The Kindest Cut

"Every man that wylle come to knyghthode hym behoveth to lerne in his yougthe to kerve at the table." Even in 1484, it would seem, when William Caxton thus admonished the armored playboys of his day in a definitive book of Chyvalry, the art of kervynge was already esteemed as one of the fundamental social graces appurtenant to cultivated manhood. A lethal-looking girdle dagger, equally effective for meals or mayhem, was regarded as an indispensable wardrobe accessory by the gay blades of the age. Ornate carving knives -- inlaid with ivory, brass, mahogany or staghorn; etched with pictorial reminders of the hunt -- not (text continued on page 91) to mention such events as the Fall of Man; and worn at the waist in sturdy leather sheaths embossed with the family coats of arms -- were considered potent status symbols of the nobility.

The official court carver, in fact, was endowed with noble rank along with the court cupbearer and sewer (the dignitary in charge of serving). Together they led the impressive procession of platters into the great halls, and were accorded honors bestowed today only on men of Cabinet rank. Not surprisingly, the mystique of carving soon became as elaborate and specialized as that surrounding a fine art -- even to its own private nomenclature. The carver could not merely carve; he would have to, sounding like a (continued on page 177) Kindest cut (continued from page 91) refrain from Ol' Man River, "lyft that swanne, breke that dere, rere that goose, barbe that lobster, undertraunch that purpos, dysmembre that heron, wynge that partryche, mynce that plover" and, most exotically and graphically, "dysfigure that peacock."

Needless to say, the carving craft was jealously preserved as a masculine province. Feudal dining etiquette excluded females not only from the serious business of wynging and lyfting, myncing and dysmembring, but also from the dinner table itself. In Elizabethan England a few centuries later, unremitting feminine agitation finally forced men to permit the ladies to sit with them; but by a concession that could hardly be construed as gallant, they were assigned to the task of relieving the carver of his manual labor. Predictably, this innovation was a resounding failure, for in order to carve, the women had to sit at the center of the table, near the chair of honor -- "above the salt" -- and thus precipitated peppery protest from the male diners thus outranked.

Despite this inauspicious beginning, however, women persisted in their campaign to dysfigure the male carving tradition. Even as late as 1875, ladies of gentle birth were being sent on the eve of marriage to the exclusive Beak Street Academy for exhaustive instruction in the mysteries of meat cutting -- a tactic which history does not record as having made any visible inroads into the androcentric monopoly on carving. The affinity of a carving knife to the male hand remains to this day a part of the order of nature -- or at least of gastronomy.

In choosing his weapons for mastery at the carving board, the modern male makes a wise choice from among the three trustiest types of cold steel available: the triangular-bladed French knife for clean cutting of small pieces of meat such as tongue or pot roast, and for searching out hidden joints without unnecessary lancing in the dark; the long, flat blade of the slicer for straightaway carving of meaty expanses; and the scimitar-shaped, or curved, blade, a double-duty cutter equally adept at joint-separating and standard slice work. For the job of dividing small fowl into manageable parts, a sturdy pair of poultry shears is helpful.

A sharp reminder before you begin to brandish all this silverware: keep it keen. Too many novitiate knife wielders, dull whetted about honing their blades, become first-class hacks at the dinner table. To avoid this rueful role, you have but to cultivate an educated thumb: simply run this digit lightly across -- not along -- the knife edge. If it falls short of razor keenness by even a hairbreadth, the blade must be carefully sharpened before you can expect to cut a competent figure as a carver. For this task, the old-fashioned honing stone is the prime priming tool. For those impatient with this ritual rigmarole, the electric sharpener--fitted with several rotating circular stones--is a lightning-fast alternative.

And steel yourself for this one: if you prefer carving to whittling, you'll be well advised to pass your blade also over a good-quality knife steel -- not merely when the edge becomes dull, but before each carving bout. The cutting edge of every blade is lined with microscopically small teeth which fall out of place or become displaced after each session at the board, and this indispensable implement "trues" the knife by realigning these tiny serrations. As with the stone, you merely hold the heel of the blade at a slight angle and draw it over the steel about a dozen times -- speed doesn't matter -- then flip the knife and the steel to repeat the procedure. En garde: your weapon is in top fighting trim, ready to dispatch the most formidable crown roast or suckling pig.

Blade and appetite duly whetted, you should man your post at the head of the table with the chosen roast securely anchored on a capacious board or platter -- the meat having "set" and steeped in a warm place for 15 to 30 minutes. Then, with a firm grip on the knife, begin carving in a long sweeping motion, even though the slice may be quite small; use full bow, in other words, not staccato. And this above all: check the side view now and then to avoid the kind of slices which swell into thick bulges or taper into nothingness. Since all sliced meat cools quickly, the wise host will also take care to keep his gravy bubbling hot on the sidelines, ready to pour over the roast after the carving is complete.

For the benefit of modern kervyrs too busy to explore ancient archives, we submit herewith a few cutting remarks of our own, incisively updated and felicitously simplified, in the hope of honing your hosting pleasures to a keen edge.

Unsheathing our cutlery for battle over the groaning holiday boards ahead, we supplement our illustrated how-tos first with a bit of fowl play over the immemorial roast goose. For the game diner, this toothsome bird is a realm of the purest succulence. Here's how to explore it: with the neck of the bird facing left on the carving board, insert your sturdy, long-tined fork into the wishbone area, seize the slicer firmly in the other hand, size up the terrain and proceed to sever the left leg by slicing down between thigh and body, forcing it away from the bird with the flat side of the knife -- or by pulling on the drumstick -- until the socket joint peeps out; then complete the cut. Place this morsel on an adjoining platter, skin side down, and separate drumstick from thigh with a careful slice at the joint. A goose wing may be rather dry munching, but for anyone who fancies it, simply tip the bird starboard a few degrees and cut almost horizontally at the wing joint. Restoring your meal to an even keel, carve the breast meat by cutting parallel slices 1/2-inch think from the base of the breast forward to the ridge of the breast-bone, releasing slices with a deep horizontal incision below the breast. For second helpings, of course, merely repeat this easy ritual on the right flank.

No less savored and favored as a crowning touch for Lucullan spreads is the hefty, hearty ham roast -- fresh, smoked or Smithfield. To our palate, the ham what am at such seasonal jollifications is the sugar-cured variety. For the edification of like-minded cutups, this is the way the carver slices: hoist the ham upright with your fork (shank bone pointing heavenward, fat side to the left) and, with a long, slender ham slicer, cut one or two thin slices from the lean underside, so that the behemoth will rest securely flat for the balance of the carving. Turn fat side up, sliced side down, cut a V-shaped wedge off the shank bone (or narrow) end, and lay this chunk aside for a Western omelet, or some such destiny. Then proceed to carve away at the thick nether end, cutting straight down to the bone in 1/8-inch slices (1/16-inch for Smithfields). If you prefer larger slices, cut at a slightly oblique angle. In either case, an unusually tender specimen will demand somewhat plumper slices to keep the meat from falling to pieces. After a dozen or so such kind cuts, release the slices by sliding the knife along the bone to which they are attached. Then turn the ham over and deal with the underside in the same brisk fashion -- mixing a few of these lean slices with those from atop when serving.

Somewhat subtler in flavor, but no less succulent, is the roast saddle of lamb -- a venerable merry-month institution. Ask the butcher to remove the tough flanks of the saddle, and save them for a post-holiday stew; also have him peel off the fell, or thin outer skin, for easier carving. After the cooked roast has "set" for at least 15 minutes, assemble your guests, place your piping side dishes about the board, bring forth the steaming saddle on its silver platter, flanked with rissolé potatoes, and begin the ceremony: turn the roast on its underside with the meat fork and cut the two fillets into long, thin strips -- or remove them intact if the saddle is smallish. With the meat topside up again, insert fork to the left of the backbone and begin slicing long strips about 1/4-inch thick alongside backbone; these may be cut in half if the roast is mammoth. Carve along rib bones, then along backbone, to loosen slices, which may then be replaced on the saddle or transferred to another platter for serving. Don't fail to apprehend the tender morsels between the ribs; the post-prandial saddle should resemble nothing so much as a refugee from the museum of Robert Blackwell, an Eighteenth Century cattleman who enshrined the skeletons of his prize shorthorns.

The reigning monarch of festal fare, of course, is the standing rib roast of beef -- no less majestic as a centerpiece on today's holiday tables than it was on the boards of William the Conqueror. Contemporary rulers of the roast deal with this Goliath exactly as did our forebears: place the meat on the carving board with the small end up and ribs to the left. If it seems unsteadily supported, cut a slice from the bottom for a flat resting place. Jab the fork deeply between the ribs and cut out the first rib bone with a boning knife. Then begin carving 1/2-inch slices from left to right, using a razor-keen slicer, taking care that each is of uniform thickness, and transfer to an adjoining platter with knife and fork. Retrieve the precious juicesfrom the well of the carving board and add them to the hot pan gravy. Finally, when the second rib bone is reached, remove it before undertaking further exploration -- and so on through the roast, as long as the assembled appetites remain as keen as the carver's blade.