THE GOOD LIFE Pamela VANDYKE PRICE

The Chaine des Rotisseurs was founded in 1248 and, when you think of it, the man who

turned a nifty spit must have wielded con- siderable influence in those pre-cookery class times. For even if you have the min-

ions, the space and the material, you must know what you are doing to avoid the meat being presented either raw or carbonised and, without hotplates or ovens (most then only used for baking) to get the food on time to the several dozen or hundred of the house- hold and high table. But being a cook pos- sessed the supreme advantage that you, of all the staff, could get enough to eat. The Chaine was dissolved at the time of the Revolution, but revived in Paris in 1950, the British bailliage being founded nine years later.

It is curious. that in France, even in reg- ions rich in cattle, the tradition of the big joint has died out, whereas in Britain it reigns supreme for us, however grills tend to be for slightly informal occasions, lun- cheons perhaps, or meals taken in an atmos- phere of haste or preoccupation. But even though—as yet—we do not have grills made over the cuttings of our own vine stocks, the popularity of the big grill and the turning spit is increasing enormously and this is admirable, for 'oven roasting' is really not roasting at all, at least not in the same way as when meat is exposed to the air, turned to ensure even cooking (to roast a chicken in the oven means that you are almost certain fo over or-under-cook part of it) affer par;

tially self-basting with the juices running freely from it.

It is good that more restaurants, both large and modest, are using the spit or silver grill for cooking the straightforward British food- stuffs that can be good, but which, in so many catering establishments, get my gastro-

nomic 'x' certificate. The Chaine is quietly concerned with raising cooking standards, both of those who make their living by sell- ing meals and those who do their own cater- ing at home. And not even the French, I

believe, can have an official ox-roaster with the record of our Joe Barran, who recently twirled off his 2,000th beast! So it is, I

think, of interest to study the menu arranged by the Chaine for the dinner at Painters' Hall

in the City of London, after the installation

of the Duke of Bedford as Bailli Delegue of Great Britain; I enjoyed my meal very much

that night, with, of course, some criticisms as to the actual achievement of the cooks—but the really useful thing was that this was a very 'British' meal, such as one could offer to a visitor wanting to try our specialities. Beforehand we had Champagne—Mumm Cordon Rouge on this occasion—which I find not only acceptable to most people but essential to me if I'm giving a dinner. The first course was clear turtle soup,*with Old Custom House Sercial; you could buy a

lood canned or bottled soup and, as it were enhance same (I can't see even the most

show-off private cook grappling with a turtle), or even serve a rather simple veg- etable cream soup, such as the clear carrot soup or some of the historic recipes given

in Florence White's Good Things in Eng- land. Our second course was whitebait, with

Alsatian Traminer 1967. I know that fry- ing is not always a social activity in the home, but whitebait don't take long. Then we had stuffed quail. Quail are now becom- ing popular, are usually to be ordered from a good game merchant and can often be posted direct to you; they are not, of course, the wild variety. Maybe you could skip that course if the whole meal sounds too much.

For the principal dish, there was cold roast baron of beef (remember, this was for nearly 200 people), with potatoes baked in their jackets. I know this is an informal way of serving a cut off a joint, but it is good— especially if the carver is adroit—and trouble-free, and I've never met anyone who didn't enjoy it, except, I recall, that I re- cently read a letter in a supposedly 'gourmet' column complaining that a fine meal in- cluded roast ribs of beef 'instead of a classic French dish'. (My evil mind has already en- joyed many an agreeable boggle considering the horrid concoctions en crofite, sur canapé,

a deux sauces, flambe trois liqueurs and possibly even gratine aux miettes de rusk processing out of that salon culinaire.) With the beef we had Château Rauzan Gassies 1959, which was amiable, delicious and sun- nily fragrant.

Then there was lemon posset with maids of honours, Taylor's Vintage Reserve or Croizet VSOP to follow.

So, if you had coped with this meal at home, you would only have had to bake the potatoes, heat the soup and, at the last minute, fry the whitebait, once you had assembled and prepared the rest of the fare. Should you feel deprived without some veg- etable to give colour to the beef plate, then I suppose it ought to be drumhead or spring cabbage or brussels sprouts, cooked until only just al dente—definitely with a slight crunch to them—and turned lightly in butter,

. not awash in it. But these vegetables must

—not wait, so yeu-ere-hanelieeppittg-yeereelf

and, if you have some first-rate watercress the colour sense is satisfied just the same.

Too simple, too informal, too trouble. free? But I know that none of those who have shared magnificent bottles with me would complain about such a background to the finest wines. (If you did include roast quail, then a progression of three red wines would add to the pleasures of the meal.)