The Rake Magazine

Category: Food and Drink

  • Restaurant Redux Part 2

    Did that last post inspire you to gather your recipes and put together a business plan? Have you been thinking "I throw great dinner parties and I make a heckuva salsa, why don’t I open my own Tex-West place?"

    Whoa there, Nelly. There’s more to it than you think. Thank goodness the BBCA is around to provide you with the proof.

    Last Restaurant Standing is a new show in which 9 amateur food lovin’ couples try to open and run their own restaurants. They’re judged by a panel of "inspectors" who’ll dole out challenges to the three lowest-rated (unlike real inspectors who’ll just pad-lock your doors like they did a few weeks ago to the new cowboy in town).

    What could happen? Water pipes might burst over the newly set room just weeks before opening (that happened last month) or the armored car could get lost and just give up for the day, leaving you with no cash on hand (that happened last year). Through all the pressure and inevitable foibles, the teams must outlast each other for a chance to win backing by Raymond Blanc for their own, real restaurant. If they still want one by then.

    Grab a sneak peek on Feb 7th at 8pm.

  • White Wine for Men

    It is a pity there’s no reason to believe King Arthur actually existed. True, there was a sixth-century monk called Gildas The Wise who penned a wordy jeremiad that mentions a battle at a place called Mount Badon where the Celtic remnant of Roman Britain stemmed the tsunami of Anglo-Saxon invasion. It is also true that, long afterwards, Welsh monks with well-developed imaginations placed at Mount Badon one of the twelve victories they ascribed to Arthur. If you think that adds up to evidence for a historical Arthur, you probably also think that Saddam Hussein supported Al Qaeda.

    Of course, not necessarily existing is no barrier to being influential, as critics of the Ontological Argument sometimes discover. Imaginative folk of every era since Late Antiquity have peered back into the Age of Arthur and summoned the mythical monarch from the fifth-century mists, calling into the old world to redress the balance of the new. The monks of medieval Glastonbury felt they had solid evidence that Arthur would one day return and put old England to rights when, in 1184, they discovered a lead coffin allegedly containing the king’s bones. It was inscribed with his name and the motto “rex quondam rexque futurus.” Some 300 years later a Warwickshire country gentleman called Malory, in jail awaiting trial on a long list of charges including affray, deer-stealing, and carrying off a neighbor’s wife, wrote a long and eloquent account of King Arthur and the Round Table, lamenting in marginal notes to his manuscript that the age of chivalry was dead and that knights no longer had the noble souls they had of old.

    Later poets, too, have found ideals to feed their fancies at the court of the once and future king. The opera of Purcell and Dryden, King Arthur: The British Worthy, is as insubstantial as spun sugar, but no less pleasingly sweet. Alfred Lord Tennyson, gentleman-poet, sought high moral rectitude at the Round Table and found it in Sir Galahad, whose strength was as the strength of ten, because his heart was pure. (Did anyone less pure-hearted, one wonders, try to warn the old boy about his earlier line, “‘The curse has come upon me,’ cried the Lady of Shalott”?) In living memory, Charles Williams found in the Arthur stories a mystical means to understanding the coinherence of human and divine life.

    And then there is Mark Twain’s Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. I loathe this book. Instead of parting the curtains of time to catch sight of Merlin’s Isle of Gramarye, Mr. Twain sends there a cocksure moron of his own era, a nineteenth-century firearms manufacturer yclept Hank Morgan, who turns the armored knights into sandwich-board men advertising soap and, as a final gesture, mows down rank on rank of mounted men-at-arms using an electric fence and a nest of machine guns. The message is: Whatever happens, we have got the Gatling gun and they have not. Mr. Twain (yes, I know it is a nom de plume) is no more imaginative in this book than the creators of the Flintstones, who assimilated even the Neolithic to the contemporary suburb, a habitat as specialized in its own way as that of any dinosaur, and therefore ultimately just as fragile.

    What is more, Hank Morgan’s is the sort of mechanical machismo which gives masculinity a bad name. Until his time, men in love with speed needed to develop “good hands” and a lasting relationship with a horse, an animal with more mind of its own than a supermarket trolley, willing when treated well but tricky if bullied. They could not simply pull a metal throttle and blast off into the sunset. Chivalry, as the etymology of the word suggests, involves not only strength but also the gentleness necessary for equestrian manipulation. For Arthur and his knights, manliness was more than force.

    Which is why, when I describe the 2007 Sauvignon Blanc from Mount Riley in New Zealand as a masculine wine, I do not mean merely that it knocks your socks off. It is a constant surprise that New Zealanders can make from this variety of grape, so evanescent when the French turn it into Pouilly-Fumé, a wine so muscular in character. The Mount Riley Sauvignon Blanc is bright and clear, the color of pale straw. It is strong and fresh; it is not sweet, but it is not unsubtle. It made me think of the taste of peaches with the sugars taken out. I detected also hints of pepper, such as you sometimes encounter in kiwifruit. A glass or two with a hot fish stew could help redress the balance of your world.

  • The Sweetest Simmer

    Now we’re fully settled into the bland, grayest days of winter—a time when I seek to imbue my life with more flavor. After all, woolen sweaters and bestsellers can only go so far in fighting the battle of the blahs. If I’m to be trapped indoors, then the kitchen had better be sending forth seductive smells of warm, satisfying dishes that make me happy to be holed up at home. That’s usually why, particularly at this time of year, the Sunday meal becomes a big braising event.

    Braising is one of those cooking terms that sounds technically daunting to the uninitiated: Do I need a special pan? Will it require kitchen string or a unique thermometer, neither of which I have on hand? But in truth, braising is so easy that, once you’ve mastered it, it starts to feel like cheating. Better yet, braising consistently produces soulful, and even good-looking, Sunday meals—meals that come for far less money and with a lot less mess than your typical fried, roasted, or sautéed productions.

    The basic technique requires slowly cooking a cut of protein while it is semi-immersed in liquid in a covered pot. But don’t confuse braising with stewing; braising relies more on the combination of liquid and steam to bring out the best flavors.

    Typically, braising is done with tougher, lesser-quality cuts of meat. In fact, braised classics like osso buco and coq au vin were invented for the very purpose of enhancing the flavors of such meats. The moist heat of braising breaks down the connective tissues in tougher cuts, melting the collagen and contracting the fibers. Those tissues then absorb some of the liquid along with the melted fats and flavors, giving the meat the tender, fall-apart quality that is the hallmark of a braised dish.

    Preparing the week’s capstone meal in a single vessel cuts down on clutter—and saves time. In the same pot, you can quickly sear the meat (giving it a nicely caramelized crust), add the liquid, and toss in some vegetables. Cover the whole thing and put it in the oven on low temperature. For the next few hours, while your meal develops many layers of flavor and your kitchen fills with warm and comforting aromas, you’re free to read a book, do your taxes, or just get on with your life.

    Cuts of meat that braise well include lamb and veal shank, poultry legs and thighs (think chicken cacciatore), country-style pork ribs and beef cuts including chuck pot roast, short ribs, flank steak, and eye or top round roast. That’s not to say you must have meat; sturdier vegetables like cauliflower, endive, leeks, and rutabaga braise quite well, as a matter of fact. The liquid component can also be varied. While most recipes call for a base of stock, the addition of wine, port, and beer is also common. During the coldest months, I like to braise pot roast with rosemary and Guinness. But the moment I sense the light of spring, I switch to braising chicken with citrus, white wine, and stock.

    In the meantime, as cold days continue to keep the family cooped up together all weekend long, there is likely to be a bit of sniping. But by braising a huge pot of short ribs, the cook can gently infuse the domestic surroundings with the smell of subtle spices, working a little homespun magic against the winter blues.


    Spiced Braised Short Ribs

    1 cup all-purpose flour
    2 tsp. salt
    1/2 tsp. pepper
    1/2 tsp. cinnamon
    1/2 tsp. unsweetened cocoa
    6 pounds bone-in beef short ribs,
    cut into 3-inch sections
    1/4 cup butter
    1 large onion, chopped
    1 1/2 teaspoons ginger
    4 cloves garlic, minced
    1 3/4 cups beef stock
    3/4 cup red wine vinegar
    1/4 cup packed brown sugar
    1/2 cup Sriracha (or chili sauce)
    1/3 cup tomato paste
    1/3 cup Worcestershire sauce

    Combine flour, salt, pepper, cinnamon, and cocoa in a large zip-lock bag. Add ribs in batches and shake to coat. Melt butter in a large pan and brown ribs on all sides. Remove ribs to a larger baking dish.

    In the same pan, over medium heat, sauté onion with ginger until translucent and soft; add garlic, stirring until fragrant. Add stock and vinegar and bring to a low boil. Add sugar and stir until dissolved. Add remaining ingredients and bring back to a low boil. Remove from heat and pour over ribs. Cover dish with foil. Cook in a 300-degree oven for four to five hours, or until the meat is easily pulled from the bone.

  • Restaurant Redux

    It’s an odd feeling when a restaurant closes. If it had a big-name chef or the affection of local critics, the closing can cause much hullabaloo (as was witnessed one recent winter). If the eatery was not-so-celebrated, as is more often the case, the closing happens quietly, sadly.

    But what of the space? For a while, many of them exist in a ghostly way, hanging darkened signs from former tenants. I remember peeking into the windows of a shuttered sports bar and seeing the napkin roll-ups still set in the booths, just waiting for the big game to begin. I can’t tell you how many pairs of shoes I’ve seen in abandoned kitchens, as if the cooks were shuttled out mid-shift.

    Of course there are the usual post-mortem queries: What happened? Who dropped the ball? Why couldn’t they make it? What went wrong? But at some point my brain starts ticking forward: Who’s looking for a spot? What does this place need? What could this space become?

    It’s so exciting! Aren’t you ready to jump into the most thrilling industry on the planet? There are more than a few potential spots out there right now. There are a few you might never consider (unless you had the passionate, risk-taking hearts of Niver and Fratzke) but there are plenty of safer-bets for the start-up. Even though I usually get paid thousands of dollars for this kind of "concepting" (shyah), in the interest of The Dream and a bit of January-killing, I’m willing to share my million dollar ideas to get you off your duff and looking for angel investors.

    First of all, good luck to anyone trying to open a fine-dining, high-falutin concept in the face of the rumored coming recession. Seriously, it helps to have backers with deep pockets.

    When Cosi closed in Wayzata, it left a relatively clean and newish space but a small kitchen lacking most major equipment. Everyone thinks that area bleeds money, and yet the Punch Pizza and Chipotle that opened last year are the most consistently packed. Filling the void of high quality Asian, the former Cosi could easily become a casual sushi spot like Yumi or better yet a robata/sushi joint like Obento-ya.

    The space on 11th and Harmon that formerly held Willie’s Wine Bar is a tough one. It’s not on a main street and it’s presence is sort of marred by the overhanging skyway. Still, the law school and growing number of neighborhood residents make this a palusible spot, but not for a wine bar. I think that an upscale burger and beer joint might win here. Not big and splashy but cool and easy, cultivating the off-the-beaten-path thing you could make it a worthy hangout for students. Really great burgers and a stacked beer list (featuring hard to find Belgians with a beer club) will draw the neighbors out of their condos.

    The Auriga space deserves to be more than a mausoleum. For ten years it did well as a cutting-edge restaurant, it could do another ten as the same with a new, driven chef. Or it could be lightened up as the modern diner with a killer brunch/lunch, ala the Egg and I meets Town Talk. If there was room for an in-house bakery, I’d even open late-night for post-bar breakfast and cupcakes (our own Magnolia!). There are a ton of young, active people in the surrounding neighborhood, whatever goes in there should do whatever it takes to win those repeat guests.

    If you give me a big bag of money, I’ll share some of the other winners I have rattling around. Of course I can’t gurarantee success with any of these ideas. What sounds bright and shiny to me now, sitting on my couch, could be punched down for a litany of different reasons (permits, liquor laws, recession, tanking real estate values, unruly landlords, etc). But on a blustery winter day, what else would you dream …

  • An American Truth

    There are those, here in Boston, who will say that Paul Revere never made his historic Midnite Ride, that he actually sent a neighbor to warn the countryside. And some people will giggle at your naïvety when you mention the Boston TEA Party, as if everyone should be so silly to think that it was actually tea being stored in those rum barrels.

    It’s enough to shake a history buff. But if you run back to your historic hotel, where you decide to take refuge in culinary history, you might not be comforted.

    I admit that part of the reason I chose to stay at the Parker House was because it was the birthplace of the Parker House Roll and the Boston Creme Pie. I can put up with tiny, cramped, stodgy rooms and early morning construction noise as long as I can get a bite of the past.

    I wasn’t expecting much from the rolls. After all, they’re white dinner rolls. But after having to actually pay extra to add one to my meal, the forthcoming roll wasn’t even warm. And you’d think an icon would deserve to be accompanied by more than just a common foil wrapped chunk of frozen butter. Was a small dish of whipped and salted butter simply too much to ask for a national treasure?

    And still, it got worse. It turns out that the place which claims honor for the original Boston Creme Pie (a true inspiration for doughnut eaters everywhere) has done the unthinkable: THEY’VE CHANGED THE RECIPE. Instead of a classic 1855 dessert of dense cake and custard, covered with a deeply chocolate ganache, we now have a fluffy, spongy thing covered with coconut and drizzled with white chocolate in a modern spidery design.

    And so you lose a little religion.

    But I did find faith again in a little restaurant called The Ivy, tucked away down an alley off of Boston Commons. It’s an Italian small-plate restaurant with a nice wine list: any glass $9, any bottle $26. We showed up a little late and asked if the kitchen was still open. The manager at the front was nice enough to run downstairs to check. As we settled into a booth, resigned that we were going to get a glass of wine regardless, he came to inform us that the kitchen had closed. I asked if there was even any bread we could snack on, and he again ran down to check.

    Upon his return he informed us that, although he couldn’t cook anything from the grill or the fryer, he’d be happy to whip us up a salad or make something from the saute side. We said we’d be happy with just about anything and would take what ever was easiest. When he suggested the bolognese and brought it to us within a minute, it hit us like a ton of bricks…"Is this supposed to be YOUR dinner?" He had given us the meal prepared for himself. As restaurant people, we all knew the value of sitting down for a hot meal after a night on the floor, shuffling plates, dealing with guests, running up and down stairs … sometimes that meal is the only thing that keeps you going.

    Of course we protested, and of course he wouldn’t take it back, claiming he ate it every night and could use a break from it. Wide, flat pasta was richly covered in a pink veal and pork ragu. The soft meat was perfectly done and not a bit greasy, like some bolo can be. With a bite of pasta it was almost creamy, yet subtly tangy with just a touch of red pepper. We ate it hungrily and gratefully. We drank our wine and vented our lives and tipped graciously.

    That bolognese is my new Boston icon.

  • Wicked Pissah

    I’m out here in Boston during this lovely Nor’Easter. As a true-hearted girl from Minny, it’s my duty to throw a few What’s-The-Big-Deals around and trudge through the slush in just a fleece declaring the 33 degrees to be a bit "balmy". I wear my Northern pride and January birthday like a fierce badge.

    But on to the eats…

    Last week, the city happily basked in warmer than normal weather, which made it the perfect walking city. I had pizza on the brain and my local pal Alex told me to walk to the North End and find Regina’s.

    The North End is the Little Italy of Boston. Down the main drag of Hanover Street, little restaurants and pastry shops glow through the late hours, welcoming locals and tourists alike. Despite the bright neon and hanging Christmas lights, the North End feels less of a tourist trap than Mulberry St. in NYC. We had to ask a few locals for directions to Regina as it wasn’t on the main street.

    The side streets in the North End are crooked and twisty, just like you want them to be. We passed apartment buildings that were so close together that we imagined neighbors hanging out the windows having a chat. In the middle of a five-way intersection, on the corner of Thacher Street we found Regina’s.

    Since 1926, Regina’s has been serving up brick-oven pizza. Walking into the dingy, tightly packed room, that seemed evident. The room was covered with black and white photographs showing stern waitresses and proud pizza cooks. The yellow walls were framed with woodwork that had seen many coats of dark paint and the booth tops were marked from years of hungry patrons waiting for their pizza.

    We were brusquely waved to a booth that could seat two larger people, or four in a pinch (we smashed in, we’re low-maintenance like that). Three waitresses worked the room and managed to deliver drinks and take orders while holding a converstion with each other, at top voice. Before we even got our taps of Moretti and Peroni (we’d ordered bottles, but whatever, beer is beer), we’d heard about how one girl had taken a few days off and the others had begrudgingly covered her shifts. "It’s a wicked pissah when you can’t even say thanks!" she shouted as she dropped our pizzas on the table.

    The pies were beautiful. The Pomodoro Formaggio was covered with dappled cheese and freshly torn leaves of basil. It was simple and salty and completely fresh. The Capricciosa was an ode to the perfect bite with a mouthful of fluffy ricotta, soft mushroom, prosciutto and their wonderfully tangy tomato sauce. With just a touch of char of the bottom, the crust held a nice balance between soft and crunchy.

    Our waitress sloshed a measure of beer from the glasses as she plonked down our second round. We were left to deal with it, and we did. When the barman told her it was last call, she turned to the room and to all of us shouted "You done, right?" A couple of hands shot up for a few more Buds and we paid our bill. Walking out, the pizza man in the kitchen shouted a Thanks as he threw another disc of dough into the air, and we left Regina feeling great.

    Regina Pizza has grown into a local chain with quite a few locations. I don’t know if any of them could live up to the night we had on Thacher Street, so I’m afraid I’ll have to pass them by. What a wicked pissah.

  • Stone Crabs

    It’s almost time for those beautiful little pink stone crab claws to hit the market.

    The first time I ever put claw to mouth was in a kitchen cooler with my friend Wade, the guy behind the fish at Oceanaire. We stood in the chilly box furtively dipping the black-tipped gems in a little mustard-mayo and sliding the sweet, soft meat from the claw with our teeth. It was just a perfect moment, that’s all.

    I used to wonder why all the fuss was thrown over some crab. I like crab, but I’m not gaga over it. A well-honed crab cake can be quite satisfying, but I feel cracking and dealing the big spidery crab legs to be too much of a bother. And you with your "imitation crab" salad, get out.

    But stone crab claws are different.

    First of all, harvesting stone crab is very ocean-friendly. Fisherman take only one claw from a crab before returning it back to the ocean. The stone crab is genetically gifted with a speedy regeneration process, a natural trick that favors their habit of losing limbs to get away from predators and out of tight spaces. With the help of warm waters, it can take as little as a year for the claw to grow back.

    And then there’s the taste. Crack a claw and the meat inside is a translucent white. It has a fresh and clean flavor with a light sweetness. Hit it with a little lime and the citrus will brighten the flavors. Dip it in a little mustard-mayo to add a touch of creamy bite and you’ll be the one who’s caught in a trap.

    Stone crabs are usually harvested from October to May, but the restaurant industry likes to promote them in January and February to help pump up business during the post-holiday blahs.

    I think it also helps us all take a break from the heavy stews and pot-roasts of the season, reminding us that there does exist a warm place where things regenerate.

    The recent chilly weather in Florida has delayed shipments because the crabs tend burrow into the sand when it gets colder. But keep your eye out for announcements from Oceanaire, McCormick & Schmicks, Stella’s, as well as many steakhouses or have a go with them on your own from Coastal Seafoods.

  • Food Forward '08

    Forget about looking back … let’s guess what’s in store for 08!

    If a rat can charm us, why not a bug? The next great food film to be revered by adults and tolerated by kids will be a jaunty romp with Corky Cockroach as he sings his way through a scrappy life spent in the bottom of a Caesar salad bowl.

    Gourmet burgers and sassy meatballs were the rage last year, our Isaac Becker got a nod in the NYT for his meatballs, but what’s next? The Cheddar Foie Dog, coming to a hot cart on every corner.

    The locavore movement has helped to push CSA into the mainstream. Look for farm-to-table boundaries to be further pushed with the advancement of text message "birth announcements" so you can race to field and arrive for the exact moment your rutabaga is ripe for the plucking.

    The small-plates trend is dead. This time we MEAN it. Who cares that O-Bentoya got a plug for their robata which I find myself thinking about sometimes…it’s dead, I tell you. What’s hot? Anything in a loaf (shrimploaf, robataloaf, okraloaf, hot hot hot).

    Buzzwords of the food world were clearly local, seasonal, organic, and sustainable. The trend they describe shows no sign of abatement, yet the words themselves have become a little overused, a little blah, no? Look for these new snazzy watchwords: earthish, dirt-nurtured, zip-code-containable, seasonesque (i.e. What are those tomatoes doing on your January menu? Shame on your lack of seasonesque.)

    He’s already worked on banning trans-fats and is trying to start a menu-labeling scuffle, but what’s The Man really doing for 08? He’s going to save your life, whether you like it or not, by instituting mandatory steel-cut oat enemas. Bend over, and Supersize it please.

    Damn, I’m excited. You?

  • Two Parties

    Most restaurant industry slaves refer to New Year’s Eve as "Amateur Night". Having worked plenty of NYE’s in past, I can’t say that I’m eager to go out and cram myself into a bar with a bunch of sweaty, drunk people. Have fun.

    I wouldn’t mind tucking into a cozy booth at a favorite restaurant, but we always seem to have too many revelers in our pack and no one can make a decision as to the best location.

    So it’s my house for the fest. But what manner of fest shall we have?

    Fancy Schmancy

    Part of me thinks it would be fun to do it up glam-style. I have a sassy black dress and shiny shoes (one of the benefits of hosting, never having to trudge through the snow in fabulously inappropriate footwear) that would do the trick. We’d prepare a spread of serious nosh: something in an escargot puff, a caviar treat, some foie possibly, maybe an oyster thing or two. There’d be Manhattans, natch, and likely a sake sangria. Low lights, music from Tao, good gossip and pretty people (we’re all pretty people in low light). Bubbly at midnight, no?

    Slippery Fun

    The other part of me thinks that it might be nice to hang low this year. We’d have a bunch of fun-lovers over for a little family skating/Boot Hockey (yes, the Hub built a rink in the backyard this year) starring a massive pot of chili. Maybe I’d sink a few growlers of Surly in the snow not far from the bonfire. Spiked cider, spiked cocoa, stick-roasted hot dogs for the little’uns and a slumber-pit for those who can’t make it to midnight. Toast in the year with Hot Toddies, and we’re all still pretty in firelight.

    EITHER WAY … there’s one thing that people who come to my house for NYE know and fear, the required shot of the evening to bring in luck for the new year:

    The Crazy Nikolashka

    Pour a healthy shot of whiskey (your choice). Take a half slice of lemon and remove the peel. On one half of lemon, pour a small mound of sugar, on the other half, pour a small mound of ground coffee. Throw the lemon in your mouth and chew vigorously. Swallow and chase with the whiskey. Glory be.

  • A Cratchit Family Christmas

    I read this the morning of every Christmas Eve. It helps remind me of the essential importance of a humble, shared feast. I gift this to all cooks as they start their ovens.

    Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course — and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah.

    There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last. Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows. But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone — too nervous to bear witnesses — to take the pudding up and bring it in.

    Suppose it should not be done enough. Suppose it should break in turning out. Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose — a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed.

    Hallo. A great deal of steam. The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s next door to that. That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs Cratchit entered — flushed, but smiling proudly — with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

    Oh, a wonderful pudding. Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

    At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

    These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

    `A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us.’

    Which all the family re-echoed.

    `God bless us every one.’ said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

    — A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens