The Virtue of Carving

THERE is nothing that gives a man so much the feeling of Master of the House as does carving meat at his own table for his family and friends. As he sharpens his knife and gazes benignly through the smoke of the roast at the faces assembled before him, even the smallest, the most insignificant man must feel like a baron.He is going to feed these guests, these friends. He, by God’s grace, has provided this meat; it has been cooked in his house, served on his table, and now, as is fitting and seemly, with his own hands is he about to separate it into choice fragments which he will tender to those whom he is proud and happy to entertain. His is a dominant position, and he knows it.

His guests know it, too, and the carver can sense the power he has over them. Not for an instant, however, does your true and gentle carver cause this dominance which he so rightly enjoys to become oppressive. He makes those whom he serves feel, not that he is in a way to give them what he may decide, but rather that he is empowered to provide them with anything they may take a fancy to. Thus the gallant carver, who really feels the honor and responsibility of his station, can readily give the impression that there are at least four legs on every fowl, that there are unlimited outside pieces to each roast of beef, quantities of dressing, gallons of dish gravy, half a dozen livers, vast areas of tenderloin. Do not misunderstand me; he proves it, too. Your true carver is as clever as a diplomat and as great-hearted as Christmas itself.

Besides the pleasure that comes from the exercise of all this kindly power, there are numerous material advantages in carving. Naturally, the carver is elevated by the mightiness of his station. He is a great man, and he is fully aware of it. Witticisms and bons mots fall from his lips as readily as choice morsels from his knife. He twits the ladies on their complexions and their coiffures, the gentlemen on their figures and their lack of coiffures. He has kind words and jokes for the children, but they remain slightly in awe of him. He sends messages of compliment to the cook, if he is so fortunate as to have one in the kitchen, or smiles them down to her if she is sitting at the other end of the table. All laugh at his quips and accept his pleasantries, for they recognize him for what he is — the host and master. All the while, moreover, as he is entertaining his guests and satisfying their desires, it is the carver’s privilege surreptitiously to lay aside certain tidbits for himself — a choice slice of browned fat, delicate fragments of white meat, tender scrapings from next the bones. No one ever thinks of questioning his right to these dainties, partly because few but carvers know of their existence. If there be another carver present he will chivalrously keep silent in order that this knowledge, which is but another of the secrets and pleasures of carving, may be preserved to the Order.

Something must be said of the actual technique of carving, or of the varieties of technique, for there are several. Not least important in the ritual is the sharpening of the knife. For the carver to pick up knife and fork and set immediately to work gives an instant impression of the grossest incompetence. At best, the company realizes, this important, this well-nigh sacred business has been relegated to an underling. In any case, public confidence is at once partially sapped. Nay, your true carver sharpens his knife with firm attention, beaming through the flourishes at his beloved friends. His blade sharp, — really sharp, — he transfixes the meat with his fork and sets to work. Some men stand to carve, but not so the real masters of the art. No giant roast, no towering ham or sinewy wild fowl, can unseat an expert carver armed with a keen weapon. Some carvers prefer to carve and serve piece by piece, being at times forced to this expedient by the limitations of the platter. (Ah, what a trial is an inadequate platter!) A better way, however, a way which focuses the attention of all upon the carver before individuals become preoccupied with their own portions, is to carve an abundance of meat first. Then, with a variety of helpings spread out before him, the carver really comes into his own. Bent slightly forward in his chair, knife and fork a-hover, wrists dropped, elbows in, poised and confident like a horseman about to take a jump, he glances attentively around his table, ascertains and satisfies the preferences of each.

This is not the way of every carver, however. I had an uncle whose method was quite different, though fully as impressive. A great, burly man, he would carve, standing, at a side table in the dining room. Such an arrangement was made necessary by the size of his task, for the occasions when I observed him were always Christmas or Thanksgiving, with twelve or fourteen at table. Well do I remember the awe with which, as a child, I watched his large, calm back, as, with the swift skill of a surgeon, he would divide two turkeys and often, also, a ham at those large family gatherings. He was aloof but dominant, simple but impressive, awesome but kindly. Another carver of my acquaintance, a small, slight man, leans rather backward in his chair, peering farsightedly at his subject while he carves superlatively, but almost with an air of detachment. Much can be learned from him, as he can be got to discourse freely on his art while engaged in it, illustrating deftly as he serves you.

Whatever his manner or method, the carver who takes pride and pleasure in the noble service feels it his responsibility to contribute, thereby, to the civilization of dining. His task is not the mere division of the pièce de résistance into as many portions as there are diners. Carving is far more than that. It should be a pleasure to the eye, making the meat, tastefully served, consequently more pleasant to the palate. He who is a carver in spirit as well as name is a man of fine sensibilities, who realizes these things, who is glad to make others glad and to perform skillful work well.

A carver has many minor trials, but most of them can be attributed to one cause, which is his own fault — a dull knife. The sooner he finds out that the knife will not take an edge from merely clattering it against the steel, the better. A sharp knife can change the whole aspect of carving. Without one a pleasant obsession becomes an ordeal, a delight a duty. Savory roasts — particularly ducks — take on the appearance of monsters, whom we face with weapons not nearly so trustworthy as Balmung or Exealibur. Small platters are another difficulty, trying the carver’s temper, limiting the scope of his efforts, and seriously endangering the purity of the tablecloth. But to be saddled more than once with a small platter may also be said to be the carver’s fault. No man with the spirit of a true carver will submit to a repetition of such a mistake. Gravy is sometimes embarrassing, but a dextrous man will manage. Indeed, plenty of gravy is essential, and helps the carver to maintain his rôle of near-magician. The worst, the crowning annoyance to all carvers is the individual who, when called upon, can express no preference; who smirks with false courtesy, ‘Oh, anything, thank you!’ In dealing with him, however, we find solace in an unwritten law, a rule which we never have to apply to the same person twice — ‘Give him the neck!’