Verral, William

Verral, William (1715–61) one of the most engaging cookery writers of the 18th century, served his apprenticeship under a well-known French chef, M. de Saint-Clouet, who was for a time chef to the Duke of Newcastle, the greatest potentate in the eastern part of Sussex. When Verral took over the White Hart in Lewes in 1737, he practised cookery on French lines, as taught by Saint-Clouet.

In 1759, his book, A Complete System of Cookery, was published for sale in both Lewes and London, with a preface which must have aroused some astonishment by its racy style and the length of its principal paragraph (about nine pages in each of the two 20th-century reprints). This throws light on the equipment with which he worked and also on some tricks of the trade which he did not scruple to employ, as in the following excerpt from his description of a dinner which he prepared:

Now the two puddings (improperly called so) were made as follows: I took a few potatoes, boiled, and thump’d to pieces, with an egg or two, and a little sugar, for one; the other was a few old mackeroons I had in my house perhaps twenty years: I soak’d em well, and put them into a little milk and flour, instead of cream and eggs, seasoned it high with plenty of onions, &c., to which I added a large clove of garlick, which is enough for the dishes of a fifty-cover table served twice over, and covered it over with some good old Cheshire cheese instead of Parmesan; so that the colours were alike, and sent up, as said before. Well, neighbour, says the old gentleman, now for a bit of pudding, and then we shall have done pretty well, I hope: let’s see, here’s eight of us; so they were cut into so many parts, and every one took his share, and heartily they fell to, except one whose taste was not quite so depraved as the rest; he tasted, but went no farther. You don’t eat, neighbour, says the opposite gentleman. I don’t love sweet things, says he. Well, I do, says one that was gobbling down the highest dish that ever was. They vastly commended it, and swallowed it all down; but the beauty of it was, the mackeroon eaters eat it for a custard, and to this moment call it the best they ever tasted. But one of ‘em said it had a terrible twang of bad egg, though there was neither egg or butter in it. Well, says my old friend, with such a sort of a groan as may frequently be heard in large peals at your great feasts in and about the metropolis of this kingdom. I say, I hope everybody has made a good dinner; but we may thank you for it, Mr Cook, says he, turning to me; why we should have cut but a sad figure to-day, if we had not had the apparatusses. Pray, Sir, says one of the most learned, what is an apparatus? Why, says my old friend, laughing at him, why a stewpan is one, a pot is another, a ladle another, and many other things down in my kitchen are called apparatusses; so I left them in the midst of their sublime chat, and went home.