shall pass over your palate—each distinct, yet each affecting the other by the halo, as it were, of its own surpassing delicacy—so that in one moment of time the perfumes of twenty, let us say, of these marine flowers have passed over your senses, yet each is perceptibly separate and distinct. Imagine a dolphin dying on your palate, and each of his changing and beauteous hues a delightful flavour. The Japanese fish-cooks could give you that sensation!
May it not be that we are upon the eve of a great revolution in this matter? Even now, we are informed that ambassadors from that ingenious Japanese people are on their way to our shores. Will they bring their cooks with them? Was that point stipulated in the treaty? It would be well if a question upon this matter were addressed at once to our Foreign Secretary; for even now, if there have been error or misapprehension it may not be too late. Let us tell them all we know about Armstrong guns, and astronomy and medicine; if we only receive in return their piscatorial secrets we shall have made a good bargain, indeed!
The utmost that I could obtain from my informant in the way of precise information—and indeed that is not very precise—was that the secret was not a secret of sauces. The Japanese have discovered some subtle methods of inter-penetrating the very substances of the marine treasures submitted to their delicate manipulations with juices unknown to us. At other times they will take the fish itself—so it be one of transcendent flavour—and heighten that flavour, without the commixture of any foreign element, in a very remarkable way. The process—I cannot repeat it too often—is not the addition of a sauce to a fish; the fish and the sauce are one.
It would also appear, that by a series of long and interesting investigations, they have arrived at the knowledge of certain affinities of flavours which they employ in this wise. Before they exhibit any particular preparation of fish, they make all things ready for its reception; just as when you expect an illustrious guest whom you desire to honour, you take the coverings from the furniture, and place flowers about the room. Before the casket which contains the treasure is placed before the party for whose benefit it has been conceived, they are invited to place a somewhat upon their tongue, or to ingurgitate a mouthful of some liquid. At the critical moment, when this preparatory flavour is at its highest point of development, the dish is brought in. The bridesmaids, as it were, come before scattering flowers, and then the bride appears. Nay, my illustration is a false one: I should rather say, the bride and bridegroom join hands, and the result is—felicity.
I should rather presume that a Japanese fish-dinner is a solemn and a thoughtful proceeding. How would it be possible to bind one’s attention to the jests of a professional joker, or to listen to the last thing about Pullinger, when every faculty of the mind is concentrated upon the appreciation of such nice and interesting considerations as those I have named? A few flowers, coolness, a crepuscular silence, such, methinks, should be the conditions under which fish-dinners are enjoyed at Japan.
This is not the way we manage such matters at Greenwich. I confess I long for greater variety in these entertainments—not, of course, for a greater number of dishes, or varieties of fish, at any one banquet—but I wish there were a larger area for choice, or that I could with a good conscience assert that during the last twenty years I had remarked any notable improvements in the methods of preparing fish. The water zootje, the lobster rissoles, the Spey trout, the salmon cutlets, and the white-bait prepared in the two different ways, are just what they were when I was a boy. Science, when it is not progressive, recedes.
The abominable stench from the Thames has also, of late, proved a serious drawback to Greenwich dinners. How can one sense do its work when another is suffering the last agonies? Could any one enjoy a fish dinner under the roof of a factory for the construction of steam-boilers when the work was most assiduously plied? Could any one, I say, enjoy a fish dinner if surrounded by those unfortunate creatures with goîtres whom one sees in Switzerland? The nose has its susceptibilities as well as the eye or ear, and indeed there is a far more intimate connection between the organs of smell and taste than between any two others. Rather let me have the humblest meal amidst the pleasant woods of Marlow, where the Thames is flowing past in crystal purity, and the young leaves of tenderest green are rustling over my head, and the vocal songsters of the grove—I believe that is the correct expression—are doing just what is expected of them without overdoing it, than the most accurately prepared banquet at Greenwich until the great Trunk Sewer is completed. The beauties of Nature to a thoughtful mind add zest and flavour to cookery. I know of certain dishes which never give forth their full qualities save in presence of the setting sun. There is a particular species of anchovy sandwich of my own invention which I invariably make use of when the nightingale is performing one of her rich seraphic solos amongst the hedges in my garden. I feel my mind elevated and purified at such moments; and I have no doubt that there exists a very particular affinity between the flavour of the delicate fish and the delightful gurgling of the sweet songstress of the woods. How vain are all forms of artificial enjoyment when fairly weighed in the balance against the pleasures derived from the contemplation of Nature! To return to Greenwich.
I had almost made up my mind not to visit Greenwich this year for the reason assigned—namely, my dread of the foul stenches of the