After some years of observation I have come to the conclusion that if you want to put nice little dinners upon your table, you must not only be prepared to take an infinite amount of trouble, but you must make a friend of your chef. Unless amicable relations exist between the cook and his mistress or master, the work will never be carried out satisfactorily. There will be a thousand and one annoying failures, your mind will never know what repose means, and, in the end, - utterly wearied with the daily struggle against petty larceny, carelessness, ignorance, stupidity, and an apparently way-ward desire to thwart your desires to the utmost, - you will resign the baton to your butler, and submit in sheer desperation to that style of dinner unto which it may please him to call you.

I do not allude to people happy in the possession of a butler absolutely capable of composing, with very little aid, a fairly good menu, and able to direct the cook in the manipulation thereof. There are, I know, a few estimable men of that kind to be found - in point of fact, I am acquainted with three or four - but alas! they are rare to meet, and even the cleverest of them requires a little diplomatic supervision, or he will drift into a groove of dinners, and tire you with repetitions. Are not the accounts, also, of the erudite maitre d'hotel full often prone to cause, - even at the pretty writing table of the cosy boudoir, - great searchings of heart ? In other words, must you not pay for your luxury, and even murmur not in the presence of the artist who spares you so much trouble.

Those who are not gifted with patience, those who are not physicaily strong, those who have important calls upon their time away from home, and, of course, those who do not feel capable of directing culinary operations, cannot do better than entrust the management of their kitchens to alien heads; but all who are equal to the task, should take the helm in their own hands, remembering that ancient canon, - "if you want a thing well done, do it yourself,"

I place those who have not patience first on the list of persons whom I deem incapable of managing their cooks. I do so advisedly, for of all failings inimical to the success-ful direction of a native servant, a hasty temper is the most fatal. The moment you betray irritation and hastiness in your manner towards Ramasamy, he ceases to follow you. His brain becomes busy in the consultation of his personal safety, and not in the consideration of the plat you may be endeavouring to discuss with him. In this matter I, of course, address my readers of the sterner sex. Ladies, I know, are never angry, and even when a little put out, do they not contrive to veil their feelings with a sweet subtlety which men can envy, yet never hope to acquire?

Once upon a time I knew very intimately the Mess President of a Regiment (not yet forgotten I fancy at Bangalore) who possessed to an eminent degree the qualities necessary for his difficult position. He was an acknowledged connoisseur in wines, excelled in the composition of a menu, and rejoiced in a bountiful development of the bump of management. Long association, however, with one of the best Messmen a Regiment ever had in England had spoilt my friend for the up-hill task of managing Ramasamy. The consequence was that the ordering of a dinner with him was generally productive of un mauvais quart d'heure. I remember, one special day, hearing my friend's voice raised to its highest pitch; presently the door of the little room he occupied as an office flew open, and out rushed the cook, followed by his preceptor violet in the face with wrath. The unhappy menial, in a state of hopeless mental aberration, had taken down that he was to boil the pate de foie gras, and ice the asparagus!* I was called in as interpreter and peace-maker, and many a morning after that did I convey my friend's orders to the mess cook. I was obliged, however, to demand an empty room, for even during my interpretations the President's patience would evaporate, and the walls would ring with language that was fashionable when George the Third was King.

There are two ways of imparting the details of a menu to your native cook:- one through the medium of your butler, the other by conversation with the man himself. For many reasons I advocate the latter plan. Some cooks do not care for the butler's interference, and in many establishments, the cook and butler do not pull. Butlers, again, are prone to conceit, and often pretend to understand what you want done, rather than confess their ignorance. You may perhaps remember the same failing in your munshi who never admitted himself to be puzzled by the most intricate passage in English that you could place before him.

So I prefer to get the cook alone, and talk to him very gently in his own patois. I encourage him by a bland demeanour, and if obliged to speak retrospectively of a failure, I strive to do so with a smile. You will soon get round Ramasamy when he finds that you never indulge in "very bad' busing:" he then gains confidence in you and learns rapidly. Between ourselves too, surely an artist who can actually compose a "petit pate a la financiere" a "kramoushy aux huitres" or a "supreme de volatile" deserves some consideration at our hands. The patois is easily acquired, and you will soon find yourself interpreting the cherished mysteries of Francatelli or Gouffe* in the pigeon English of Madras with marvellous fluency. You will even talk of "putting that troople," "mashing bones all," "minching," "chimmering," etc., etc., without a blush.

* I do not mean to insinuate by this that iced asparagus is not a delicious entremets; in the case in point, however, the mistake made by the cook is obvious. - W.

There can be no doubt that in our Ramasamy we possess admirable materials out of which to form a good cook. The work comes to him, as it were, of its own accord. But we should take heed lest he grow up at random, clinging affectionately to the ancient barbarisms of his forefathers. "We should watch for his besetting sins, and root them out whenever they manifest themselves.

We should, moreover, remember that a dish once success-fully presented will not necessarily appear so again unless the artist be reminded de novo of the secrets of its composition.

Mint, as a flavouring agent, save with green peas, in certain wine "cups," and in bond fide mint sauce, is one of the banes of the cook-room; its use, and that of any parsley except the curled English variety, should be considered absolutely penal. The very smell of "country" parsley is assuredly sufficient to warn the unwary, and yet many native cooks bring it home daily. The weed has been called "parsley" ever since they can remember, and they fail to appreciate the wide difference between it, and the real herb.

All native cooks dearly love the spice box, and they all reverence "Worcester Sauce." Now, I consider the latter too powerful an element by far for indiscriminate use in the kitchen, especially so in India where our cooks are inclined to over-flavour everything. If in the house at all, the proper place for this sauce is the cruet-stand where it can be seized in an emergency to drown mistakes, and assist us in swallowing food that we might otherwise decline. But it should be preserved from Ramasamy with the same studious care as a bottle of chloroform from a lady suffering from acute neuralgia.

Spice, if necessary, should be doled out in atoms, the cook ought never to have it under his control.

Does every housekeeper appreciate sufficiently the invaluable trimmings of meat, skin, and bone, which remain, say, after a number of tasty choplets have been prepared for the grid-iron from a neck of mutton ? Do all know that Ramasamy's domestic curry often gains, whilst we lose, the nice savoury sauce which should have accompanied our entree; but then, if "missus din't give arder for using bits all," can Ramasamy, a child of this world, be blamed?

In the various receipts which I hope to give, you will always find a few lines reserved for the treatment of the scraps, and as each bad habit of the cook-room occurs to me, I will endeavour to expose and explain it to the best of my power.