As in so many other of our good points, we have achieved this thing unconsciously.  Your ordinary Englishwoman engaged in cooking probably has no other thought than to make the food masticable; but reflect on the results, when the thing is well done, and there appears a culinary principle.  Nothing could be simpler, yet nothing more right and reasonable.  The aim of English cooking is so to deal with the raw material of man’s nourishment as to bring out, for the healthy palate, all its natural juices and savours.  And in this, when the cook has any measure of natural or acquired skill, we most notably succeed.  Our beef is veritably beef; at its best, such beef as can be eaten in no other country under the sun; our mutton is mutton in its purest essence—­think of a shoulder of Southdown at the moment when the first jet of gravy starts under the carving knife!  Each of our vegetables yields its separate and characteristic sweetness.  It never occurs to us to disguise the genuine flavour of food; if such a process be necessary, then something is wrong with the food itself.  Some wiseacre scoffed at us as the people with only one sauce.  The fact is, we have as many sauces as we have kinds of meat; each, in the process of cookery, yields its native sap, and this is the best of all sauces conceivable.  Only English folk know what is meant by gravy; consequently, the English alone are competent to speak on the question of sauce.

To be sure, this culinary principle presupposes food of the finest quality.  If your beef and your mutton have flavours scarcely distinguishable, whilst both this and that might conceivably be veal, you will go to work in quite a different way; your object must then be to disguise, to counterfeit, to add an alien relish—­in short, to do anything except insist upon the natural quality of the viand.  Happily, the English have never been driven to these expedients.  Be it flesh, fowl, or fish, each comes to table so distinctly and eminently itself that by no possibility could it be confused with anything else.  Give your average cook a bit of cod, and tell her to dress it in her own way.  The good creature will carefully boil it, and there an end of the matter; and by no exercise of art could she have so treated the fish as to make more manifest and enjoyable that special savour which heaven has bestowed upon cod.  Think of our array of joints; how royal is each in its own way, and how utterly unlike any of the others.  Picture a boiled leg of mutton.  It is mutton, yes, and mutton of the best; nature has bestowed upon man no sweeter morsel; but the same joint roasted is mutton too, and how divinely different!  The point is that these differences are natural; that, in eliciting them, we obey the eternal law of things, and no human caprice.  Your artificial relish is here not only needless, but offensive.

In the case of veal, we demand “stuffing.”  Yes, for veal is a somewhat insipid meat, and by experience we have discovered the best method of throwing into relief such inherent goodness as it has.  The stuffing does not disguise, nor seek to disguise; it accentuates.  Good veal stuffing—­reflect!—­is in itself a triumph of culinary instinct; so bland it is, and yet so powerful upon the gastric juices.