Curried What?

I dallied rather a long time in the archives of Brisbane’s The Queenslander newspaper while I was tracking down food information for yesterday’s story on Ned Kelly. I cannot resist giving you the opinions on ‘curry’ from the edition of November 4, 1882. I was pleasantly surprised by the article. I expected the usual Anglo-Indian advice based on the ‘one curry powder fits all’ principle – which is how the article seems to start out – but read on, and see what is mentioned further down in the story – lemon-grass and fresh coriander for example. It is a broader view than usual for the era, that is certain, although a degree of kindly tolerance is still requested from my friends from the Indian sub-continent, please!

MOST people, more especially old Anglo- Indians, have a liking for a really good curry; but how very rarely it is to be obtained in England, unless at the house of someone who has passed a good many years in India. The dish miscalled a curry is very frequently set before people, but too often as far as possible removed from the real and appetising plat which a good Indian cook will send to table. The meat is tough, has most likely been boiled instead of gently simmered, the sauce, or thick gravy, is not enough in all conscience, but it tastes only of curry powder of an inferior kind; the rice is a sloppy mess, and the result is a fiery leathery sort of indigestible hash, instead of a sweet-acid highly but agreeably flavoured, perfectly cooked, and digestible dish, fit to set before a prince. The mere cooking of a curry is not the difficult part of it, though that requires to be understood. Any cook, of whatever nationality, who has really mastered the art of stewing properly—that is, very gently and slowly—can cook a curry; the real difficulties lie in procuring good curry powder or curry paste, which in England is by no means easy to do, and in properly flavouring. I read lately an excellent article on curries in the Pioneer Mail, written by "Wyvern," a great authority on Indian cooking generally, and, as the paper in which it appeared is not very constantly met with here, I extract his recipes on curry making and for curry powder, which last was given him by an accomplished chatelaine on the eve of her departure from India as a token of goodwill; he observes that the quantity the recipe makes is rather alarming; but, by keeping the proper proportions, half or a quarter of the amount could be made instead. All curry powders improve very much by being kept thoroughly well corked down in perfectly dry bottles, and if the dozen bottles—of the size of those used for importing tart fruits—which is the amount the recipe in full will make when finally mixed, are too many to be kept in stock, it would be easy to share them with friends by arrangement. Here is the recipe: 10 lb. of turmeric (Hind, huldi), 10 lb of coriander seed (dhunnia), 2 lb. cummin seed (jcera), 2 lb. of poppy seed (khush khush), 1 lb. of fenugreek (raaythi), 1 lb. of dry ginger (sont), 4 lb. of mustard seed (rai), 1 lb. of dried chilies (sooka mirrch), 1 lb. of black pepper corns (kala mirrch). Weigh everything most carefully. The coriander-seed and fenugreek must each be parched very carefully— i.e., roasted like coffee berries, before being pounded. The other ingredients should be cleaned and dried each separately, and, when pounded, well sifted. Weights having then been tested, the whole of the powders should be mixed, half a bottle of salt being sprinkled in by degrees during the process. The bottles thoroughly cleansed and dried in the sun, or before a fire, may then be filled and corked tightly down, the tops being securely waxed over. This is a stock powder, the flavour of which can be varied by the use of certain spices, green leaves, garlic, onions, green ginger, almond, cocoanut, &c, at the time of cooking the curry. The spices, which should be used according to taste and discretion, are these: cloves, mace, cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamoms, and allspice. A teaspoonful of one, or at most two, of these aromatic powders, blended, will suffice for a large curry. Dr. Kitchener's precept—that the mixing of spices is a blunder—should never be forgotten. The green leaves that are often useful when judiciously introduced are: fennel, maythi, baiee, lemon grass, bay leaves, " karay pauk," and kotemear leaves (green coriander). Pounded almonds (sweet) can be put into a curry very advantageously; they may be used alone or with the cocoanut; 1 oz. of the latter to twelve almonds is a good proportion. When green ginger is used it should be sliced very fine and pounded to a paste, a dessertspoonful being sufficient for one curry. The necessary suspicion of sweet-acid can be produced most readily by a dessertspoonful of powdered or moist sugar and the juice of a lime, or a spoonful of vinegar. A tablespoonful of sweet chutney and the juice of a lime make a good substitute; but a tablespoonful of red currant jelly, with one of chutney, and a little vinegar or lime juice, form the nicest combination for dark curries. The writer of the above has, of course, India in his mind's eye, and the recipe is intended for that country; but I see no reason why the ingredients could not be obtained in England, with the exception of the fenugreek and the green leaves mentioned. If, however, it is wished to avoid trouble, then get some really good Indian powder. "Wyvern" advocates the use of Barrie's Madras curry powder and paste. With a good stock curry powder, blended with enough fresh paste for the curry, made when the dish is being prepared, and with proper cooking, a really good curry ought to be sent to table without much difficulty. For the fresh paste to mix with the stock powder take " one small onion, one clove of garlic, one dessertspoonful of turmeric, one of freshly roosted coriander seed, one of poppy seed, a teaspoonful of Nepal pepper, one or sugar, one of salt, and one of grated green ginger. Pound all to a paste, also pound twelve almonds (sweet) and 1 oz. of cocoanut, with a little lime juice to assist the operation. Then mix the two pastes, and stir into them a teaspoonful of cinnamon or clove powder. A heaped-up tablespoonful of this powder to one of the stock powder, as given in the above recipe, will produce excellent results. Additional heat can be obtained by those who like very hot curries if red chili powder be added to the above ingredients, according to taste. 

Here is my pick of ‘curry’ recipes from Australian newspapers of the 1880’s.

Curry of Bandicoot.
Cut four onions and two apples in slices and put them in a stewpan with a tablespoonful of butter; place over the fire, stirring occasionally until the onions are slightly browned, then add two tablespoonfuls of curry-powder, mix well, and moisten with a cup of water or stock. Have a nice young bandicoot cut into joints and fried of a nice brown color, put it into the curry, season with a little sauce and lemon juice, and let it stew gently till tender. Arrange prettily upon your dish and serve with rice around it.
The Queenslander, Brisbane, Dec 18, 1880

Cheese Curry.
Grate a teacupful of rich, hard cheese, and add to it a teacupful of milk, a teaspoonful of mixed mustard and one of curry powder. Stir it over the fire till thick and smooth, and spread it over slices of buttered toast. Brown a few minutes in the oven, and serve hot.
The West Australian (Perth, WA) Jan 9, 1880

(This second recipe would, methinks, go nicely in the ‘Welsh Rabbit’ collection, which you can find here, and here.)

Quotation for the Day

“It is ludicrous to read the microwave direction on the boxes of food you buy, as each one will have a disclaimer: "THIS WILL VARY WITH YOUR MICROWAVE." Loosely translated, this means, "You're on your own, Bernice."”
Erma Bombeck.

Curry Condiments.

I apologise in advance to my friends from the Indian subcontinent, for the information in this post. Please do not shoot the historical messenger!

Until the mid nineteenth century, cookery books covered the full range of dishes, but at this time, a trickle of books on specific food topics began to appear. I was most pleased recently, to find a curry cookery book from 1891. It is Tempting Curry Dishes, and was published in New York in 1891.

The introduction notes that, in ‘an ancient cookery book in the Sanskrit language’ are preserved many of the formulae and recipes of the ‘mighty Hindoo kingdoms’. These, it said, totalled many hundreds of formulae – each dish having its own separate powder, which ‘are known to modern civilisation as Curry Powders.’

The introduction goes on to report:

‘ … a short time ago, the members of the famous New York Chafing Dish Club decided to hold a series of practical sessions in curry cookery, with a view to determining which Curry Powder on the New York market was the most appropriate for the United States [and] at the same time was made of the purest and most wholesome ingredients.’

Over forty different curry powders were tasted, and ‘a number of distinguished English epicures were present and took part in the contest.’ The labels of the competing brands were of course covered. The winner – universally chosen by the experts - was the Curry Powder of James P. Smith & Company’, from Park Place, New York.

This then, is the promotional cookery book for the product. There are recipes for curried apples, curried frogs, and curried tripe amongst the expected curried beef, chicken, and prawns. There is even a recipe for curried sandwiches. A great range of options for a spicy dinner for the discerning gourmet – and, most conveniently, every single dish receives its delicious curry flavour from ‘J.P.Smith’s Curry Powder.’

I do quite like the following ideas from the book, but perhaps we should experiment with our own blends of ‘curry powder’ to use instead of the (no doubt unobtainable today), J.P.Smith’s Curry Powder.

Curry Oil.
One of the agreeable and at the same time useful oils which should find a place on the shelf of every kitchen or butler’s pantry, is known as Curry Oil. It is made by putting into a six-ounce, large-mouthed bottle two tablespoonfuls of J.P.Smith’s Curry Powder, then filling up the bottle with Antonini Olive Oil. In a week it will be ready for use. A few drops of it should be added to sauces and salads.

Curry Vinegar.
Put in a pint of good cider or wine vinegar a tablespoonful of J.P.Smith’s Curry Powder, shake it well from time to time, and in ten days it will be fit for use. It is excellent for flavouring soups etc.

Quotation for the Day.

Lettuce, greens and celery, though much eaten, are worse than cabbage, being equally indigestible without the addition of condiments.
William Andrus Alcott, The Young House-keeper, (1846)

Liverpool Curry.

The Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations (commonly known as the Crystal Palace Exhibition) in London in 1851 made the country, at least for a time, a tourist destination. The visitors seemed to come for some years afterwards, and at least one author (who is not named) felt the need (or saw the niche) for a travel book. The American stranger’s guide to London and Liverpool at Table was published in 1859, and not only advised ‘how to dine and order a dinner, and where to avoid dining’, but also gave ‘practical hints to butlers and cooks’ – and threw in some recipes from the Royal Yacht Squadron Steward’s Manual. It all sounds as if the author wasn’t really sure who his target audience was, doesn’t it?

The author was, however, aware that the shared heritage and common language between the two countries did not obviate all cultural confusion. He spent some time explaining the mysteries of “Curry” to his American readers (the English considering themselves experts on the topic of course, on account of owning India at the time). He is clear and dogmatic on the fine point that Bengal, Madras, and Bombay Curries differ in the details, and pompous and pedantic in the associated footnote.

Speaking of Curries, it is lamentable to witness this aromatic dish served in Europe as an Entrée, sometimes with scarcely any rice, and that in the same dish. The rice should he abundant and carefully boiled; handed round in a separate dish, and then the Curry. It should never appear until the second course, and is an admirable substitute for Game, when the latter is not in season, or to be had. In India this dish is indispensable both at tiffin and dinner daily. It is a hors d’oeuvre that people never tire of, when properly concocted and served à l’Oriental, being in fact the Pâté de Foies-Gras of India. When partaking of Curry, always use a Dessert spoon instead of a fork; the use of the latter betokens a “Griffin”.

There is so much worthy of comment in this short opinion piece that it is hard to know where to start. His use of a capital for ‘Curry’ in every instance; Curry as a second course dish, never, God forbid! as an Entrée; Curry as an hors d’oeuvre; Curry as the ‘Pâté de Foies-Gras of India’; the entire concept of ‘Curry’ as an ‘Indian’ dish when it is unequivocally Anglo-Indian. I am sure those of you with a heritage based in the Indian subcontinent are falling about laughing or crying right now. I would love to hear your thoughts.

The last word intrigues me. It was clearly an undesirable thing to be a griffin, or at least poor form to demonstrate griffinism. I understood a griffin to be a fabulous, imaginary beast, half eagle, half lion – so how does that fit here?

The OED gives an alternative meaning of ‘griffin’ as ‘A European newly arrived in India, and unaccustomed to Indian ways and peculiarities; a novice, new-comer, greenhorn.’ One of the supporting quotations notes ‘Young men, immediately on their arrival in India, are termed griffins, and retain this honour until they are twelve months in the country.’ So, there we have it. Or at least, we have half of it. The definition begs the question of ‘why griffin?’. Why not unicorn or centaur or phoenix or dragon? Is there an Indian dialect word that is similar in sound and meaning?

There was no agonising dilemma in chosing the recipe for the day from this book. The delightful dissonance produced by the collision of words in the name of the dish was instantly irresistible (methinks in inverse proportion to the degree of irresistibility of the dish itself.)

Liverpool Curry.

à la Parry.

Form two table spoonfuls of curry powder into paste. Cut up a rabbit or fowl into small pieces an inch long, rub them over with the paste, fry the meat with butter, and four onions sliced, to a deep brown; then add about two-thirds of a pint of good gravy, and let simmer for twenty mintues, remove all fat and skim, and put by cold; when wanted stew gently for four hours.
Mix together 2 spoonfuls of cream, 1 spoonful of Soy, a tea cupful of sour apples, or a table spoonful of craberries, 1 of flour, Dessert spoon of salt, a bit of butter, which add to the curry half an hour before it is taken from the fire.
When dished up add the juice of half a lemon. In India ham is eaten with curry and pickles, &c., to suit the taste of partakers; the remains of a duck, or of game, all come well into season, if you have them

Quotation for the Day.

Where life is colorful and varied, religion can be austere or unimportant. Where life is appallingly monotonous, religion must be emotional, dramatic and intense. Without the curry, boiled rice can be very dull.
C. Northcote Parkinson.

Tiffin in the Bay.

There was great excitement and interest in Brisbane in April 1881 when the Merkara, a British-India Company mail steamer en route from London via Batavia (Indonesia) arrived in Moreton Bay to deposit some of its passengers. A party of “between seventy and eighty ladies and gentlemen” made up of the mayor, aldermen, and “a number of our leading residents” were invited by the Captain to lunch aboard the vessel during her sojourn in the bay.


This was no mere lunch, this was apparently tiffin. Or at least it was one interpretation of the concept of tiffin. Presumably it was so named as a matter of principle - it was an “Indian” ship, it was the lunching hour, and there was ‘curry’ on the menu. It was in fact a huge meal which lasted several hours during which multiple courses of hefty British and Anglo-Indian food were washed down with copious amounts (it seems) of alcohol. Those former colonials must have been made of stern stuff.


The report of the event in the Brisbane Courier the next day is a marvellous example of nineteenth century food journalism – effusive, yes, tinted (by today’s standards) with political incorrectness, certainly, - but charming nonetheless. And as an added bonus, it reminds us of a ‘lost’ (or at least seriously underused) word.

The "luncheon" in the saloon was a banquet of the most récherché kind. On the very elegant bill of fare it was styled " Tiffin," and if any gourmet wants to kuow what tiffin is let him read the following paragraph slowly and on an empty stomach.

We are all seated. The apartment ia a charming one, taking in the whole breadth of thevessel, the sides being of birdseye maple panelling, and light gilt moulding running along the white beams. There are four tables ranged in parallel lines the whole length of the Saloon. These tables are bright with flowers and glass, and the snowy table napkins are arranged in shapes of such marvellous ingenuity that to unroll one critically is to penetrate an Asian mystery A small army of white helmeted, white robed kitmagars await a signal from some unseen chief, and then disperse noiselessly to offer each guest turtle or mulligatawny soup. This is a painful moment. The rich green fat swims alluringly in the pellucid liquid, but with a sigh you motion it away and take the other, having heard that an Indian cook scorns curry powder and makes his mullagatawney from the fresh condiments ground up on a stone. Your acuteness is richly rewarded. Given a turtle any ordinary artist can make good turtle soup, but the mullagatawney made by a Bengalee is hopelessly unatainable to the European chef.

By the time you have disposed of a salmon cutlet, you begin to realise that you are under the spell of a superior race. The kitmagar, who anticipates your every want before even your slow brain has had time to definitely formulate it, belongs to iu ancient civilisation. His ancestors were comporting themselves in the stately manner that distinguishes their descendant 3000 years ago, at which time yours were running about the woods dressed in a suit of blue paint, and had possibly not yet rubbed off their tails by assuming a sitting posture.

But let us get back from history to the entrées. Will you have “lamb chops and French beans”, “chicken cutlets and green peas,” or “fillets of duck and olives,” “stewed pigeons and mushrooms”, or “roast turkey and ham.” It is best not to have all five, because the dish of dishes has yet to come – the curry. Here is its, a plate of snowy rice – each grain of which looks as though it had been boiled in a separate saucepan – and then the choice of curried chicken, vegetables, or prawns. Of course you choose the crustaceans, and become suddenly conscious of how the most prosaic wants of our nature may by cultivation become sublimated into artistic appreciation of a truly noble art.

During the last half column remember you have been plied by assiduous attendants with champagne. In your gallant struggle with the bill of fare you have continually sought fresh vigour from your glass, and after each application a dusky hand has bid it foam again to the brim.

The sweets of many and curious sorts, the iced jellies, the almond pastry, the peach vol-au-vent, the cheese, the salad, the fruit- all these we pass with a mournful non possumus; and whilt you sip the cup of coffee which is the final note of this glorious concert, permit us to explain that this is “tiffin” – on board the Merkara.

What of the kitmagars - those silent, stately, dusky-handed attendants? The OED knows kitmagar as khidmutgar - a male servant who waits at table, the word apparently coming from Urdū.


Recipe for the Day.

I give you an interesting perspective on “curries” from The Englishwoman in India: information for ladies ..., 1864. The slightly confusing instructions as to the mixing and pounding of the ingredients are as they appear in the book.

Curries.

Every native knows how to make these: chicken and prawn are, perhaps, the favourite ones: up country the dry prawns, which are sold by the seer in the bazaar, can be made into a very good curry, if they are well washed and half boiled in .water till tender.

MADRAS CURRY PASTE.
1 lb. coriander seed (Dummiah).
¼ lb. turmeric (Huldee).
¼ lb. red chillies (Lai mirchee).
¼ lb. black pepper (Kala mirchee).
¼ lb. mustard seed (Rai).
2 ounces dry ginger (Soaut).
2 ounces garlic (Lussun).
2 ounces vendinne.
½ lb. salt (Nimmuck).
½ lb. sugar (Shuprgeo).
2 ounces cummin seed (Zeera).
½ lb. gram (Chenna).

Fry this and take off the husks, then pound it with the other ingredients and mix with

½ pint salad oil
½ pint vinegar.

Quotation for the Day.

Ask not what you can do for your country, ask what's for lunch.
Orson Welles

A Pic-Nic Supper.

A picnic is an outdoor, sit-on-the-ground and ignore-the-ants-and-snakes kind of meal, isnt it? Well, it wasn’t always so. Once upon a time (surely one of the happiest phrases of all time), it was a social entertainment of the theatrical kind. A group called the Pic-Nic Society was formed in London in 1801 whose raison d’être was to provide and enjoy private theatricals and other social entertainments. I must find out more about this society – its aim was laudable, and we should perhaps revive it in our modern society which often seems deficient in the laudable aims department.

At some time or other it also came to mean a social event arranged around eating. I am not myself familiar with any other sort of social event, but perhaps there may have been some in the history of the world. Anyway, originally, the main feature of a pic-nic was that ‘each person present contributed a share of the provisions.’ An article in The Times of 1802 explained it.

As the expression of a Pic-Nic Supper is become so fashionable, though much oftener used than understood, it may be necessary to explain it for the information of many of our Readers:-

A Pic-Nic Supper consist of a variety of dishes. The Subscribers to the entertainment have a bill of fare presented to them, with a number against each dish. The lot which he draws obliges him to furnish the dish marked against it, which he either takes with him in his carriage, or sends by a servant. The proper variety is preserved by the talents of the Maitre d’Hotel, who forms the bill of fare. As the cookery is furnished by so many people of fashion, each strives to excel: and thus a Pic-Nic supper not only gives rise to much pleasant mirth, but generally can boast of the refinement of the art.

We have considered picnics before in this blog. We have had a story with a cast that starred Mole and Rat (from Wind in the Willows) and Mrs. Beeton, a story about an Australian picnic in 1867 for the Duke of Edinburgh that went dreadfully awry, and we have considered the sort of picnic one has on a motoring excursion. We are yet to seriously ponder the serious nationalistic-linguistic issues around the word picnic, but I am sure we will get around to it one day - a day when I am at home and not struggling with erratic internet access.

In the meanwhile, I think we should participate in a virtual picnic, but with more of the pot-luck variety of catering. Here is my virtual contribution – Is it a curry? Is it a savoury jelly? Is it a jellied meat salad? It is all of the above, it is Tipperary Curry from Modern domestic cookery, by a lady (1851)

Tipperary Curry.
Boil 4 chickens, and stuff 2 of them when cold with a forcemeat made of crumbs of bread, a few slices of ham or tongue, sweet herbs, and a shalot well pounded and mixed with the yolk of an egg. Stuff the other 2 with boiled rice, lay them in a mould or dish, with 8 hard-boiled eggs cut in half, a few mushrooms, a little pickled lemon cut in thick rings. Pour over the chickens a gravy made as follows:- Fry an onion in a little butter, add a tablespoonful of curry-powder, 1 of vinegar, 1 of mushroom-ketchup, a little salt, and little more than a pint of good veal broth; if the broth does not jelly, isinglass must be put into it to make it do so. When cold turn it out on a dish. it is a great improvement to bone the chickens, the bones helping to make the gravy.

Quotation for the Day.

Anti-alcoholics are unfortunates in the grip of water, that terrible poison, so corrosive that out of all substances it has been chosen for washing and scouring, and a drop of water added to a clear liquid like Absinthe, muddles it.
Alfred Jarry.

More on The Orient.

 The author of our source from yesterday (Domestic economy, and cookery, for rich and poor, by A Lady) was quite prolific on the topic of “The Orient”. She includes dishes from India, Turkey, Persia, Syria, Egypt, The Levant, and Africa as well as recipes from the Tartars, Russians, and Cossacks. We have had several recipes from the book previously, but it still has lots of delights in store.

 

There are in the book, nine different recipes for Curry Powder, and one for Cayenne Pepper. She also gives both Molukatanee (Mulligatawney) and Curry Soup, several recipes for Cubbubs (Kebabs), Indian Pillau and Cutcheree (Kedgeree), and the delighfully named Caldomuchocaldo (“hotveryhot”) which I promised to give you once before, and still have not done. I am not giving it today either, because I was waylaid and captivated by this idea of Curried Snow-balls.

Curried Snow-balls, Lemons, and Oranges.

Make curry farce* as above; acidulate it, according to the form it is to be made into, with a full quantity of lemon or orange-juice; make it into balls about the size and shape of a large egg or apple; fry them, and have ready rice cooked with top-pot and a little salt, and when the balls are cold, mould the rice nicely over them, and cover them with papers, that they may not take any colour, or colour the rice, or roll the balls in yolk of egg and a little saffron, and shape them as lemons, or add a little cochineal to the saffron, and shape them as oranges : they may sometimes be served up on parsley, or a clean curry sauce, such as molukatanee, or in a dish of rice, thickened vegetable curry sauce, or upon a napkin.

*The author describes this farce is in the previous recipe for Curry in Disguise. It is a masterpiece of kitchen recycling. The skin of a chicken after the flesh has been used for another dish, is retained. Scraps of any available ‘soup meat’ or tripe or ‘meats that would otherwise not be presentable’ are pounded together, ‘highly seasoned as a cream curry’, mixed with vegetables if wished, and put back into the chicken skin which is then roasted or stewed and ‘dished over a nice simple curry or sauce, and served with plain boiled rice.’

Quotation for the Day …

This curry was like a performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony that I'd once heard … especially the last movement, with everything screaming and banging 'Joy.' It stunned, it made one fear great art. My father could say nothing after the meal.
Anthony Burgess

Curried What?

July 31

It must be time for me to give you a menu. I think about little else, these days, with the deadline for my Menus from History Book scarily close. Today, for fun, I give you the recommended luncheon menu for the day from Daily Menus for War Service (1918), - a book from wartime America by Thetta Quay Franks (impressive name, that). I hesitated, on account of the awefulness of one of the luncheon dishes for the day.

Curried Bananas with Rice.
6 bananas, peeled and scraped.
2 tablespoons of butterine or oil.
1 tablespoon of curry powder.
2 tablespoons of cornstarch
½ teaspoon of salt
1 teaspoon of Worcestershire Sauce
1 ½ cups of milk
2 cups cooked rice.
Cut the bananas in half - lengthwise. Fry them until they are quite soft, in the butter which has been mixed with the curry powder. Put the bananas in a serving dish. To the fat remaining in the pan add the cornstarch, salt, and Worcestershire sauce. Mix them thoroughly. Add the milk. Cook the mixture until it is smooth and thick. Add a small amount of the sauce to the egg (slightly beaten.) [the egg was missing from the list of ingredients] Add the egg to the mixture and pour it over the bananas. Serve the cooked rice around the bananas.

This dish is best appreciated in the context of the rest of the menu.

Curried bananas with brown rice chutney.
Stewed celery.
White sauce.
Ripe Olives.
Baking powder biscuits (wheatless)
Nutmargarine
Peaches
Cream (thin)
Sugar (powdered)
Pecan cakes.

Hmm. Not sure what ‘brown rice chutney’ is – or is it meant to be ‘brown rice, chutney’? Innovative though. Who would have thought of olives with curry? And what was the white sauce to go on or over or with? Surely not the curried white sauce already over the bananas? As for the butterine and nutmargarine, – they surely deserves a blog post of their own. Watch out for it.

It is rather small-minded of me to scoff at our cook-ancestors in this way. I have no doubt that future food historians will scoff condescendingly at some of our ‘modern’ foods (anyone care to suggest a few?). I do struggle however with this concept of ‘curry’ – the Anglo-Indian (or perhaps in this case the American-Anglo-Indian) concept that is so far removed from its inspiration as to often be unrecogniseable. There have been some terrible things done in the name of curry – something with apple and hard-boiled egg that I remember from my childhood, and more recently I gave you Curry and Egg Scones.

I am also interested in early recipes for the banana – the ordinary everyday eating banana that is, not the plantain or other cooking sort. It seems that the earliest of these are probably from the Americas – closeness to sources for such a perishable fruit being an issue. In England, until more rapid transport and technological ‘advances’ which enabled the ripening to be slowed, bananas remained a rather exotic luxury until well into the twentieth century. The earliest banana ‘cake’ recipe I have found so far is from Mrs.Rorer (American) in 1902, and I have given it to you previously, but it is a far cry from a real ‘cake’. Perhaps you can offer something earlier?

Quotation for the Day …

Banananananananana

I thought I'd win the spelling bee
And get right to the top
But I started to spell "banana"
And I didn't know when to stop. William Cole

Curry Crime.

April 21 ...

Compared with, say, those of Charles Dickens, the stories of Arthur Conan Doyle are pretty minimalist in terms of food references. Charles Dickens’ stories with the food removed would be diminished indeed, but one could be forgiven for believing that food was of no importance at all to Sherlock Holmes. Unless the food is a clue towards solving a dastardly crime, of course.

In Silver Blaze, Sherlock quickly realises that a mutton curry is crucial to solving the mystery of the disappearance of the favourite runner for the Wessex Cup, and the murder of its trainer. He explains to the ever-present Watson:

“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium is by no means tasteless. The flavour is not disagreeable, but it is perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would undoubtedly detect it and would probably eat no more. A curry was exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By no possible supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry to be served in the trainer’s family that night, and it is surely too monstrous a coincidence to suppose that he happened to come along with powdered opium upon the very night when a dish happened to be served which would disguise the flavour. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes eliminated from the case, and our attention centres upon Straker and his wife, the only two people who could have chosen curried mutton for supper that night. The opium was added after the dish was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had the same for supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had access to that dish without the maid seeing them?”

The stable-boy may have run another risk in eating curry at that time in history. Food adulteration has occurred for centuries, perhaps millenia, but by the nineteenth century science was catching up with the perpetrators. A common adulterant in cayenne and curry powders was red lead. Lead is not good for one. Lead can cause a lot of nasty things, including paralysis and death. A Lancet report of 1855 reported an analysis of a number of samples:

“The consumption of curry powder and cayenne pepper is so limited, and so much confined to classes of society, to the members of which, cheapness, particularly in articles used on so small a scale, is no great matter, that we might have expected they would escape adulteration. The very reverse, however, is the case, - curry powder is extensively adulterated both with innocent and poisonous admixtures…. . Eight samples contained the dangerous poison - red lead. As the saturnine preparations are accumulative poisons, and produce various chronic diseases of the nervous system, and also of the organs of secretion, the amount of illness induced by the frequent use of adulterated curry powder is probably very considerable.”

I am not so sure about the accuracy of the first statement. ‘Curry’ seems to have been popular with the English ever since the Empire expanded to include India, and curry powder was affordable by all but the poorest folk.

Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery (1870’s) has some wise words to say on the general topic of curry, saying “it is often rendered unpalatable by the same curry powder being used for every dish, however differently may be the viands of which it is composed.” It goes on to give several recipes for curry powder, but then says “ we think it will be found quite as satisfactory and economical to purchase curry powder of a first-class dealer as to make it at home.”

Mutton, Curried, Good.
Put four ounces of mutton into a stewpan, and pound six middle-sized onions in a mortar; add the onions to the butter with an ounce of curry powder, a tea-spoonful of salt, a dessertspoonful of flour, and half a pint of cream. Stir until smooth. Fry two pounds of mutton, cut in neat pieces, without bone. Let them be of a light brown colour. Lay the meat in a clean stew-pan, and pour the curry mixture over. Simmer until the meat is done.
Time, two hours to simmer.
Probable cost, 1s per pound.
Sufficient, two pounds for four or five persons.

Tomorrow’s Story …

Table d’Hôte.

Quotation for the Day …

This curry was like a performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony that I'd once heard. … especially the last movement, with everything screaming and banging 'Joy.' It stunned, it made one fear great art. My father could say nothing after the meal.
Anthony Burgess.

Curried Eggs.

Karen piqued my interest and my memory with her comment on the Eggs, Nineteenth Century Style post of a few days ago. She mentioned a Curried Egg recipe from the marvellous, inimitable M.F.K. Fisher’s An Alphabet for Gourmets with the wonderful name of Hindu Eggs. I remembered then a Curried Eggs recipe from my childhood in England – a dreadful mess of hard-boiled eggs and apples which I could never quite fathom.

Curried Eggs are, like kedgeree, mulligatawney soup, and ‘devilled’ dishes an Anglo-Indian concept that is a legacy of the British Empire. Curried Eggs intersect at some point with ‘Devilled’ Eggs, and the distinction seems to be that the devilled version contains cayenne pepper (plus perhaps other savoury ingredients such as anchovy sauce) and is ‘dry’, whereas the curried version includes ‘curry powder’ and has a sauce or ‘gravy’. The curry powder may be in the eggs or the sauce. These ‘distinctions ’ only serve to highlight the decidedly Anglo-Indian concept of ‘curry’ itself of course.

Karen’s comment set me on a trail in search of historic recipes for Curried Eggs, and I now pass on my findings (to date) for your enjoyment.

Mrs Beeton (1861) does not have a recipe for Curried Eggs, which is perhaps surprising. The earliest recipe I have found to date is from the 1870’s (I am sure there will be earlier ones, and I eagerly await your comments). I rediscovered the recipe for Hindu Eggs (1949), thanks to Karen, and also found a version of my childhood nightmare, complete with apples.

1870’s:

Eggs, Curried.
Fry a couple of middle-sized onions in butter, and stir into the pan,as soon as the onions are slightly browned,one tablespoonful of curry powder. Mix well, and add by degrees half a pint of veal stock; keep stirring the sauce till it is smooth and thick. When the mixture has simmered from ten to fifteen minutes, add, carefully stirring, two table-spoonfuls of cream, and let it simmer a few minutes longer. Have ready sliced half a dozen hard boiled eggs, lay them in the curry sauce long enough to get quite hot, then serve both together on a dish.
[Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery; England; 1870’s]

1908:

India Curried Eggs.
Cut hard-boiled eggs in halves; then fry 1 small chopped onion and 1 chopped apple in hot butter; add ¼ cup of pounded almonds and 1 pint of milk, mixed with ½ tablespoonful of cornstarch. Season with salt and a dessertspoonful of curry-powder. Let cook ten minutes; then add the eggs. Let all get very hot. Serve with croutons; garnish with fried parsley.
[365 Foreign Dishes; England; 1908]

1925:

Curried Eggs.
Three eggs, half a pint of milk, one ounce of butter, half an ounce of flour, quarter of a teaspoonful of curry powder, quarter of a teaspoonful of salt, pepper.
Hard boil the eggs. Melt the butter and stir in the flour, curry powder , etc. and gradually stir in the milk, which must be hot.
Cut the eggs in half lengthways, and then again, and heat them in the sauce. Serve them very hot.
[The Gentle Art of Cookery; England; Mrs C F Leyel and Miss Olga Hartley; 1925]

1943:

This British wartime recipe came under the heading of Suggested Egg Dishes to replace or eke out Meat. The author recommends using hard-boiled eggs as a substitute in the following recipe – which includes not only apples but also plum jam. Please take particular notice of the optional ingredients too. If you make this recipe,do let us know, wont you?

Curry of Cold Meat.
1 lb of cold meat, cut into small pieces
1 apple, (peeled, cored, and chopped)
3 heaped teaspoons of Flour
1 small onion, (chopped finely)
1 tomato, (skinned and sliced), if in season
1 teaspoonful of chutney
juice of ½ lemon
¾ pint of stock or water or milk and water
1 ½ oz of butter or margarine
1 tablespoon of curry powder
1 dessertspoonful of jam (preferably plum)
(sliced bananas, shredded or dessicated coconut, sultanas etc may be added to taste)

Fry the onion in the butter in a saucepan, add the apple and tomato (if used), fry a minute or two longer; mix flour and curry powder, add to the butter etc, and cook for 3 mintues, stirring and shaking the pan well; add the chutney, jam, and lemon juice, lastly the stock or liquid used; bring to the boil, then skim and simmer for 1 hour. Add the meat and simmer for ½ hour longer. Serve on a hot dish with a border of boiled reice. Garnish with lemon, or slices of hard-boiled eggs.
[Practical Cookery: Cookery under Rationing; England; 1943]

1949:

Hindu Eggs, 1949
12 peeled hard-boiled eggs
½ cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon curry powder
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 tablespoon finely minced onion
1 tablespoon finely chopped parsley
3-4 cups heavy cream sauce.

Cut the eggs once lengthwise and then mix their yolks well with all the other ingredients except the cream sauce; that is, make a good recipe for deviled eggs of any proper picnic, but adding curry powder. Stuff the eggs, put them together in their proper shape, and let stand several hours or overnight, to bring out the heat of the curry. Place in a shallow buttered casserole, cover with hot bland sauce, place in a medium oven till almost bubbling, and serve. Use more cream sauce if it is to be served with rice. The eggs should have a strong curry flavour, in contrast to the gentle sauce, so some experimentation with your brand of curry powder is a good idea.
[The Alphabetical Gourmet; M.F.K.Fisher]

Fisher suggests that this is a good hot weather dish, and recommends it be served with a green salad and some beer. Sounds good to me.

Wine with Wisdom.

Today, January 29th …

Herman Melville wrote to his great friend Nathaniel Hawthorne on this day, urging him to visit, and tempting him with a promise of food and wine and conversation.

“ … Fear not that you will cause the slightest trouble to us. Your bed is already made, & the wood marked for your fire. But a moment ago, I looked into the eyes of two fowls, whose tail feathers have been notched, as destined victims for the table. I keep the word "Welcome" all the time in my mouth, so as to be ready on the instant when you cross the threshold. … Mark - There is some excellent Montado Sherry awaiting you & some most potent port. We will have mulled wine with wisdom, & buttered toast with story-telling & crack jokes & bottles from morning till night”.

How could anyone refuse an invitation for “mulled wine with wisdom, & buttered toast with story-telling” from such a brilliant writer? Especially another brilliant writer? What stories did they tell over their buttered toast? Did they exchange plot details from the books they were working on? Melville must have been close to finishing Moby Dick, and Hawthorne The House of the Seven Gables at that time as both books were published later the same year.

Whatever they discussed, the mulled wine would certainly have been welcome, as the temperature at Melville’s farm near Pittsfield, Massachusetts would have been below freezing. What did they mull over, over this mulled wine? And what a lovely confluence of words that is!

To mull is “to consider, ponder upon”.
Mulled wine is wine “made into a hot drink with added sugar, spices, fruit, etc., and formerly sometimes thickened with beaten egg yolk”

I did hope to find a clever connection between the various uses of ‘mull’, but a prolonged foray into the OED turned it up 11 times as an adjective, and 5 as a verb (with 5 more in the form of ‘mulled’), which was far too many for this non-linguist to unravel. The various entries were also prefaced with OED-speak such as “the origin is uncertain”, “various theories have been advanced as to the origin of this word”, and “the development of the other senses is unclear”. So I gave up. A selection of the definitions does seem to be relevant however.

‘To mull’ also means ‘to grind to a powder’ (the spices) and ‘to become wet or liquid’ (mixing the spices with the wine), and ‘to warm’, all of which fit the mulled wine concept, and are pretty good metaphors for the mental process too. There is also the possible association with the Latin word ‘mulsus’, meaning mixed with honey, which would fit with the sweetening of the drink.

It might seem likely that the name of the Anglo-Indian 'Mulligatawny Soup' would reference the grinding of the spices, but the word has a completely different (and thankfully quite unequivocal etymology), which is satisfyingly descriptive. ‘Mulligatawny” comes from a Tamil word meaning “pepper water”. There is no evidence that I am aware of that either of our two literary gentlemen ever ate it, but it would have been entirely appropriate for the mid-winter weather in Massachusetts.

I give you a recipe for the soup from the same era, from Cookery, rational, practical and economical, treated in connexion with the chemistry of food by Hartelaw Reid (1853)

Mulligatawny Soup.
Cut the meat of three pounds of a breast of veal into small pieces, and simmer the trimmings, gristles, and bones, along with a knuckle of veal broken in pieces, in about three quarts of water, until these are converted into a good strong stock. Fry (sauter) the pieces of meat in butter, in a deep stewpan, along with some sliced onion, and a slice of lean ham. When slightly browned, add two tablespoonfuls of flour, mix well, and pour over them the stock previously strained. Allow this to simmer gently for nearly an hour, skimming off the fat as it rises. Then add two or three dessert-spoonfuls of curry powder, season with salt and cayenne to taste, and continue the simmering until the veal is thoroughly cooked. Before serving, remove the ham. Carrot and turnip may be used in this soup if desired, being sliced and sautéed along with the meat and onion; apples are also sometimes employed in this way. The remains of cooked fowls or rabbits, cut into pieces of the proper size, may be warmed up in this soup and served along with, or instead of, the veal.

Tomorrow’s Story …

A dish for the Empress.

Quotation for the Day …

It is true that taste can be educated. It is also true that taste can be perverted... If any man gives you a wine you can't bear, don't say it is beastly... But don't say you like it. You are endangering your soul and the use of wine as well... Seek out some other wine good to your taste. Hillaire Belloc.

On armadillo and hot spices.

Today, November 14 …

Walter Raleigh’s voyage in search of “El Dorado” had gone badly wrong. He was carried ashore at Cayenne (French Guiana) on this day in 1617, ill with a fever. A crowd of curious locals brought food:

“… which they did in great plenty, … and great abundance of pinas, the princess of fruits that grow under the sun, … One of them gave me a beast called by the Spaniards armadillo …”

Few Europeans had tasted pineapple at this time, and even fewer had eaten armadillo, which Raleigh and his men did a few days later. He was no foodie. He did not record his impressions, but subsequent heroes say it is just like chicken, or pork, or rabbit, or duck (not armadillo?). He also made no comment about the spiciness or otherwise of the food, although the name “Cayenne” is now inextricably associated with the “pepper” of that name, which is not pepper, but simply chilli powder after all. Until it arrived in the Old World there was no chilli in Indian food (and no tomato in Italian food – but more on this tomorrow).

“Curry” is not an Indian term, it is an Anglo-Indian concept received in exchange for the love of cricket. The first English recipe for curry occurs in 1747; by the end of that century recipes were common. Sarah Martin included one for curry powder in “The new experienced English-housekeeper…” (1795).

To make Curry Powder.
Take an ounce of the best turmerick beaten and sifted very fine, fourteen bay-leaves beaten and sifted, one large nutmeg, a quarter of an ounce of mace, as much chyan [cayenne] as will lay upon a shilling, mix these well together, put them in a dry wide mouth’d bottle, and keep them in a dry place.

… and to make “curry balls”:

“ … take the yolk of an egg boiled very hard, and a lump of fresh butter the same size, beat it in a small mortar, mix it up with curry powder to a paste, make it into balls the size of a nut, lay them on a saucer, and cover them with a piece of writing paper, set them into an oven, to be made hot, but not to burn them, so send them to the table; these are to be sent on a dish by themselves, for those who like to add them to their sauce.

Tomorrow … Back to the Future.