Mackeral à la maître d’hôtel, as we found out in Friday’s post, has been a popular dish for a very long time. ‘The great authority’ mentioned in the post, the famous gourmand Grimod de la Reynière, was born in 1758 (died 1837), and à la maître d’hôtel was already a classic way of serving fish during his writing and eating lifetime. A dish served à la maître d’hôtel traditionally means that it is served with a ‘sauce’ of maître d’hôtel butter, which we discussed in a previous blog post (here). The other ‘compound’ or flavoured butter with a long history, but which is more familiar to most of us is garlic butter, which we have also met in a previous post (here). Compound butters are amongst the standard sauces of classic cuisine, yet we have hardly given them due reverence here to date, so methinks it is time to remedy that situation.
My ‘go to’ book on this topic is Charles Herman Senn’s Book of Sauces (Chicago, 1915). He gives no less than sixteen savoury versions of compound butters. Naturally he includes the very classic Ravigote Butter. In a previous post we learned that the name comes ‘from the French verb ravigoter, meaning to cheer or revive. This ability supposedly comes from the four herbs it traditionally contained - tarragon, chervil, chives, and burnet - which together had the reputation for being restorative.’ There are several ‘sauces’ named this way, including a vinaigrette type and one with a velouté base. Today I give you Senn’s version of the compound butter.
Ravigote, or Green Herb Butter.
Ingredients: 1½ ozs. chervil, 2 ozs. spinach, 1½ ozs. of green chives, 1 oz of tarragon, ½ oz. of parsley, 3 or 4 shallots, 6 ½ ozs. of butter, pepper and salt.
Method: Wash and pick the chervil, spinach, green chives, tarragon, and parsley. Put it in a sauce-pan with water and blanch. Drain well and pound in a mortar. Peel 3 or 4 shallots, chop finely, cook them in a little butter until of a golden color, and put with the herbs; work in 6 ozs. of butter, rub through a fine sieve, add a little pepper and salt, and spinach greening if necessary. The butter is then ready for use.
Amongst the classic butters Senn also gives recipes for several other interesting combinations. This one caught my fancy, because I cant resist anything with an Anglo-Indian twist.
Chutney Butter (Beurre à la Madras)
Ingredients: Four ounces of Mango chutney, 1 tablespoonful of French mustard, 6 to 8 ounces of fresh butter, and lemon juice. Method:
Pound the chutney in a mortar, add the French mustard, add work in the fresh butter, season to taste, and add a few drops of lemon juice. Rub through a hair sieve, place it on the ice, and use as required.
If you scale that recipe down, it is the perfect way to use up that last spoonful of any chutney lurking in the bottom of a jar in the depths of your refrigerator!
Quotation for the Day.
It was the sort of poverty of conception, reproached by some foreigner to English cookery, that we had but one sauce, and that that sauce was melted butter.
W. Windham Speeches Parl. (1812)
Showing posts with label sauce. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sauce. Show all posts
Monday, April 04, 2011
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Black Beetle Sauce.
I remember as a child growing up in the North of England in the 1950’s being told – and wholeheartedly believing – that the spaghetti beloved by Italians was actually worms. I understand that this was a common story perpetrated at the time. I do not know if the perpetrators were adults or other children, nor if it was done in jest or out of post-war jingoism, or simple monumental ignorance. How do these stories start?
Today I am going to give you one fine historical example of the process in action. I found it in Popular Errors Explained and Illustrated (John Timbs, London, 1841) – a book I am sure I am going to delve into again.
This story must not have had wide currency outside of the maritime community, I wouldn’t think, because soy sauce was eagerly taken up by the British - certainly by the second half of the eighteenth century, who imported it from the East Indies. The British seem to have an ancestral love of salty spicy sauces, perhaps as a result of that long Roman occupation, and exposure to their favourite salty, fishy garum?
As evidence for this popularity, I remind you that soy sauce was one of the indispensible inclusions in Kitchener’s ‘Magazine of Taste’, which he explains in The Cook’s Oracle (1817). In addition, I note (cooks being no exception to the concept of imitation being the sincerest form of flattery) that the nineteenth century was rife with recipes for imitation Soy and Worcestershire sauces.
Quotation for the Day.
A well made sauce will make even an elephant or a grandfather palatable.
Grimod de la Reynière
Today I am going to give you one fine historical example of the process in action. I found it in Popular Errors Explained and Illustrated (John Timbs, London, 1841) – a book I am sure I am going to delve into again.
“SOY FROM BLACK BEETLES.”
Sailors have a notion that Soy is made from cockroaches; and however absurd the belief may appear the reason for it is worthy of investigation. The Chinese at Canton have a large Soy manufactory and they are particularly solicitous to obtain cockroaches from ships; from which circumstances sailors immediately conclude that it is for the purpose of making Soy from them. But it is better established that cockroaches are used by the Chinese as bait in fishing. The infusion of cockroaches is also used in medicine; and Mr Webster, surgeon of H.M.S. Chanticleer, states that common salt and water saturated with the juices of the cockroach, has all the odour and some of the flavour and qualities, of Soy; so that the sailors notion after all may not be far from the truth.
This story must not have had wide currency outside of the maritime community, I wouldn’t think, because soy sauce was eagerly taken up by the British - certainly by the second half of the eighteenth century, who imported it from the East Indies. The British seem to have an ancestral love of salty spicy sauces, perhaps as a result of that long Roman occupation, and exposure to their favourite salty, fishy garum?
As evidence for this popularity, I remind you that soy sauce was one of the indispensible inclusions in Kitchener’s ‘Magazine of Taste’, which he explains in The Cook’s Oracle (1817). In addition, I note (cooks being no exception to the concept of imitation being the sincerest form of flattery) that the nineteenth century was rife with recipes for imitation Soy and Worcestershire sauces.
Here is a recipe using soy sauce to make another ‘catsup’, from the inimitable Eliza Acton.
EPICUREAN SAUCE.
Mix well by shaking them in a bottle a quarter pint of Indian soy, half a pint of Chili vinegar, half a pint of walnut catsup, and a pint and a half of the best mushroom catsup. These proportions make an excellent sauce either to mix with melted butter and to serve with fish, or to add to different kinds of gravy, but they can be varied or added to at pleasure.
Indian soy ¼ pint; Chili vinegar ½ pint ;walnut catsup ½ pint; mushroom catsup 1 ½ pint .
Obs: A pint of port wine a few eschalots and some thin strips of lemon rind will convert this into an admirable store sauce. Less soy would adapt it better to many tastes.
Modern Cookery in all its Branches (1845)
Quotation for the Day.
A well made sauce will make even an elephant or a grandfather palatable.
Grimod de la Reynière
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Mace & Maces.
Yesterday I talked about the two different sorts of cloves we use regularly in cooking. As I puddled around in the Oxford English Dictionary, mace suddenly jumped into my mind.
A mace is a nasty club used to hit your enemy on the head, isn’t it? Or a ceremonial version of the same thing, used by civic organisations in their less violent version version of Intimidate and Subdue the riff-raff.
What have these war-like connotations got to do with mace, the spice, you may ask? Before we go any further, it may bear repeating that mace, the spice, is the outer covering of the nutmeg, and has a clearly related aroma and flavour.
On the topic of mace, the weapon, I am a little confused by the entries in the Oxford English Dictionary. It appears that the word is ultimately derived from French mace or masse, but is unclear what this actually means - although it does sound weighty - and there is some suggestion that it might relate to classical Latin ‘mateola (rare) an agricultural implement, probably a maul or beetle.’
As for mace, the sweet spice, the OED says that it is the French name for the aril, or outer covering to the nutmeg, which hardly answers our question. It is now as clear as mud to me, and I eagerly await the comments from the wordsmiths amongst you.
Here is a nice way to use up some of those blades of mace you have lurking in your pantry. I don’t believe I have ever cooked fish with mace.
Strong Fish Gravy.
Skin two or three eels, or some flounders; gut and wash them very clean; cut them into small pieces, and put into a saucepan. Cover them with water, and add a little crust of bread toasted brown, two blades of mace, some whole pepper, sweet herbs, a piece of lemon-peel, an anchovy or two, and a tea-spoon of horseradish. Cover close, and simmer; add a bit of butter and flour, an boil with the above.
A New System of Domestic Cookery, Maria Rundell, 1814.
Quotation for the Day.
This is the icing on the gravy.
Lucas Glover.
A mace is a nasty club used to hit your enemy on the head, isn’t it? Or a ceremonial version of the same thing, used by civic organisations in their less violent version version of Intimidate and Subdue the riff-raff.
What have these war-like connotations got to do with mace, the spice, you may ask? Before we go any further, it may bear repeating that mace, the spice, is the outer covering of the nutmeg, and has a clearly related aroma and flavour.
On the topic of mace, the weapon, I am a little confused by the entries in the Oxford English Dictionary. It appears that the word is ultimately derived from French mace or masse, but is unclear what this actually means - although it does sound weighty - and there is some suggestion that it might relate to classical Latin ‘mateola (rare) an agricultural implement, probably a maul or beetle.’
As for mace, the sweet spice, the OED says that it is the French name for the aril, or outer covering to the nutmeg, which hardly answers our question. It is now as clear as mud to me, and I eagerly await the comments from the wordsmiths amongst you.
Here is a nice way to use up some of those blades of mace you have lurking in your pantry. I don’t believe I have ever cooked fish with mace.
Strong Fish Gravy.
Skin two or three eels, or some flounders; gut and wash them very clean; cut them into small pieces, and put into a saucepan. Cover them with water, and add a little crust of bread toasted brown, two blades of mace, some whole pepper, sweet herbs, a piece of lemon-peel, an anchovy or two, and a tea-spoon of horseradish. Cover close, and simmer; add a bit of butter and flour, an boil with the above.
A New System of Domestic Cookery, Maria Rundell, 1814.
Quotation for the Day.
This is the icing on the gravy.
Lucas Glover.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
An American Dinner in London.
On this day in 1863 was held in London, England, an ‘American Dinner.’ Here is what The Epicure's Year Book And Table Companion said of the event:
Recipe for the Day.
In case you should be lucky enough to find some canvas-back duck for your dinner, I give you a simple but elegant sauce recipe from Joe Tilden’s Recipes for Epicures (1907.)
Sauce for Canvas-back Duck.
melt together in a hot soup plate one ounce of butter, and an equal amount of currant jelly. Add th juice of a lime, a glass of sherry and a small cupful of finely chopped celery. Season with salt, pepper, and cayenne.
It has been said that canvass-back ducks cannot be eaten in perfection in London, nor in anything like perfection: but we call to mind an occasion on which, on the authority of American gourmets present, these precious birds were eaten in perfection - in perfect condition, and perfectly cooked. The dinner took place on the 29th December, 1863, and the entire menu was specially imported by the host, Mr. H. L. Bateman. The dinner was cooked admirably by Mr. Blanchard, of Beak Street, Regent Street, and was served in his establishment. The following was the menu. The Saddle Rock oysters were as they are in the States.
Saddle Rock oysters.
Oyster soup à l'Americaine.
Turbot, lobster sauce.
Canvass-back ducks; celery.
Saddle of mutton.
Diamond-back terrapin à la Maryland.
Dessert.
Wines.
Sauterne, amontillado, claret, champagne.
Recipe for the Day.
In case you should be lucky enough to find some canvas-back duck for your dinner, I give you a simple but elegant sauce recipe from Joe Tilden’s Recipes for Epicures (1907.)
Sauce for Canvas-back Duck.
melt together in a hot soup plate one ounce of butter, and an equal amount of currant jelly. Add th juice of a lime, a glass of sherry and a small cupful of finely chopped celery. Season with salt, pepper, and cayenne.
Monday, December 13, 2010
An Emergency Dinner.
I moved house, finally. Although delighted with my new home, I found myself too tired to cook dinner. And anyway, I had not yet stocked the fridge. I had a dinner emergency (or rather, a ‘no-dinner emergency’). I remembered some ‘emergency dinner menus’, with recipes, in one of Fanny Merritt Farmer’s many works. Surely this famous lady would have an idea to suit the occasion?
In What to Have for Dinner: Containing Menus with the Recipes Necessary for Their Preparation, (1905) I found the chapter I was looking for. There were two ‘Emergency Menus’, one of which I give you below. Clearly ‘post-house move exhaustion and empty fridge situation’ was not the sort of emergency that Ms Farmer had in mind, as you will see. I assume it was an ‘unexpected guest in the context of a well-stocked pantry’ sort of emergency.
Call me bold, if you will, but I do take issue with Ms Farmer on a couple of small points. The inclusion of cayenne in both the timbales and their accompanying sauce, for one. And if I was using five egg whites in the timbales, I would have adjusted the ‘hollandaise’ to use up all of the yolks, not just four of them.
French Hollandaise Sauce.
½ cup butter
Yolks 4 eggs
½ cup boiling water
½ teaspoon salt
Few grains Cayenne
½ tablespoon lemon juice.
Work butter until creamy and add egg yolks one at a time, lemon juice, salt, and cayenne. Put in small sauce pan and place in larger sauce pan of hot water.
Quotation for the Day.
I once read cooking is something you do for your family. But when you’re alone you sometimes have to treat yourself like family. And now that my apartment’s redolent with the smell of food it feels more like a home than a box where I hang my hat.
Waiter Rant, Waiter Rant
In What to Have for Dinner: Containing Menus with the Recipes Necessary for Their Preparation, (1905) I found the chapter I was looking for. There were two ‘Emergency Menus’, one of which I give you below. Clearly ‘post-house move exhaustion and empty fridge situation’ was not the sort of emergency that Ms Farmer had in mind, as you will see. I assume it was an ‘unexpected guest in the context of a well-stocked pantry’ sort of emergency.
Call me bold, if you will, but I do take issue with Ms Farmer on a couple of small points. The inclusion of cayenne in both the timbales and their accompanying sauce, for one. And if I was using five egg whites in the timbales, I would have adjusted the ‘hollandaise’ to use up all of the yolks, not just four of them.
Menu No.1.
Small cheer and great welcome make a merry feast.
Shakespeare.
Emergency Soup. Croûtons.
Salmon Timbale, French Hollandaise Sauce.
German Fried Potatoes.
Creamed Peas.
Dresden Sandwiches. Wine Sauce.
Café Noir.
Salmon Timbales.
¾ cup soft breadcrumbs
1 cup milk
½ teaspoon salt
Few grains Cayenne
1 ½ cups flaked canned salmon
Whites 5 eggs.
Remove salmon from can, rinse thoroughly with hot water and separate into small flakes. Soak breadcrumbs in milk fifteen minutes, then cook over hot water and stir to form a smooth paste. Add salt, cayenne and salmon. Cut and fold in whites of eggs, beaten until stiff. Turn into slightly buttered mould set in pan of hot water, cover with buttered paper, and bake until firm; time required being about fifty minutes. Serve with French Hollandaise Sauce.
French Hollandaise Sauce.
½ cup butter
Yolks 4 eggs
½ cup boiling water
½ teaspoon salt
Few grains Cayenne
½ tablespoon lemon juice.
Work butter until creamy and add egg yolks one at a time, lemon juice, salt, and cayenne. Put in small sauce pan and place in larger sauce pan of hot water.
Quotation for the Day.
I once read cooking is something you do for your family. But when you’re alone you sometimes have to treat yourself like family. And now that my apartment’s redolent with the smell of food it feels more like a home than a box where I hang my hat.
Waiter Rant, Waiter Rant
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Capers, Real and Not.
In yesterday’s post I mooted the idea that radishes must be due to become restaurant-trendy again, and also included brief mention of the use of radish seed pods as a substitute for capers. Now, I am pretty sure that capers themselves are staging a come-back. I feel sure they are sneaking up in restaurant dishes more frequently than they used to. If this is the case, will the mock caper return to the scene too?
The caper bush is a prickly shrub (Capparis spinosa) which thrives in the most unfertile-appearing locations. It grows in poor soil and in the crevices of stone walls and rocky outcrops, in the salty sea air in places where it is hot and dry such as the Mediterranean coastline.
Culinary capers are the immature flower buds of this bush which have been pickled in vinegar or preserved in salt. They have been used in cookery since the time of the Ancient Greeks, and became important to cooks in the cooler areas of Britain and Europe in the eighteenth century for the making of caper sauce, then an essential accompaniment to mutton.
The caper gets its pungency from the same components as are in mustard oil, and it is not to everyone’s taste. My favourite caper-quote is from Nora Ephron and appears at the end of the post, but here is another opinion from Encyclopaedia Americana (1830)
‘To persons unaccustomed to it, the taste of capers is unpleasant; but after a little while the palate becomes perfectly reconciled to it.
If one has become accustomed and thence reconciled to capers to the point where one must have caper sauce to one’s mutton, in the absence of the real thing one can, as we have learned, make a substitute caper. The most popular is made from the buds of the colourful nasturtium flower, but in addition to the radish buds mentioned yesterday, other plants can fake them too. I have found mention of the berberry ( Pepperidge Tree) and the marsh marigold, and in The Cook and Housekeeper’s Complete and Universal Dictionary, (1822) Mary Eaton suggests that ‘An excellent substitute for capers may be made of pickled green peas, nastursions, or gherkins, chopped in similar size, and boiled with melted butter.’ Mrs. Eaton also provides today’s recipe for genuine caper sauce:
Caper Sauce
Add a tablespoonful of capers to twice the quantity of vinegar, mince one third of the capers very fine, and divide the others in half. Put them into a quarter of a pint of melted butter, or good thickened gravy, and stir them the same way as the melted butter, to prevent their oiling.
In the absence of capers, one could presumably use one of the mock alternatives to make one’s ‘caper’ sauce. The other alternative would be to take faking it to a greater level altogether and serve the following:
An excellent substitute for Caper Sauce.
Boil, slowly, some parsley, that may become a bad colour, cut it, but do not chop fine; put it to melted butter, with a dessert-spoonful of vinegar, and a tea-spoonful of salt. Boil, and serve.
A New System of Domestic Cookery (1826), by Maria Rundell.
Quotation for the Day.
Nobody really likes capers no matter what you do with them. Some people pretend to like capers, but the truth is that any dish that tastes good with capers in it, tastes even better with capers not in it.
Nora Ephron.
The caper bush is a prickly shrub (Capparis spinosa) which thrives in the most unfertile-appearing locations. It grows in poor soil and in the crevices of stone walls and rocky outcrops, in the salty sea air in places where it is hot and dry such as the Mediterranean coastline.
Culinary capers are the immature flower buds of this bush which have been pickled in vinegar or preserved in salt. They have been used in cookery since the time of the Ancient Greeks, and became important to cooks in the cooler areas of Britain and Europe in the eighteenth century for the making of caper sauce, then an essential accompaniment to mutton.
The caper gets its pungency from the same components as are in mustard oil, and it is not to everyone’s taste. My favourite caper-quote is from Nora Ephron and appears at the end of the post, but here is another opinion from Encyclopaedia Americana (1830)
‘To persons unaccustomed to it, the taste of capers is unpleasant; but after a little while the palate becomes perfectly reconciled to it.
If one has become accustomed and thence reconciled to capers to the point where one must have caper sauce to one’s mutton, in the absence of the real thing one can, as we have learned, make a substitute caper. The most popular is made from the buds of the colourful nasturtium flower, but in addition to the radish buds mentioned yesterday, other plants can fake them too. I have found mention of the berberry ( Pepperidge Tree) and the marsh marigold, and in The Cook and Housekeeper’s Complete and Universal Dictionary, (1822) Mary Eaton suggests that ‘An excellent substitute for capers may be made of pickled green peas, nastursions, or gherkins, chopped in similar size, and boiled with melted butter.’ Mrs. Eaton also provides today’s recipe for genuine caper sauce:
Caper Sauce
Add a tablespoonful of capers to twice the quantity of vinegar, mince one third of the capers very fine, and divide the others in half. Put them into a quarter of a pint of melted butter, or good thickened gravy, and stir them the same way as the melted butter, to prevent their oiling.
In the absence of capers, one could presumably use one of the mock alternatives to make one’s ‘caper’ sauce. The other alternative would be to take faking it to a greater level altogether and serve the following:
An excellent substitute for Caper Sauce.
Boil, slowly, some parsley, that may become a bad colour, cut it, but do not chop fine; put it to melted butter, with a dessert-spoonful of vinegar, and a tea-spoonful of salt. Boil, and serve.
A New System of Domestic Cookery (1826), by Maria Rundell.
Quotation for the Day.
Nobody really likes capers no matter what you do with them. Some people pretend to like capers, but the truth is that any dish that tastes good with capers in it, tastes even better with capers not in it.
Nora Ephron.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Eating 'à la française'.
It is a bit difficult to avoid a French flavour to today’s post, it being Bastille Day (or La Fête Nationale, or simply Le Quatorze Juillet, if you prefer.) I am quite intrigued by what various authorities and cookbook writers consider makes a dish French-style (à la française). When I started looking, it quickly became apparent that the question is not answerable in a short blog post, it requires the work of at least a dozen PhD students working round the clock for a number of years. The range of ingredients and combinations of ingredients is so great that I can only say there is no possibility of consensus. It appears that a dish is à la française if the cook names it so.
My 1961 English edition of the Larousse Gastronomique seemed a good place to start. On garnitures à la française, it gives this description:
As for sauce à la française , the Larousse quotes Careme (1784-1833), in his Art de la Cuisine Française aud XIXe siècle, noting that this sauce is for fish.
Richard Dolby’s The Cook’s Dictionary and Housekeeper’s Directory (1832) includes the following:
Croquignoles à la française:
Break up half a pound of bitter macaroons, so small as to be able to sift them; and having laid half a pound of sifted flour on your slab, and made a hole in the middle, put in the macaroons, with six ounces of powdered sugar, three yolks of eggs, three ounces of fresh butter, and a grain of salt; make these ingredients into a paste, and form the croquignoles of the shape and size of olives; dores them lightly, and bake them in a gentle oven. These must be of a lighter colour than other croquignoles.
Instead of macaroons you may use any other ingredients you please.
In Dainty Dishes from Foreign Lands (1909), the author starts her chapter on Some Delicious French Dishes with the caveat
She goes on to single out truffles and mushrooms as being “considered, quite rightly , to distinguish French cookery, but too often they are bedevilled out of all resemblance to their original succulent selves by people who imagine they must be cooked elaborately.” She then provides a few recipes which are simple, and ‘genuinely French.’
And finally, from 365 Foreign Dishes: a foreign dish for every day in the year (1908), a recipe for apple dumplings. I am at a loss to know what the author considered quintessentially French about this dish.
Quotation for the Day.
“Even the coeur flottant merveilleux aux fraises, presented with a great flourish, made little impression, for it was no more than what may happen to the simple, honest dish of strawberries and cream once it falls into the hands of a Frenchman.”
Dr. Watson in 'Sherlock Holmes and the Hapsburg Tiara' by Alan Vanneman (2004)
My 1961 English edition of the Larousse Gastronomique seemed a good place to start. On garnitures à la française, it gives this description:
Small nests made from Duchesse potatoes, dipped in egg and breadcrumbs, fried and hollowed out, filled with diced mixed vegetables; bunches of asparagus tips; braised lettuces; flowerets of cauliflower, coated with Hollandaise sauce … [used] for large cuts of meat.
As for sauce à la française , the Larousse quotes Careme (1784-1833), in his Art de la Cuisine Française aud XIXe siècle, noting that this sauce is for fish.
Put into a saucepan some Béchamel sauce based on fish stock. When it is almost boiling, add a little garlic, a little grated nutmeg and mushroom essence. When it has boiled for a moment, and just before serving, add crayfish butter to give it a pinkish colour.
Note: Shelled crayfish tails and small peeled mushrooms may be added to this sauce. I served this sauce for the first time in the house of Prince Paul de Wurtemburg.
Richard Dolby’s The Cook’s Dictionary and Housekeeper’s Directory (1832) includes the following:
Croquignoles à la française:
Break up half a pound of bitter macaroons, so small as to be able to sift them; and having laid half a pound of sifted flour on your slab, and made a hole in the middle, put in the macaroons, with six ounces of powdered sugar, three yolks of eggs, three ounces of fresh butter, and a grain of salt; make these ingredients into a paste, and form the croquignoles of the shape and size of olives; dores them lightly, and bake them in a gentle oven. These must be of a lighter colour than other croquignoles.
Instead of macaroons you may use any other ingredients you please.
In Dainty Dishes from Foreign Lands (1909), the author starts her chapter on Some Delicious French Dishes with the caveat
I do not think that the French have so many distinctive dishes as other nations, but have, rather, a certain style of cooking all things. The recipes which I give, herewith, convey something of the French spirit.
She goes on to single out truffles and mushrooms as being “considered, quite rightly , to distinguish French cookery, but too often they are bedevilled out of all resemblance to their original succulent selves by people who imagine they must be cooked elaborately.” She then provides a few recipes which are simple, and ‘genuinely French.’
Mushrooms with Chicken Livers.
Mushrooms with chicken livers is a dish literally fit for a King; to make it take a dozen (or as many as you want) of chicken livers, and fry them with one or two strips of very thin, very sweet bacon; when the livers are just turning brown, add at least a dozen mushrooms, peeled, and wiped very dry. Simmer five minutes, or until the mushrooms are soft, and serve on hot toast. Into the grease left in the pan drop a tablespoon of flour, and let it brown, stirring constantly. Make this into a gravy by pouring into the pan, very quickly, a cup of cold milk; let it boil up once and pour over the toast, livers, bacon and mushrooms.
And finally, from 365 Foreign Dishes: a foreign dish for every day in the year (1908), a recipe for apple dumplings. I am at a loss to know what the author considered quintessentially French about this dish.
French Baked Apple Dumplings.
Peel and core apples; sprinkle well with sugar. Then mix some cold boiled rice with 1 egg, a pinch of salt, sugar and cinnamon, flour enough to make a dough. Cover the apples with this dough; put in a well-buttered baking dish with 2 tablespoonfuls of butter, and bake to a delicate brown. Serve with whipped cream.
Quotation for the Day.
“Even the coeur flottant merveilleux aux fraises, presented with a great flourish, made little impression, for it was no more than what may happen to the simple, honest dish of strawberries and cream once it falls into the hands of a Frenchman.”
Dr. Watson in 'Sherlock Holmes and the Hapsburg Tiara' by Alan Vanneman (2004)
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
A Bespoke Pudding.
This tale does not take place at Christmas, but at a time when puddings had a regular place at every dinner. These were suet puddings, boiled in a cloth and meant to fill the belly, often with the specific purpose of ekeing out the more expensive meat – in which case they were ‘plain’ and served with the broth or gravy. Often of course they were the everyday version of the Christmas pudding – sweetened, and hopefully studded with raisins or apples or other fruit – and, if you were very lucky, perhaps served with a sweet sauce.
The heroes of our tale are none other than the famous Dr Samuel Johnson, and his young biographer James Boswell. We have met the pair before on a number of occasions, and already know Dr Johnson’s mindfulness of his belly, and his particular reverence for pudding. The story takes place during the journey the pair took to Scotland in 1773. It is related by “a traveller” in Scotland many years later, who, with a storm approaching, took refuge in small inn.
Dr Johnson’s Pudding.
The landlord I found to be as the Scotch generally are, very intelligent, and full of anecdote, of which the following may serve as a specimen.
“Sir,”said he, “this inn was formerly kept by Andrew McGregor, a relation of mine, and these hard-bottomed chairs in which we are now sitting, were years ago filled by the great tourists Dr Johnson and Boswell, travelling like the lion and jackal. Boswell usually preceded the doctor in search of food. Being much pleased with the cooks of the house he followed his nose into the larder where he saw a fine leg of mutton: he ordered it to be roasted with the utmost expedition, and gave particular orders for a nice pudding. ‘Now,’ said he ‘make the best of pudding.’ Elated with his good luck he immediately went out in search of his friend, and saw the giant of learning slowly advancing on a pony.
‘My dear sir,’ said Boswell, out of breath with joy and good news, ‘I have just bespoke in a comfortable and clean inn here, a delicious leg of mutton; it is now getting ready, and I flatter myself we shall make an excellent meal.’
Johnson looked pleased. ‘And I hope,’ said he ‘you have bespoke a pudding.’
‘Sir, you have your favorite pudding,’ said the other.
Johnson got off the pony, the poor animal relieved of the giant, smelt his way into the stable. Boswell ushered the doctor into the house, and left him to prepare for the delicious treat. Johnson felt his coat rather damp from the mists of the mountains, went into the kitchen, and threw his upper garment on a chair before the fire. He sat on a hob near a little boy who was very busy attending to the meat. Johnson occasionally peeped from behind his coat, while the boy kept basting the mutton. Johnson, moreover, did not like in the least the appearance of his head, when he shifted the basting ladle from one hand, and the other was never idle; and the doctor thought at the same time he saw something fall on the meat, upon which he determined to eat no mutton on that day.
The dinner being announced, Boswell exclaimed –
‘My dear doctor here comes the mutton. What a picture! Done to a turn and looks so beautifully brown!’
The doctor tittered. After a short grace, Boswell said, -
‘I suppose I have to carve as usual. What part shall I help you to?’
The doctor replied, ‘My dear boy, I did not like to tell you before, but I am determined to abstain from meat to day.’
‘O dear, this is a disappointment,’ said Bozzy.
‘Say no more, I shall make myself ample amends with the pudding.’
Boswell commenced the attack and made the first cut at the mutton. ‘How the gravy runs! What fine-flavoured fat, so nice and brown too! Ah, sir, you would have relished this prime piece of mutton.’
The meat being removed in came the long-wished-for pudding. The doctor looked joyous; fell eagerly to, and in a few minutes nearly finished all the pudding. And Mr Boswell said, -
‘Doctor, while I was carving the mutton, you seemed inclined to laugh; pray tell me what tickled your fancy?’
The doctor then literally told him all that had passed at the kitchen fire about the boy and the basting. Boswell turned as pale as a parsnip, and sick of himself and the company, darted out of the room. Somewhat relieved on returning, he insisted on seeing the dirty little rascally boy, whom he severely reprimanded before Johnson. The poor boy cried, the doctor laughed.
‘ You snivelling fellow.’ said Boswell, ‘why did you not put on the cap I saw you in this morning.’
‘I couldn’t sir,’ said the boy.
‘Why couldn’t you?’ said Boswell.
‘Because my mamma took it from me to boil the pudding in.’
The doctor gathered up his herculean frame - stood erect - touched the ceiling with his wig - squinted – indeed, looked any way but the right way.
At last with mouth wide open, and none of the smallest, and stomach heaving, he with some difficulty recovered his breath, and looking at Boswell with dignified contempt, he roared out, -
‘Mr Boswell, sir, leave off laughing, and under pain of my eternal displeasure, never utter a single syllable of this abominable adventure to any man living while you breathe.’ ”
[From The cyclopaedia of anecdotes of literature and the fine arts, by Kazlitt Irvine, 1856]
To sweeten the pudding, I give you a brief idea from yesterday’s recipe source, a 1939 edition of The Times.
Honey and Butter Sauce.
Mix a cupful of heated strained honey with a third as much melted butter and a tablespoon of rum.
Other Stories featuring Dr Johnson and James Boswell are to be found here, here, here, here, and here.
Quotation for the Day.
Christmas is the season for kindling the fire of hospitality in the hall, the genial flame of charity in the heart.
Washington Irving (1783-1859)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Sour Sauces.
I want to wrap up, for the time being, the topic of fruit with meat. Yesterday we looked at pork (and goose) with apple. In previous posts we have explored the quite ancient ideas of pairing chicken with pears, turkey with raspberries or pomegranate (a much older idea than with cranberries, it seems), and duck with orange (originally, and much more deliciously, the bitter Seville orange). If we extend the idea of ‘meat’ to include other forms of animal protein, then we have also met the idea of eggs with orange (Seville oranges again) in a recipe from Hannah Glasse’s famous cookbook The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy.
It is time to consider fish with fruit - over and above the ubiquitous but uninspiring wedge of lemon with every dish. A sour edge to an otherwise sweet or oily dish is not difficult to understand, but a much earlier pairing with fish was gooseberries. Citrus fruits were an expensive imported delicacy during the medieval era. It is recorded that the Leathersellers’ Company (one of the Liveried Companies of England) paid six silver pennies for a single lemon for a feast they gave to Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn in 1533.
Gooseberries, on the other hand, were very easily available, having been cultivated from ancient times, and persisting even in the wild. Think on that, you English fish-eating locavores and wild-foodies. Gooseberry sauce with fish, especially mackeral was a favourite combination in the relatively recent past, and perhaps the idea deserves re-discovering. What was a cook to do however, to get that desired sour note in the fish dish, if there were no lemons and no gooseberries for whatever reasons?
Use rhubarb, of course. No argument about its sourness, and no thorny bushes to harvest. Here are a couple of rhubarb sauces for you.
Rhubarb Sauce.
To make a mock gooseberry sauce for mackarel, reduce three dozen sticks of rhubarb to a marmalade [ie a thick puree], and sweeten it with moist sugar. Pass it through a hair sieve, and serve it up in a boat.
The cook and housekeeper's complete and universal dictionary, Mary Eaton, 1822.
Rhubarb sauce [to keep.]
Boil the stalks over a slow fire, till tender, in a small quantity of water with sugar and such spices as suit the taste, and strain off the liquor, squeezing the stalks dry, and when the liquid syrup or sauce is cold, bottle and cork it tight; this will keep for years.
The Farmers' Register, Edmund Ruffin , USA, 1841
Quotation for the Day.
My living in Yorkshire was so far out of the way, that it was eleven miles away from a lemon.
Sydney Smith (1771-1845)
It is time to consider fish with fruit - over and above the ubiquitous but uninspiring wedge of lemon with every dish. A sour edge to an otherwise sweet or oily dish is not difficult to understand, but a much earlier pairing with fish was gooseberries. Citrus fruits were an expensive imported delicacy during the medieval era. It is recorded that the Leathersellers’ Company (one of the Liveried Companies of England) paid six silver pennies for a single lemon for a feast they gave to Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn in 1533.
Gooseberries, on the other hand, were very easily available, having been cultivated from ancient times, and persisting even in the wild. Think on that, you English fish-eating locavores and wild-foodies. Gooseberry sauce with fish, especially mackeral was a favourite combination in the relatively recent past, and perhaps the idea deserves re-discovering. What was a cook to do however, to get that desired sour note in the fish dish, if there were no lemons and no gooseberries for whatever reasons?
Use rhubarb, of course. No argument about its sourness, and no thorny bushes to harvest. Here are a couple of rhubarb sauces for you.
Rhubarb Sauce.
To make a mock gooseberry sauce for mackarel, reduce three dozen sticks of rhubarb to a marmalade [ie a thick puree], and sweeten it with moist sugar. Pass it through a hair sieve, and serve it up in a boat.
The cook and housekeeper's complete and universal dictionary, Mary Eaton, 1822.
Rhubarb sauce [to keep.]
Boil the stalks over a slow fire, till tender, in a small quantity of water with sugar and such spices as suit the taste, and strain off the liquor, squeezing the stalks dry, and when the liquid syrup or sauce is cold, bottle and cork it tight; this will keep for years.
The Farmers' Register, Edmund Ruffin , USA, 1841
Quotation for the Day.
My living in Yorkshire was so far out of the way, that it was eleven miles away from a lemon.
Sydney Smith (1771-1845)
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Oxford Sauce.
The “English” sauce today is Oxford Sauce, and it presents an interesting challenge. It is commonly said to be the “traditional” sauce for brawn (specifically Oxford Brawn), yet there is a real dearth of recipes and information on it. The Oxford English Dictionary does not acknowledge it at all, which must be significant surely?
It is particularly interesting that the recipes that do exist for Oxford Sauce often begin with “proceed as for Cumberland Sauce , but ..." and it does indeed sound almost identical to that port and orange “traditional” sauce. Here is Escoffier’s description:
Oxford sauce: A British sauce of red currant jelly dissolved with port and flavored with shallots, orange zest and mustard; usually served with game.
The earliest recipe I have found so far is from the intriguingly named The Englishwoman in India: information for ladies on their outfit, furniture … , published in 1864. The recipe is not at all similar to Cumberland Sauce however.
Oxford Sauce
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 teaspoon made mustard
1 saltspoon salt
½ saltspoon pepper
3 tablespoons best salad oil
2 tablespoons strong vinegar.
The next recipe I found was in - of all things, in view of our other insights this week - an American cookery book - Mrs Elliott’s Housewife, published in 1870. The recipe is also unlike Cumberland sauce, and is slightly different from the above as it contains allspice, cayenne, and horseradish as the flavouring agents.
So, my question to you is – how old or commonly used does something have to be to be called “traditional”?
Quotation for the Day.
Americans can eat garbage, provided you sprinkle it liberally with ketchup, mustard, chili sauce, Tabasco sauce, cayenne pepper, or any other condiment which destroys the original flavor of the dish.
Henry Miller.
It is particularly interesting that the recipes that do exist for Oxford Sauce often begin with “proceed as for Cumberland Sauce , but ..." and it does indeed sound almost identical to that port and orange “traditional” sauce. Here is Escoffier’s description:
Oxford sauce: A British sauce of red currant jelly dissolved with port and flavored with shallots, orange zest and mustard; usually served with game.
The earliest recipe I have found so far is from the intriguingly named The Englishwoman in India: information for ladies on their outfit, furniture … , published in 1864. The recipe is not at all similar to Cumberland Sauce however.
Oxford Sauce
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 teaspoon made mustard
1 saltspoon salt
½ saltspoon pepper
3 tablespoons best salad oil
2 tablespoons strong vinegar.
The next recipe I found was in - of all things, in view of our other insights this week - an American cookery book - Mrs Elliott’s Housewife, published in 1870. The recipe is also unlike Cumberland sauce, and is slightly different from the above as it contains allspice, cayenne, and horseradish as the flavouring agents.
So, my question to you is – how old or commonly used does something have to be to be called “traditional”?
Quotation for the Day.
Americans can eat garbage, provided you sprinkle it liberally with ketchup, mustard, chili sauce, Tabasco sauce, cayenne pepper, or any other condiment which destroys the original flavor of the dish.
Henry Miller.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Yorkshire Sauce.
Today we continue on our quest to unravel some of the secrets of “English Sauces” – that is, sauces apparently named for English towns and counties. It is the turn of Yorkshire Sauce.
A recipe for Yorkshire Sauce in the American cookbook The Steward’s Handbook and Guide to Party Catering, by Jessup Whitehead (Chicago, 1903) sounds suspiciously like Cumberland Sauce – which is intriguing as we considered yesterday that the latter might possibly have come by its name in America. Is Yorkshire Sauce then another example of American naming? I have been unable so far to find any reference to Yorkshire Sauce in any English cookery book, which perhaps reinforces the theory. Here is Jessup Whitehead’s recipe – you will see how similar it is to yesterday’s Cumberland Sauce:
Yorkshire Sauce.
Orange sauce for ham; espagnole, currant jelly, port wine, orange juice and boiled rind cut in shreds.
The Oxford English Dictionary does not have any reference to Yorkshire Sauce, but it does have a relatively lengthy entry on Yorkshire Relish, which it defines as “the proprietary name of a kind of savoury sauce.” The proprietary sauce was manufactured by Goodall Backhouse and Co. of Leeds, and the first reference is to it is in the Trade Marks Journal of 1877. The name was the subject of a legal dispute in 1895, the manufacturers attempting to prevent a rival company marketing their own product under the same name. The plaintiffs’ case was successfully argued by scientists who analysed the composition of both products, and concluded that, amongst other things, “a marked peculiarity of the imitation ‘relish’ was the large amount of cream of tartar it contained in the form of crystals”, and there were significant differences in specific gravity, and the type of sugar used.
Ironically, Whitehead’s book also acknowledges the proprietary relish, and gives a recipe for an imitation:
Bottled Table Sauce.
The recipe for making the genuine Yorkshire Relish is probably known only to the manufacturers. However, the following is said to yield a good imitation of that popular sauce:
1 oz. garlic, 1 teaspoonful cayenne, 2 tablespoonfuls Indian soy, 2 tablespoonfuls mushroom ketchup, and 1 pt. vinegar; boil altogether 10 minutes and strain, and bottle
when cold.
It would seem sensible to go to a Yorkshire source for ideas on Yorkshire-named recipes. From the Yorkshire Observer recipe collection of the 1930’s we have:
Yorkshire Relish.
½ oz. cloves,
¼ oz. cayenne pods,
1 oz. peppercorns.
Put in pan with one pint of water, boil 20 min then add
1 quart of vinegar
½ lb sugar,
¼ lb salt, and
2d.[dessertspoons?] burnt sugar.
Boil altogether for 5 min. Strain and it is ready for use when cold.
(Mrs.Scargill, Batley)
Then, just to confuse or enrich the subject further, here is a sweet version (from an American source) - a lemon-essence flavoured hard sauce to put on your pudding.
Yorkshire Sauce
Three ounces of butter
Five table spoonfuls of powdered sugar
Three drops of essence of lemon
Nutmeg or cinnamon to the taste.
Beat the butter and sugar to a cream, and add the lemon and spice.
This sauce is eaten with baked puddings, fritters, &c. Some add a tea spoonful of brandy.
The National Cookbook, by Hannah McBouvier, Philadelphia 1866
Quotation for the Day.
Give us this day our daily taste. Restore to us soups that spoons will not sink in and sauces which are never the same twice. Raise up among us stews with more gravy than we have bread to blot it with Give us pasta with a hundred fillings.
Robert Farrar Capon.
A recipe for Yorkshire Sauce in the American cookbook The Steward’s Handbook and Guide to Party Catering, by Jessup Whitehead (Chicago, 1903) sounds suspiciously like Cumberland Sauce – which is intriguing as we considered yesterday that the latter might possibly have come by its name in America. Is Yorkshire Sauce then another example of American naming? I have been unable so far to find any reference to Yorkshire Sauce in any English cookery book, which perhaps reinforces the theory. Here is Jessup Whitehead’s recipe – you will see how similar it is to yesterday’s Cumberland Sauce:
Yorkshire Sauce.
Orange sauce for ham; espagnole, currant jelly, port wine, orange juice and boiled rind cut in shreds.
The Oxford English Dictionary does not have any reference to Yorkshire Sauce, but it does have a relatively lengthy entry on Yorkshire Relish, which it defines as “the proprietary name of a kind of savoury sauce.” The proprietary sauce was manufactured by Goodall Backhouse and Co. of Leeds, and the first reference is to it is in the Trade Marks Journal of 1877. The name was the subject of a legal dispute in 1895, the manufacturers attempting to prevent a rival company marketing their own product under the same name. The plaintiffs’ case was successfully argued by scientists who analysed the composition of both products, and concluded that, amongst other things, “a marked peculiarity of the imitation ‘relish’ was the large amount of cream of tartar it contained in the form of crystals”, and there were significant differences in specific gravity, and the type of sugar used.
Ironically, Whitehead’s book also acknowledges the proprietary relish, and gives a recipe for an imitation:
Bottled Table Sauce.
The recipe for making the genuine Yorkshire Relish is probably known only to the manufacturers. However, the following is said to yield a good imitation of that popular sauce:
1 oz. garlic, 1 teaspoonful cayenne, 2 tablespoonfuls Indian soy, 2 tablespoonfuls mushroom ketchup, and 1 pt. vinegar; boil altogether 10 minutes and strain, and bottle
when cold.
It would seem sensible to go to a Yorkshire source for ideas on Yorkshire-named recipes. From the Yorkshire Observer recipe collection of the 1930’s we have:
Yorkshire Relish.
½ oz. cloves,
¼ oz. cayenne pods,
1 oz. peppercorns.
Put in pan with one pint of water, boil 20 min then add
1 quart of vinegar
½ lb sugar,
¼ lb salt, and
2d.[dessertspoons?] burnt sugar.
Boil altogether for 5 min. Strain and it is ready for use when cold.
(Mrs.Scargill, Batley)
Then, just to confuse or enrich the subject further, here is a sweet version (from an American source) - a lemon-essence flavoured hard sauce to put on your pudding.
Yorkshire Sauce
Three ounces of butter
Five table spoonfuls of powdered sugar
Three drops of essence of lemon
Nutmeg or cinnamon to the taste.
Beat the butter and sugar to a cream, and add the lemon and spice.
This sauce is eaten with baked puddings, fritters, &c. Some add a tea spoonful of brandy.
The National Cookbook, by Hannah McBouvier, Philadelphia 1866
Quotation for the Day.
Give us this day our daily taste. Restore to us soups that spoons will not sink in and sauces which are never the same twice. Raise up among us stews with more gravy than we have bread to blot it with Give us pasta with a hundred fillings.
Robert Farrar Capon.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Cumberland Sauce.
Now for some sauces named for English towns and counties. I want to consider just how “authentic” or “traditional” they really are, and welcome your comments.
We have previously considered what is the best-known sauce named for an English town or county - Worcester(shire) sauce. Today I want to sample Cumberland Sauce.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines Cumberland Sauce as “a piquant sauce served esp. with cold meat”. It does not guess at primary ingredients, but generally speaking today it is taken to mean a wine sauce with redcurrants, flavoured with orange. The tradition of serving sharp, sour, fruity sauces with rich meat, especially game is very ancient, yet the OED gives the first supporting reference from 1878.
Strangely, I have found references to it that pre-date the first in the OED – from American sources: one from 1856, and one from 1870 on the menu of a New Orleans hotel. Is it then an American invention, or some sort of around-the-world reattribution, as in the case of the “Virginia Potato”?
Dr. Kitchiner in his famous Cook’s Oracle of 1817 gives a currant sauce recipe that is a Cumberland-sauce prototype or variant:
Wine Sauce for Venison or Hare.
A quarter of a pint of claret or port wine, the same quantity of plain unflavoured mutton gravy, and a tablespoon of currant jelly; let it just boil up, and send it to table in a sauce boat.”
Alexis Soyer gave a recipe (1846) for a port-wine based sauce for Boar’s Head which contains what we think of as the required citrus note in the form of Seville orange rind (along with mustard) – but he gave it a German attribution.
The “authenticity” argument will likely never be settled in the case of Cumberland Sauce. Perhaps the real question is, when did the (red)currant sauce become named for Cumberland (and was it for the English County or one of its aristocratic inhabitants – a Duke, perhaps?) There are a myriad versions of the basic idea in cookery books of the last hundred years or so. Here is one from The Times newspaper of February 7, 1938. Is is “authentic”? How far from the “traditional” version is it?
Gelée Cumberland.
A quite delicious substitute for Cumberland Sauce is Gelée Cumberland.
Take the very thinly peeled rind of an orange, a small piece of lemon peel, two tablespoonfuls of redcurrant jelly, a gill of clear soup and a teaspoon of Worcester Sauce.
Put all the ingredients in a saucepan, bring to the boils slowly, then strain through a bit of muslin into a small glass bowl and let it set. Serve with cold meats or ham. One chef adds a bit of ground ginger for those who like it highly seasoned.
Quotation for the Day.
I’ve been married so long I am on my third bottle of Tabasco sauce.
Susan Vass.
We have previously considered what is the best-known sauce named for an English town or county - Worcester(shire) sauce. Today I want to sample Cumberland Sauce.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines Cumberland Sauce as “a piquant sauce served esp. with cold meat”. It does not guess at primary ingredients, but generally speaking today it is taken to mean a wine sauce with redcurrants, flavoured with orange. The tradition of serving sharp, sour, fruity sauces with rich meat, especially game is very ancient, yet the OED gives the first supporting reference from 1878.
Strangely, I have found references to it that pre-date the first in the OED – from American sources: one from 1856, and one from 1870 on the menu of a New Orleans hotel. Is it then an American invention, or some sort of around-the-world reattribution, as in the case of the “Virginia Potato”?
Dr. Kitchiner in his famous Cook’s Oracle of 1817 gives a currant sauce recipe that is a Cumberland-sauce prototype or variant:
Wine Sauce for Venison or Hare.
A quarter of a pint of claret or port wine, the same quantity of plain unflavoured mutton gravy, and a tablespoon of currant jelly; let it just boil up, and send it to table in a sauce boat.”
Alexis Soyer gave a recipe (1846) for a port-wine based sauce for Boar’s Head which contains what we think of as the required citrus note in the form of Seville orange rind (along with mustard) – but he gave it a German attribution.
The “authenticity” argument will likely never be settled in the case of Cumberland Sauce. Perhaps the real question is, when did the (red)currant sauce become named for Cumberland (and was it for the English County or one of its aristocratic inhabitants – a Duke, perhaps?) There are a myriad versions of the basic idea in cookery books of the last hundred years or so. Here is one from The Times newspaper of February 7, 1938. Is is “authentic”? How far from the “traditional” version is it?
Gelée Cumberland.
A quite delicious substitute for Cumberland Sauce is Gelée Cumberland.
Take the very thinly peeled rind of an orange, a small piece of lemon peel, two tablespoonfuls of redcurrant jelly, a gill of clear soup and a teaspoon of Worcester Sauce.
Put all the ingredients in a saucepan, bring to the boils slowly, then strain through a bit of muslin into a small glass bowl and let it set. Serve with cold meats or ham. One chef adds a bit of ground ginger for those who like it highly seasoned.
Quotation for the Day.
I’ve been married so long I am on my third bottle of Tabasco sauce.
Susan Vass.
Monday, May 04, 2009
The Real Meaning of Prunes.
I don’t believe I have ever seen a hotel breakfast buffet without prunes. I don’t need to spell out the reason, do I? We all know that the changed routines of a travelling life can affect the routine of the bowels (in either direction), don’t we? So – hotels provide a nice laxative service at the breakfast bar for those of their guests who are afflicted by one of these two main travel curses.
Or, could there be another story behind the provision of prunes in places of hospitality? One requiring even more discretion? The next time you are standing at the breakfast bar at a nice hotel (and perhaps even more so at a not-so-nice hotel) – think on this: a dish of prunes was once a regular (sorry! couldn’t resist) part of the offerings in a brothel.
Shakespeare knew this, but then he pretty well knew everything that there was to know back in the sixteenth century. One of his contemporaries tells us that a dish of prunes was actually a visible advertisement for the bawdy business: from Lodge’s Wit’s Miserie, or the World’s Madnesse (1596)
"This it she that laies wait at the carriers for wenches new come up to London, and you shall know her dwelling by a dish of stewed prunes in the window, and two or three fleering wenche sit knitting or sewing in her shop. [describing a bawd]"
A dictionary of 1834 (by William Tone) explains the reason:
“Prunes (stewed). Dishes of stewed prunes were kept in brothels, and were thought to be not only a cure but a preventative of diseases contracted there.”
It was also thought at one time that prunes increased sexual potency, so we have three good reasons for brothel owners to keep in a good supply. Closer to our own time, I wonder which of the reasons (bowel, sexual potency, or venereal disease management) the manufacturers of Dr. Pepper wished to disassociate from when they vehemently denied rumours that prunes were an ingredient in their beverage. I guess it doesn’t matter – hot denial of any rumour is always a good marketing ploy they tell me.
Whatever their symbolic or medicinal value, prunes don’t deserve their slightly unglamorous image compared to other dried fruits such as apricots, or ginger, or fat raisins. Prunes are, after all, only dried plums.
In a post some time ago I featured “Unusual Prune Dishes” which included the earliest recipe for an upside-down cake that I could find at that time (1923) – made with prunes, not the ubiquitous canned pineapple rings. There are other prune dishes scattered throughout the blog stories too, if you want to test any of their alleged effects.
For today, I give you a recipe from one of my favourite books, Cre-Fydd’s Family Fare (London, 1864)
Quotation for the Day.
Well, art is art, isn't it? Still, on the other hand, water is water! And east is east and west is west and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does. Now, uh... Now you tell me what you know.
Groucho Marx.
Or, could there be another story behind the provision of prunes in places of hospitality? One requiring even more discretion? The next time you are standing at the breakfast bar at a nice hotel (and perhaps even more so at a not-so-nice hotel) – think on this: a dish of prunes was once a regular (sorry! couldn’t resist) part of the offerings in a brothel.
Shakespeare knew this, but then he pretty well knew everything that there was to know back in the sixteenth century. One of his contemporaries tells us that a dish of prunes was actually a visible advertisement for the bawdy business: from Lodge’s Wit’s Miserie, or the World’s Madnesse (1596)
"This it she that laies wait at the carriers for wenches new come up to London, and you shall know her dwelling by a dish of stewed prunes in the window, and two or three fleering wenche sit knitting or sewing in her shop. [describing a bawd]"
A dictionary of 1834 (by William Tone) explains the reason:
“Prunes (stewed). Dishes of stewed prunes were kept in brothels, and were thought to be not only a cure but a preventative of diseases contracted there.”
It was also thought at one time that prunes increased sexual potency, so we have three good reasons for brothel owners to keep in a good supply. Closer to our own time, I wonder which of the reasons (bowel, sexual potency, or venereal disease management) the manufacturers of Dr. Pepper wished to disassociate from when they vehemently denied rumours that prunes were an ingredient in their beverage. I guess it doesn’t matter – hot denial of any rumour is always a good marketing ploy they tell me.
Whatever their symbolic or medicinal value, prunes don’t deserve their slightly unglamorous image compared to other dried fruits such as apricots, or ginger, or fat raisins. Prunes are, after all, only dried plums.
In a post some time ago I featured “Unusual Prune Dishes” which included the earliest recipe for an upside-down cake that I could find at that time (1923) – made with prunes, not the ubiquitous canned pineapple rings. There are other prune dishes scattered throughout the blog stories too, if you want to test any of their alleged effects.
For today, I give you a recipe from one of my favourite books, Cre-Fydd’s Family Fare (London, 1864)
Prune Sauce [to serve with pork]
Boil one pound of prunes in half a pint of water until quite soft; add a tablespoonful of moist sugar and a tablespoonful of either rum or brandy. Rub through a sieve, and serve in a tureen.Quotation for the Day.
Well, art is art, isn't it? Still, on the other hand, water is water! And east is east and west is west and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does. Now, uh... Now you tell me what you know.
Groucho Marx.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Master Butler.
Today it is the turn of the Master Butler, as he is described in The Perfect School of Instruction for the Officers of The Mouth (1682) – our source of fun for the week. I have previously bemoaned the dearth of servants in my home (in particular I have mentioned the complete absence of an anaetta). If you could chose only one servant, what type would you have? I would probably chose a maid-of-all-work, or at least a scullery maid, for fairly obvious reasons. I am not sure of the value of a footman in this day and age, and I am bemused by the idea of a butler, although I am aware that they are indispensible to celebrities.
A modern butler, I understand, is in charge of cellaring and serving wine – not a full-time job - even in my own household where a considerable amount of good stuff is consumed - but in previous times when households were larger and guests always hanging around, then presumably they were more essential. Strangely, this aspect of the butler’s job is not mentioned in the Perfect School.
But, I get ahead of the story. The author of our source for the week first discusses the requirements of a good butler. He must ‘to be indued with these three qualities: first, Fidelity, Good Behaviour, and Affability towards those whom he hath to do withal,’ and he is advised‘to endeavour all he can to understand his Lord and Master, and next those that pertain unto him.’ His general responsibility was for the accoutrements and setting up of the table, and the specific skills required were that he must know ‘how to fold and pleat your Table Linnen into many Figures, and the Carving of all sorts of Fruits into divers fashions.’ The seventeenth century butler’s visible work began ahead of the meal:
‘The hour of Meals now come, he must put himself in a posture of serving; and first let him put his Covering into a Basket which is for that purpose, covered with a clean Napkin; then let him set in his Bason and Ewer, the Essay Cup, and Cadnet, Flagons, Salts, Plates, Spoons, Forkes, Knives, Riders for Plates, Table-Cloaths, Napkins; of which two at the least folded in the fashion of a broken Staff, with Bread, and all other things necessary that belongs to the Covering of a Table, and side Table’
Cleverly folded napkins were a fashionable novelty at this time – so much so that the author of Perfect School noted that
‘And it is also as necessary for him to know how to fold, pleat,and pinch his Linnen into all manner of forms, both of Fish, Beasts and Birds, as well as Fruits, which is the greatest curiosity in the covering of a Table well, for many have gone farther to see a Table neatly covered, than they would have done for to have eaten a good meal at the same Table.’
Here we have butler-as-fabric artist. There are copious illustrations to demonstrate the divers ways of carving of fruit, but none at all for the napkin-folding. Imagine trying to make a complicated origami design without illustrated instructions and you will have some idea of the difficulty of folding napkins ‘like a Dog with a Choller about his neck’, ‘in the fashion of a Cross, like the Order of the Holy Ghost’, or ‘pleated in the form of a Pigeon upon her Nest in a Basket.’
Napkins were very important of course, and would be very necessary for a savoury, drippy sauce such as the following one, taken from the same book (and which also shows that bread sauce for poultry has a long heritage.)
Sauce for a Capon.
Take Bread and scorch or tost it,and then take the livers of Capons or Pullets if you please,one or other, and broyl them upon the Coals, and put them a-steeping in Wine with your Bread, and when they are steept strain them through a Strainer with a little small Spice, Cinamon, red Wine Vinegar, and Verjuice, put it in a Dish, and set it into your Dripping-pan under your Capons whilest they rost, and when they are rosted set your Sauce a-boyling upon the Coals, and season it with Salt.
Quotation for the Day.
Another peculiarity of this country is the absence of napkins, even in the homes of the wealthy. Napkins, as a rule, are never used and one has to wipe one's mouth on the tablecloth, which in consequence suffers in appearance.
Baron Louis de Closen on dining in America (1780)
A modern butler, I understand, is in charge of cellaring and serving wine – not a full-time job - even in my own household where a considerable amount of good stuff is consumed - but in previous times when households were larger and guests always hanging around, then presumably they were more essential. Strangely, this aspect of the butler’s job is not mentioned in the Perfect School.
But, I get ahead of the story. The author of our source for the week first discusses the requirements of a good butler. He must ‘to be indued with these three qualities: first, Fidelity, Good Behaviour, and Affability towards those whom he hath to do withal,’ and he is advised‘to endeavour all he can to understand his Lord and Master, and next those that pertain unto him.’ His general responsibility was for the accoutrements and setting up of the table, and the specific skills required were that he must know ‘how to fold and pleat your Table Linnen into many Figures, and the Carving of all sorts of Fruits into divers fashions.’ The seventeenth century butler’s visible work began ahead of the meal:
‘The hour of Meals now come, he must put himself in a posture of serving; and first let him put his Covering into a Basket which is for that purpose, covered with a clean Napkin; then let him set in his Bason and Ewer, the Essay Cup, and Cadnet, Flagons, Salts, Plates, Spoons, Forkes, Knives, Riders for Plates, Table-Cloaths, Napkins; of which two at the least folded in the fashion of a broken Staff, with Bread, and all other things necessary that belongs to the Covering of a Table, and side Table’
Cleverly folded napkins were a fashionable novelty at this time – so much so that the author of Perfect School noted that
‘And it is also as necessary for him to know how to fold, pleat,and pinch his Linnen into all manner of forms, both of Fish, Beasts and Birds, as well as Fruits, which is the greatest curiosity in the covering of a Table well, for many have gone farther to see a Table neatly covered, than they would have done for to have eaten a good meal at the same Table.’
Here we have butler-as-fabric artist. There are copious illustrations to demonstrate the divers ways of carving of fruit, but none at all for the napkin-folding. Imagine trying to make a complicated origami design without illustrated instructions and you will have some idea of the difficulty of folding napkins ‘like a Dog with a Choller about his neck’, ‘in the fashion of a Cross, like the Order of the Holy Ghost’, or ‘pleated in the form of a Pigeon upon her Nest in a Basket.’
Napkins were very important of course, and would be very necessary for a savoury, drippy sauce such as the following one, taken from the same book (and which also shows that bread sauce for poultry has a long heritage.)
Sauce for a Capon.
Take Bread and scorch or tost it,and then take the livers of Capons or Pullets if you please,one or other, and broyl them upon the Coals, and put them a-steeping in Wine with your Bread, and when they are steept strain them through a Strainer with a little small Spice, Cinamon, red Wine Vinegar, and Verjuice, put it in a Dish, and set it into your Dripping-pan under your Capons whilest they rost, and when they are rosted set your Sauce a-boyling upon the Coals, and season it with Salt.
Quotation for the Day.
Another peculiarity of this country is the absence of napkins, even in the homes of the wealthy. Napkins, as a rule, are never used and one has to wipe one's mouth on the tablecloth, which in consequence suffers in appearance.
Baron Louis de Closen on dining in America (1780)
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Poetical Food.
“a piece of writing or an oral composition, often characterized by a metrical structure, in which the expression of feelings, ideas, etc., is typically given intensity or flavour by distinctive diction, rhythm, imagery, etc.”
The ‘poem’ of the day comes from a cookery book, of course. It is My pet recipes tried and true, contributed by the ladies and friends of St. Andrew's Church, Quebec
It is at least in rhyme, which may or may not be an admirable quality in a poem. I leave it to you to judge if it is poetry, if it is good advice, and whether you think that modern cookbooks could be improved with the addition of more poetry.
Rhymes to Remember.
“Always have lobster sauce with salmon,
And put mint sauce your roasted lamb on.
In dressing salad mind this law
With two hard yolks use one raw.
Roast pork, sans apple sauce, past doubt,
Is Hamlet with the Prince left out.
Broil lightly your beefsteak – to fry it
Argues contempt of christian diet.
It gives true epicures the vapors,
To see boiled mutton minus capers.
Boiled turkey, gourmands know of course
Is exquisite with celery sauce.
Roasted in paste, a haunch of mutton
Might make ascetics play the glutton.
To roast spring chickens is to spoil them,
Just split them down the back and broil them.
Shad, stuffed and baked is most delicious,
T’would have electrified Apicius.
Roast veal with rich stock gravy serve,
And pickled mushrooms too, observe.
The cook deserves a hearty cuffing,
Who serves roast fowl with tasteless stuffing.
But one might rhyme for weeks this way,
And still have lots of thing to say:
And so I’ll close, for reader mine,
This is about the hour to dine.
Naturally I have to include a recipe for the book, and as it is turkey season, I give you this version of celery sauce, contributed by Mrs. Theophilus Oliver.
Celery Sauce.
Fifteen ripe tomatoes two peppers, five large onions, seven and a half tablespoons of white sugar, two and one half tablespoons salt, three cups of vinegar, two heads of celery, chop celery and onions, and peppers, and boil all together an hour and a half.
Quotation for the Day …
He’d noticed that sex bore some resemblance to cookery. It fascinated people. They sometimes bought books full of complicated recipes and interesting pictures. And sometime, when they were really hungry they created vast banquets in their imagination. But at the end of the day they’d settle quite happily for egg and chips, if it was well done, and maybe had a slice of tomato.
Terry Pratchett.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Gravy, Part 1.
Today is the anniversary of the birth, in 1875, of Edmund Clerihew Bentley. He is the inventor of the ‘clerihew’ – ‘a short comic or nonsensical verse, professedly biographical, of two couplets differing in length.’ Why this little poetical exercise got his middle name is a mystery (I suppose ‘Bentley’ was already taken?) – would it have been so successful if it had been ‘John’? Anyway. I digress.
Edmund is on my radar for one reason only. The first ‘clerihew’ he wrote, as a sixteen-year old schoolboy happens to be on one of my favourite topics. And my favourite dinner tables.
“Sir Humphry Davy/ Abominated gravy./ He lived in the odium/ Of having discovered Sodium.”
The topic is gravy, not Davy.
Whether or not Sir Humphrey Davy did in fact abominate gravy is immaterial: the clever little rhyme pops up regularly in every food quotation site in the cybersphere. If Sir Humphrey did indeed dislike gravy, he was a very rare Englishman. There is a hoary old joke that
What is amazing of course is that the simple word ‘gravy’ refers to a sauce of such infinite variation, that only one primary sauce is needed (compared with the French, who need four). The word appears to derive from the Old French word grané for ‘grain’ – suggesting that the original ‘gravy’ was a porridg-y dish, or at least one thickened with something. At some point in time the ‘n’ in ‘grané’ was mis-transcribed perhaps, as a ‘v’. The Oxford English Dictionary thinks so anyway.
It appears that the original ‘gravy’ was for white meats, and was made from broth thickened with almonds, nicely spiced, with the addition of wine or ale. The word can now mean anything from pure, unadulterated meat jus, a simple broth, a broth thickened with a roux, to all manner of complicated sauces and simple packet mixes made of brown powder and salt.
I intend to collect these gravy-variations. There will be another tomorrow, and thereafter they will be random, as the whim takes me. Or you, if you wish to be a random gravy-poster.
Here is one to start us off:
Burn an ounce of butter in a frying-pan ; always taking care to do it at such a proper distance from the fire, that while the flour is strewing into the butter, it may become brown, but not black. Put to it two pounds of coarse lean beef, a quart of water, half a pint of either red or white wine, three anchovies, two shalots, a little white pepper, a few cloves, and a bit of mace, with three or four mushrooms or pickled walnuts. After letting the whole stew gently about an hour, it may be strained for use ; it will keep several days, and is proper for any savoury dish.
[A Modern System of Domestic Cookery. Mrs. Radcliffe. 1823]
Tomorrow’s Story …
Gravy, Part 2.
Quotation for the Day …
I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage. Erma Bombeck.
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