Today, January 25th …
Today is Burn’s Day, the anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns in 1759. If you have the tiniest trace of Scots ancestry, you will, like your relatives all over the world, be intending to hold your own traditional Burns Supper on this night.
In case the trace is very distant and your ancestral memory of the evening’s ritual needs jogging, I remind you of the proper order of proceedings.
1. Welcome by the Chairman.
2. Burns’ “Selkirk Grace” is said by all:
“Some hae meat and cannae eat,
And some wad eat that want it.
But we hae meat and we can eat
And so the Lord be thankit”
3. The company then stands, and performs a slow handclap during the piping in of the haggis. The procession consists of the piper, the chef bearing the haggis on a silver platter, the honoured guest who will address the haggis, and – let he not be forgotten - the whisky bearer.
4. The honoured guest recites Burns’ ode “To a Haggis”, with great gusto and feeling, and at the lines “His knife see Rustic-labour dight, An cut you up wi ready slight” he plunges his own knife into the haggis, spilling out its “gushing entrails”.
5. At the final line "Gie her a Haggis!” (“her” being Scotland) the company applaud, raise their whisky glasses and make a toast “To the Haggis”.
6. The meal proper then commences. The haggis is compulsory, but other menu items may vary so long as they stay within the traditional Scots culinary repertoire. A common selection would be:
Cock-a-leekie soup
Haggis with Bashed Neeps and Champit Taties
Clootie Dumplin or Tipsy Laird
7. A short speech on Burns is given.
8.There is a Toast to the Lasses, and various other recitations and entertainments, accompanied by as much whisky drinking as seems necessary and appropriate.
9. The evening ends with the traditional rendering by the company of Auld Lang Syne.
If you have any Scottish blood at all, I assume that you have your own inviolable family recipe for haggis, but hope your ancestors are not offended by my suggestion that you try Mistress Meg Dods’ variation of Bashed Neeps (from her “Cooks and Housewife’s Manual”, 1856).
Our Club put a little powdered ginger to their mashed turnips, which were studiously chosen of the yellow, sweet, juicy sort for which Scotland is celebrated.
Tomorrow: The inevitable banquet.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
A revolutionary dish.
Today, January 24th …
Lobster Thermidor is an extravagant, indulgent, classical dish, a dish that no-one makes at home anymore - the reasons for which will become obvious shortly, but have nothing to do with the level of culinary difficulty. A popular story which may be history or myth, says that the dish was invented on this very day in 1894 at the restaurant Maire in Boulevard Saint-Denis in Paris, in honour of the first night of the play “Thermidor”, by Victorien Sardou. Its subject was the French Revolution, which was still a politically sensitive issue 100 years later, and the play was banned after only three performances.
There are other stories of course, but whatever the route, the dish is ultimately named after the month of that name in the short-lived French Revolutionary calendar, one of the warm summer months (now July 19 to August 17). The play’s name was a reference to the political machinations called the “Thermidorean reaction” which occurred on 9 Thermidor 1794, and led to the end of the Reign of Terror and the execution by guillotine of Robespierre the following day.
The lobster must think this explanation is particularly apt, in view of its own last moments and method of execution.
Lobster thermidor.
Split a live lobster in two, lengthwise. Crack the shell of the claws and pick out the meat. Season both halves of the lobster with salt. Pour oil over them and roast them in the oven for 15 to 20 minutes.
Dice the lobster flesh coarsely. Make a stock of white wine, fish fumet [stock] and meat gravy, flavoured with chervil, tarragon, and chopped shallots. Boil it down to a concentrated consistency. Add to this concentrated stock a little very thick Bechamel sauce and some English mustard.
Boil this sauce for a few seconds, then whisk in fresh butter (one third of the volume of the sauce).
Line the two halves of the carcases with a little of this sauce. Fill them with the flesh of the lobster, cover with the remainder of the sauce, sprinkle with grated Parmesan and melted butter and brown quickly in the oven. (Larousse Gastronomique).
If this method of lobster execution makes you squeamish, please do use the standard method of death by immersion in boiling water – in which case a name change to “Lobster Plûvoise” would be doubly apt, since January 24th fell in the wet month of that name.
Tomorrow: And so the Lord be thankit.
Lobster Thermidor is an extravagant, indulgent, classical dish, a dish that no-one makes at home anymore - the reasons for which will become obvious shortly, but have nothing to do with the level of culinary difficulty. A popular story which may be history or myth, says that the dish was invented on this very day in 1894 at the restaurant Maire in Boulevard Saint-Denis in Paris, in honour of the first night of the play “Thermidor”, by Victorien Sardou. Its subject was the French Revolution, which was still a politically sensitive issue 100 years later, and the play was banned after only three performances.
There are other stories of course, but whatever the route, the dish is ultimately named after the month of that name in the short-lived French Revolutionary calendar, one of the warm summer months (now July 19 to August 17). The play’s name was a reference to the political machinations called the “Thermidorean reaction” which occurred on 9 Thermidor 1794, and led to the end of the Reign of Terror and the execution by guillotine of Robespierre the following day.
The lobster must think this explanation is particularly apt, in view of its own last moments and method of execution.
Lobster thermidor.
Split a live lobster in two, lengthwise. Crack the shell of the claws and pick out the meat. Season both halves of the lobster with salt. Pour oil over them and roast them in the oven for 15 to 20 minutes.
Dice the lobster flesh coarsely. Make a stock of white wine, fish fumet [stock] and meat gravy, flavoured with chervil, tarragon, and chopped shallots. Boil it down to a concentrated consistency. Add to this concentrated stock a little very thick Bechamel sauce and some English mustard.
Boil this sauce for a few seconds, then whisk in fresh butter (one third of the volume of the sauce).
Line the two halves of the carcases with a little of this sauce. Fill them with the flesh of the lobster, cover with the remainder of the sauce, sprinkle with grated Parmesan and melted butter and brown quickly in the oven. (Larousse Gastronomique).
If this method of lobster execution makes you squeamish, please do use the standard method of death by immersion in boiling water – in which case a name change to “Lobster Plûvoise” would be doubly apt, since January 24th fell in the wet month of that name.
Tomorrow: And so the Lord be thankit.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Misunderstood, misused and misliked?
Today, January 23rd …
On this day in 1889, an undergraduate at Christ Church, Oxford, wrote a letter of complaint to the Steward:
“I wish to mention that I have twice been sent Rhubarb tart when I have ordered apple, as I have a particular objection to Rhubarb tart I hope it may not occur again. I also wish to mention that the food in Hall is not what it should be.”
Poor rhubarb! If ever there was a food that should suffer low self esteem and an identity crisis, it is rhubarb. It is a plant that has been misunderstood and misused all of its life. For starters, it is a vegetable that we have used as a fruit since we stopped using it as a medicine - and a purgative medicine at that.
Its very name means “food of the barbarians” (the people who live beyond the Rha, now the river Volga), and to add insult to insult, the name has since been hijacked by the theatre industry as a background nonsense word. Its riches to rags life history hasn’t helped either: once a desirable medicine worth more than opium and saffron it is now easily grown in anyone’s back yard. The dried root was used medicinally, and now we cook the fleshy stems, but early consumers mistakenly ate the leaves which was unfortunate as they contain oxalic acid which is poisonous. Although it would take 5 kg of leaves to kill, the confusion did nothing for rhubarb’s reputation.
It must have been a brave cook who first offered rhubarb in a pie, even allowing for new hybrids and cheaper sugar, considering its medicinal use as a purgative. Instead of pie, I offer you this rhubarb dessert, while sincerely hoping that our poor veggiefruit does not take further offense at the name.
Rhubarb Fool.
Wash, and if necessary, peel the rhubarb, and cut it up into small pieces. Put as much as is to be used into a jar which has a close-fitting lid, with as much sugar as will sweeten it. Set this jar in a saucepan of boiling water, and keep it boiling until the fruit is quite soft. Rub it through a sieve with the back of a wooden spoon, and mix with the pulp as much cream, milk, or thin cold custard as will make it of the consistency of gruel. Serve cold in a glass dish (1870).
Tomorrow: A revolutionary dish.
On this day in 1889, an undergraduate at Christ Church, Oxford, wrote a letter of complaint to the Steward:
“I wish to mention that I have twice been sent Rhubarb tart when I have ordered apple, as I have a particular objection to Rhubarb tart I hope it may not occur again. I also wish to mention that the food in Hall is not what it should be.”
Poor rhubarb! If ever there was a food that should suffer low self esteem and an identity crisis, it is rhubarb. It is a plant that has been misunderstood and misused all of its life. For starters, it is a vegetable that we have used as a fruit since we stopped using it as a medicine - and a purgative medicine at that.
Its very name means “food of the barbarians” (the people who live beyond the Rha, now the river Volga), and to add insult to insult, the name has since been hijacked by the theatre industry as a background nonsense word. Its riches to rags life history hasn’t helped either: once a desirable medicine worth more than opium and saffron it is now easily grown in anyone’s back yard. The dried root was used medicinally, and now we cook the fleshy stems, but early consumers mistakenly ate the leaves which was unfortunate as they contain oxalic acid which is poisonous. Although it would take 5 kg of leaves to kill, the confusion did nothing for rhubarb’s reputation.
It must have been a brave cook who first offered rhubarb in a pie, even allowing for new hybrids and cheaper sugar, considering its medicinal use as a purgative. Instead of pie, I offer you this rhubarb dessert, while sincerely hoping that our poor veggiefruit does not take further offense at the name.
Rhubarb Fool.
Wash, and if necessary, peel the rhubarb, and cut it up into small pieces. Put as much as is to be used into a jar which has a close-fitting lid, with as much sugar as will sweeten it. Set this jar in a saucepan of boiling water, and keep it boiling until the fruit is quite soft. Rub it through a sieve with the back of a wooden spoon, and mix with the pulp as much cream, milk, or thin cold custard as will make it of the consistency of gruel. Serve cold in a glass dish (1870).
Tomorrow: A revolutionary dish.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Clubs, cabbages, and cannonballs.
Today, January 20th …
“The Athenaeum” was a popular weekly literary magazine, founded in England in 1822 and popular for a century before being merged into oblivion with several other publications. There was an interesting snippet in the edition of this date in 1875, which referred to an event of food significance a century before:
“About 1774 Isaac Sparks, the Irish comedian, founded in Long Acre a Colcannon Club.”
Colcannon itself is somewhat of an Irish national dish, and although it is infinitely variable, in its basic form as it was defined in a dictionary of Isaac’s day it is “An Irish dish of mashed potatoes and cabbage, seasoned with butter”.
The name is another mystery. Most say it is based on the unpronounceable Gaelic words for “white cabbage” and/or onion (suggesting that onion is essential). If it isn’t Celtic, it is Teutonic, for the variations of cole, kale, khol etc are all cabbagey words, which is why cabbage salad is called coleslaw (although many older American cookbooks insist on calling it “coldslaw”, presumably because it is not hot, and proving yet again the division of the two cultures by a common language).
The best explanation, mooted by the OED no less is:
“ … it is said that vegetables such as spinach were formerly pounded with a cannon-ball”
Which may only prove that the editors of the OED have never pureed spinach, or they are not totally without humour.
When all is said and done, colcannon is really the Irish version of “bubble and squeak”, for which the eccentric Dr William Kitchiner in his book “The Cook’s Oracle” (1817) suggested his own famous “Wow Wow Sauce” as an accompaniment.
Wow Wow Sauce:
Chop some parsley leaves very fine; quarter two or three pickled cucumbers, or walnuts, and divide them into small squares, and set them by ready; put into a saucepan a bit of butter as big as an egg; when it is melted, stir to it a tablespoonful of fine flour, and about half a pint of the broth in which the beef was boiled; add a table-spoonful of vinegar, the like quantity of mushroom ketchup, or Port wine, or both, and a tea-spoonful of made mustard; let it simmer together till it is thick as you wish it; put in the parsley and pickles to get warm, and pour it over the beef; or rather send it up in a sauce-tureen.
On Monday: Misunderstood, misused and misliked?
“The Athenaeum” was a popular weekly literary magazine, founded in England in 1822 and popular for a century before being merged into oblivion with several other publications. There was an interesting snippet in the edition of this date in 1875, which referred to an event of food significance a century before:
“About 1774 Isaac Sparks, the Irish comedian, founded in Long Acre a Colcannon Club.”
Colcannon itself is somewhat of an Irish national dish, and although it is infinitely variable, in its basic form as it was defined in a dictionary of Isaac’s day it is “An Irish dish of mashed potatoes and cabbage, seasoned with butter”.
The name is another mystery. Most say it is based on the unpronounceable Gaelic words for “white cabbage” and/or onion (suggesting that onion is essential). If it isn’t Celtic, it is Teutonic, for the variations of cole, kale, khol etc are all cabbagey words, which is why cabbage salad is called coleslaw (although many older American cookbooks insist on calling it “coldslaw”, presumably because it is not hot, and proving yet again the division of the two cultures by a common language).
The best explanation, mooted by the OED no less is:
“ … it is said that vegetables such as spinach were formerly pounded with a cannon-ball”
Which may only prove that the editors of the OED have never pureed spinach, or they are not totally without humour.
When all is said and done, colcannon is really the Irish version of “bubble and squeak”, for which the eccentric Dr William Kitchiner in his book “The Cook’s Oracle” (1817) suggested his own famous “Wow Wow Sauce” as an accompaniment.
Wow Wow Sauce:
Chop some parsley leaves very fine; quarter two or three pickled cucumbers, or walnuts, and divide them into small squares, and set them by ready; put into a saucepan a bit of butter as big as an egg; when it is melted, stir to it a tablespoonful of fine flour, and about half a pint of the broth in which the beef was boiled; add a table-spoonful of vinegar, the like quantity of mushroom ketchup, or Port wine, or both, and a tea-spoonful of made mustard; let it simmer together till it is thick as you wish it; put in the parsley and pickles to get warm, and pour it over the beef; or rather send it up in a sauce-tureen.
On Monday: Misunderstood, misused and misliked?
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Hanging around on the tree.
Today, January 19th …
Since the ratification of the twentieth amendment in 1933 the traditional day for the inauguration of the President of the USA has been January 20th, and the obligatory dinners and lunches are usually on that day. In 1945 however, for reasons known only to the planners of such events, the Inaugural dinner for Franklin D. Roosevelt, was held (at the usual venue of the Mayflower hotel, a few blocks from the White House) on the 19th.
Since the ratification of the twentieth amendment in 1933 the traditional day for the inauguration of the President of the USA has been January 20th, and the obligatory dinners and lunches are usually on that day. In 1945 however, for reasons known only to the planners of such events, the Inaugural dinner for Franklin D. Roosevelt, was held (at the usual venue of the Mayflower hotel, a few blocks from the White House) on the 19th.
The menu was:
Terrapin Soup with Sherry en Tasse
Fried Puff Pastry
Celery Olives Nuts
Filet of Sole, Belle Meuniere
Breast of Capon on Smithfield Ham, Southern Style
alternate
Baked Half Lobster Thermidor
New Stringless Beans Sweet Potato with Apples, Winchester
Salade Rose Marie
(Hearts of Romaine with Alligator Pear and Grapefruit, Lorenzo Dressing)
Cheese Wafers
Coupe Tortoni with Chocolate Mousse
Moka Cream Cake
Demi Tasse
What I find interesting is that the salad dish, unlike the other items, was described in detail, suggesting that it was a creation of the chef. I wonder, who was “Rose Marie”? The other interesting thing is the “alligator pear”. The chef meant of course, the avocado.
The avocado has had many names. Some describe its texture and use : midshipman’s butter, butter-pear and butter-fruit, for example. The “pear” part is also obvious, but why “alligator”? It is supposedly a very tortured derivative, like the word “avocado” itself, of its original Aztec name “ahuactl”, which makes sense as the fruit originated in South America and has been cultivated there for over 7000 years.
And, most deliciously – this is my favourite food name explanation in the world - the Aztec name means “testicle” and so it is the “testicle fruit”! This makes the best sense of all, as the fruit hangs in pairs on the “testicle tree” - one slightly lower than the other of course. Check it out.
“Sauce Lorenzo” is supposedly named after the waiter at the famous “21 Club” in New York who invented it. It is a variation on the vinaigrette theme, the essential ingredients being chilli sauce and chopped watercress. This is the “genuine” recipe:
Lorenzo Dressing 2 tablespoons red-wine vinegar1/2 teaspoon dry mustard dissolved in 1 tablespoon water 1/4 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1/3 cup olive oil2 tablespoons bottled chili sauce2 tablespoons finely chopped watercress leaves2 tablespoons chopped cooked bacon
The avocado has had many names. Some describe its texture and use : midshipman’s butter, butter-pear and butter-fruit, for example. The “pear” part is also obvious, but why “alligator”? It is supposedly a very tortured derivative, like the word “avocado” itself, of its original Aztec name “ahuactl”, which makes sense as the fruit originated in South America and has been cultivated there for over 7000 years.
And, most deliciously – this is my favourite food name explanation in the world - the Aztec name means “testicle” and so it is the “testicle fruit”! This makes the best sense of all, as the fruit hangs in pairs on the “testicle tree” - one slightly lower than the other of course. Check it out.
“Sauce Lorenzo” is supposedly named after the waiter at the famous “21 Club” in New York who invented it. It is a variation on the vinaigrette theme, the essential ingredients being chilli sauce and chopped watercress. This is the “genuine” recipe:
Lorenzo Dressing 2 tablespoons red-wine vinegar1/2 teaspoon dry mustard dissolved in 1 tablespoon water 1/4 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1/3 cup olive oil2 tablespoons bottled chili sauce2 tablespoons finely chopped watercress leaves2 tablespoons chopped cooked bacon
Tomorrow: Clubs, cabbages, and cannonballs
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
The tin that takes the biscuit.
Today, January 18th …
Today was the birthday in 1818 of George Palmer of Huntley and Palmer’s Biscuits, one of the Victorian era’s most successful and innovative entrepreneurs.
The demand for commercially made biscuits soared in the nineteenth century partly because of the increase in travel, but biscuits are fragile, and broken biscuits are not so attractive, even if breakage does allow the calories to leak out. One of the innovations introduced by Palmer was the biscuit tin, enabling unbroken biscuits to be sent all over the world, his business to boom, and generations of biscuit-tin collectors to be born.
Several sizes of tins were made: ten pound tins fashioned individually from sheets of tinplate, seven pound glass-lidded tins for grocery shops, and small household-size, elaborately decorated tins which soon became collectors items. It is not a hobby to be scoffed at. Christie’s auction house has had sales dedicated to tins made by this single manufacturer, and a “Grandfather Clock” tin made in 1929 sold a few years ago for about $6000 AUD.
The biscuit tins were also the subject of a recent and spectacular example of industrial sabotage by a disgruntled employee. A few years ago, this biscuit-tin artist made some non-standard variations to his lids: he painted two tiny couples in flagrante delico – one human couple and one canine couple – almost hidden in the bushes around the happy garden party scene. Eight thousand went to market before being spotted by a sharp-eyed grocer who reported the pattern variation and caused the tins to be withdrawn. Keep an eye out at the flea markets, because one of them sold in 2004 for almost $1000 AUD!
In appreciation of the entwined couples, I give you a recipe for a favourite old biscuit – jumbals, or jumbles. The word comes from “gemmel” meaning twin, and usually refers to a double intertwined finger-ring. Jumbals were originally pretzel-like biscuits, the pieces of dough knotted or twisted together “into what fashion you please”, as in this recipe from Nott’s Cook’s and Confectioner’s dictionary (1724):
To make Jumbals plain.
Take three pounds of fine Flour, a Pound and half of fresh Butter; rub into the Flour with a Pound and a half of Sugar; put in six Eggs, leaving out three Whites, and six Spoonfuls of Rose-water; make it into a Paste, and make it into what fashion you please, and bake them on Papers or Plates.
Tomorrow: Hanging around on the tree
Today was the birthday in 1818 of George Palmer of Huntley and Palmer’s Biscuits, one of the Victorian era’s most successful and innovative entrepreneurs.
The demand for commercially made biscuits soared in the nineteenth century partly because of the increase in travel, but biscuits are fragile, and broken biscuits are not so attractive, even if breakage does allow the calories to leak out. One of the innovations introduced by Palmer was the biscuit tin, enabling unbroken biscuits to be sent all over the world, his business to boom, and generations of biscuit-tin collectors to be born.
Several sizes of tins were made: ten pound tins fashioned individually from sheets of tinplate, seven pound glass-lidded tins for grocery shops, and small household-size, elaborately decorated tins which soon became collectors items. It is not a hobby to be scoffed at. Christie’s auction house has had sales dedicated to tins made by this single manufacturer, and a “Grandfather Clock” tin made in 1929 sold a few years ago for about $6000 AUD.
The biscuit tins were also the subject of a recent and spectacular example of industrial sabotage by a disgruntled employee. A few years ago, this biscuit-tin artist made some non-standard variations to his lids: he painted two tiny couples in flagrante delico – one human couple and one canine couple – almost hidden in the bushes around the happy garden party scene. Eight thousand went to market before being spotted by a sharp-eyed grocer who reported the pattern variation and caused the tins to be withdrawn. Keep an eye out at the flea markets, because one of them sold in 2004 for almost $1000 AUD!
In appreciation of the entwined couples, I give you a recipe for a favourite old biscuit – jumbals, or jumbles. The word comes from “gemmel” meaning twin, and usually refers to a double intertwined finger-ring. Jumbals were originally pretzel-like biscuits, the pieces of dough knotted or twisted together “into what fashion you please”, as in this recipe from Nott’s Cook’s and Confectioner’s dictionary (1724):
To make Jumbals plain.
Take three pounds of fine Flour, a Pound and half of fresh Butter; rub into the Flour with a Pound and a half of Sugar; put in six Eggs, leaving out three Whites, and six Spoonfuls of Rose-water; make it into a Paste, and make it into what fashion you please, and bake them on Papers or Plates.
Tomorrow: Hanging around on the tree
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Comical food for health.
Today, January 17th …
On this day in 1929, the character “Popeye” first appeared in Elzie Seagar’s comic strip “The Thimble Theatre”. The temporary character was so popular that he became the lead player in his own saga, and the rest, as they say in the industry - is spinach history.
From 1931 to 1936 there was a 33% increase in spinach consumption in the USA, and spinach growers gave the entire credit to the little man who was “strong to the finish ‘cos I eats my spinich”. So grateful were they in “the spinach capital of the world” that they honoured Popeye and his creator with a statue. That’s Crystal City, Texas, in case you want to pay homage.
Other cartoon characters have had an impact on the food industry, but none with such impressive economic benefits. Dagwood Bumstead, the supreme and sneaky raider of the refrigerator, has given his name to a multi-layered sandwich; Popeye’s buddy Wimpy, the hamburger lover, gave his to a whole hamburger chain. The nouveau-riche Irish immigrant Jiggs, in “Bringing up Father” escaped the extravagant social functions of his social-climbing wife Maggie to eat his personal comfort food of corned beef and cabbage. In Newfoundland, where this dish is a specialty, it is referred to as a “Jiggs Dinner”.
Nutrition watchdogs are currently calling for a crackdown on the use of children’s cartoon characters to market food products, which seems strange in the light of this culinary comic history. The sad truth is that nowadays there is only merchandising profit in marketing brand names, and it is unlikely that a generic avocado grower could afford to purchase the “Shrek” brand, no matter how close his colour match to their product.
Popeye popped his spinach straight from the magically appearing can, but this recipe from an elegant little English book, “The Gentle Art of Cookery” published in 1925 seems appropriate for a well-travelled sailor man.
An Italian Way of Cooking Spinach.
Spinach, sultanas, raisins, anchovy butter, fried bread.
Cook 2 lbs. of spinach, drain it, chop it very fine, and put it into a casserole with a teaspoonful of anchovy butter, and three ounces of mixed sultanas and seeded raisins. Make it very hot, and serve with fried croutons of bread.
Now what the world needs is a loveable character to promote organic low cholesterol low sugar high fibre anti-oxidant rich low allergy low GI genetically unmodified food.
Tomorrow: The tin that takes the biscuit.
On this day in 1929, the character “Popeye” first appeared in Elzie Seagar’s comic strip “The Thimble Theatre”. The temporary character was so popular that he became the lead player in his own saga, and the rest, as they say in the industry - is spinach history.
From 1931 to 1936 there was a 33% increase in spinach consumption in the USA, and spinach growers gave the entire credit to the little man who was “strong to the finish ‘cos I eats my spinich”. So grateful were they in “the spinach capital of the world” that they honoured Popeye and his creator with a statue. That’s Crystal City, Texas, in case you want to pay homage.
Other cartoon characters have had an impact on the food industry, but none with such impressive economic benefits. Dagwood Bumstead, the supreme and sneaky raider of the refrigerator, has given his name to a multi-layered sandwich; Popeye’s buddy Wimpy, the hamburger lover, gave his to a whole hamburger chain. The nouveau-riche Irish immigrant Jiggs, in “Bringing up Father” escaped the extravagant social functions of his social-climbing wife Maggie to eat his personal comfort food of corned beef and cabbage. In Newfoundland, where this dish is a specialty, it is referred to as a “Jiggs Dinner”.
Nutrition watchdogs are currently calling for a crackdown on the use of children’s cartoon characters to market food products, which seems strange in the light of this culinary comic history. The sad truth is that nowadays there is only merchandising profit in marketing brand names, and it is unlikely that a generic avocado grower could afford to purchase the “Shrek” brand, no matter how close his colour match to their product.
Popeye popped his spinach straight from the magically appearing can, but this recipe from an elegant little English book, “The Gentle Art of Cookery” published in 1925 seems appropriate for a well-travelled sailor man.
An Italian Way of Cooking Spinach.
Spinach, sultanas, raisins, anchovy butter, fried bread.
Cook 2 lbs. of spinach, drain it, chop it very fine, and put it into a casserole with a teaspoonful of anchovy butter, and three ounces of mixed sultanas and seeded raisins. Make it very hot, and serve with fried croutons of bread.
Now what the world needs is a loveable character to promote organic low cholesterol low sugar high fibre anti-oxidant rich low allergy low GI genetically unmodified food.
Tomorrow: The tin that takes the biscuit.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Peace and Plenty.
Today, January 16th …
This day in ancient Rome was the festival of Concordia. Concordia (‘Harmonia’ in Greek mythology) was the goddess of agreement or “concord” (meaning “with one heart”), and seems to be particularly associated with marital harmony.
It was a day of offerings, not feasting, which is a pity if you agree with Samuel Pepys that it is “strange to see how a good dinner and feasting reconciles everybody”. Perhaps your experience agrees more closely with that of the wonderful writer M.F.K. Fisher: "the cold truth is that family dinners are more often than not an ordeal of nervous indigestion, preceded by hidden resentment and ennui and accompanied by psychosomatic jitters"?
If Isabella Beeton is correct, and “there is no more fruitful source of family discontent than badly cooked dinners and untidy ways”, perhaps today we should make a special effort.
In the absence of a traditional food, we must make up our own menu. As an aperitif, let’s start with a modern cocktail:
Harmony
Take a martini glass, and build and stir:
36 ml vodka, 12 ml blue Curacao liqueur, 12 ml dry vermouth.
Decorate with a maraschino cherry.
From Victorian cookbooks, the savoury course: first, make some dumplings, and serve with:
Matrimony Sauce.
Put a bit of butter into cold water in a saucepan; dust in a little flour, stirring one way until they are completely mixed; then add some brown sugar and a table-spoonful or so of Vinegar. Continue stirring until the sauce boils; pour it into a basin and serve.
A marital metaphor in a sauce recipe, don’t you think?
Then the dessert, less obviously named:
Matrimony Pudding.
Pare and core one pound and a half of apples, and boil with three-quarters of a pound of loaf sugar, the grated rind and strained juice of a lemon, and the sixth part of a nutmeg, grated; stir till they become a rich marmalade; then let it go cold. Make a custard as follows: moisten a tablespoon of Oswego [cornflour] with half a gill of new milk; boil a quarter of a pound of loaf sugar in half a pint of milk, and stir into the Oswego while boiling; add four well-beaten eggs and half a gill of thick cream. Butter a pie-dish, lay in the custard and marmalade in alternate layers until the dish is full; bake in a quick oven for twenty-five minutes. Serve, hot or cold.
Tomorrow: Comical food for health.
This day in ancient Rome was the festival of Concordia. Concordia (‘Harmonia’ in Greek mythology) was the goddess of agreement or “concord” (meaning “with one heart”), and seems to be particularly associated with marital harmony.
It was a day of offerings, not feasting, which is a pity if you agree with Samuel Pepys that it is “strange to see how a good dinner and feasting reconciles everybody”. Perhaps your experience agrees more closely with that of the wonderful writer M.F.K. Fisher: "the cold truth is that family dinners are more often than not an ordeal of nervous indigestion, preceded by hidden resentment and ennui and accompanied by psychosomatic jitters"?
If Isabella Beeton is correct, and “there is no more fruitful source of family discontent than badly cooked dinners and untidy ways”, perhaps today we should make a special effort.
In the absence of a traditional food, we must make up our own menu. As an aperitif, let’s start with a modern cocktail:
Harmony
Take a martini glass, and build and stir:
36 ml vodka, 12 ml blue Curacao liqueur, 12 ml dry vermouth.
Decorate with a maraschino cherry.
From Victorian cookbooks, the savoury course: first, make some dumplings, and serve with:
Matrimony Sauce.
Put a bit of butter into cold water in a saucepan; dust in a little flour, stirring one way until they are completely mixed; then add some brown sugar and a table-spoonful or so of Vinegar. Continue stirring until the sauce boils; pour it into a basin and serve.
A marital metaphor in a sauce recipe, don’t you think?
Then the dessert, less obviously named:
Matrimony Pudding.
Pare and core one pound and a half of apples, and boil with three-quarters of a pound of loaf sugar, the grated rind and strained juice of a lemon, and the sixth part of a nutmeg, grated; stir till they become a rich marmalade; then let it go cold. Make a custard as follows: moisten a tablespoon of Oswego [cornflour] with half a gill of new milk; boil a quarter of a pound of loaf sugar in half a pint of milk, and stir into the Oswego while boiling; add four well-beaten eggs and half a gill of thick cream. Butter a pie-dish, lay in the custard and marmalade in alternate layers until the dish is full; bake in a quick oven for twenty-five minutes. Serve, hot or cold.
Tomorrow: Comical food for health.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Wine for health.
Today, January 13 …
Samuel Pepys spared no expense on a “noble” dinner for friends on this day in 1663. His guests arrived around midday, and stayed on till supper, when they had “a good sack-posset and cold meat” before leaving around 10 o’clock at night.
A “posset” was a hot, sweet drink made by heating alcohol in a bowl, then pouring hot cream or milk in from a great height. It was a popular supper dish, a comfort food or treat, considered to have a restorative or medicinal benefit. It was often made with “sack” (sherry), which was also sometime called “Canary”, as the best came from those islands.
In Pepys’ day every good housewife, though she employed a cook to prepare daily meals, was expected to take responsibility herself for making preserves and simple household remedies, and books of “receipts” for these were enormously popular. One written by a contemporary of Pepys, Sir Kenelm Digby, and published posthumously in 1669 is the earliest collection of fermented drink recipes that we know. He was a colourful character – amateur scientist, linguist, privateer, diplomat, and according to some a “great mountebank”. When his beloved wife Venetia died suddenly it was widely believed that he had accidentally poisoned her with the viper wine that he gave her to preserve her beauty. There is no recipe for viper wine amongst the possets, meads, hydromels and metheglins of Digby’s book, as this was more properly in the domain of the alchemists such as John French. He published his book “The Art of Distillation” in 1651.
Posset recipes being easily available, I give you French’s instructions for viper wine. Conveniently, sherry is the basis for both.
Viper Wine is Made Thus
Take of the best fat vipers, cut off their heads, take off their skins, and unbowel them. Then put them into the best canary sack, four or six according to their bigness into a gallon. Let them stand two or three months. Then draw off your wine as you drink it.Some put them alive into the wine, and there suffocate them, and afterwards take them out, and cut off their heads, take off their skins, and unbowel them, and then put them into the same wine again, and do as before.This wine has the same virtues as the foregoing quintessence. It also provokes to venery, cures the leprosy and such like corruptions of the blood.
On Monday: Peace and Plenty.
Samuel Pepys spared no expense on a “noble” dinner for friends on this day in 1663. His guests arrived around midday, and stayed on till supper, when they had “a good sack-posset and cold meat” before leaving around 10 o’clock at night.
A “posset” was a hot, sweet drink made by heating alcohol in a bowl, then pouring hot cream or milk in from a great height. It was a popular supper dish, a comfort food or treat, considered to have a restorative or medicinal benefit. It was often made with “sack” (sherry), which was also sometime called “Canary”, as the best came from those islands.
In Pepys’ day every good housewife, though she employed a cook to prepare daily meals, was expected to take responsibility herself for making preserves and simple household remedies, and books of “receipts” for these were enormously popular. One written by a contemporary of Pepys, Sir Kenelm Digby, and published posthumously in 1669 is the earliest collection of fermented drink recipes that we know. He was a colourful character – amateur scientist, linguist, privateer, diplomat, and according to some a “great mountebank”. When his beloved wife Venetia died suddenly it was widely believed that he had accidentally poisoned her with the viper wine that he gave her to preserve her beauty. There is no recipe for viper wine amongst the possets, meads, hydromels and metheglins of Digby’s book, as this was more properly in the domain of the alchemists such as John French. He published his book “The Art of Distillation” in 1651.
Posset recipes being easily available, I give you French’s instructions for viper wine. Conveniently, sherry is the basis for both.
Viper Wine is Made Thus
Take of the best fat vipers, cut off their heads, take off their skins, and unbowel them. Then put them into the best canary sack, four or six according to their bigness into a gallon. Let them stand two or three months. Then draw off your wine as you drink it.Some put them alive into the wine, and there suffocate them, and afterwards take them out, and cut off their heads, take off their skins, and unbowel them, and then put them into the same wine again, and do as before.This wine has the same virtues as the foregoing quintessence. It also provokes to venery, cures the leprosy and such like corruptions of the blood.
On Monday: Peace and Plenty.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Food for perfect felicity.
Today, January 12th …
In 1763, James Boswell, the biographer of Samuel Johnson, had been successful “in search of a woman worthy of my love”, and by this day “Louisa” had at last agreed “to bestow perfect felicity upon me”. No decent lodging place would rent rooms to unmarried folk, so they planned a subterfuge.
“We contrived to seem as if we had come off a journey, and carried in a bundle our night-clothes, handkerchiefs, and other little things. We also had with us some almond biscuits, or as they call them in London, macaroons, which looked like provisions on the road.”
He ordered “ a bowl of negus, very rich of the fruit, which I caused be set in the room as a reviving cordial”. Louisa allowed him “full possession of my warmest wishes” five times (he was proud of his “godlike vigour”) – and “At last I sunk to rest in her arms and she in mine. I found the negus, which had a fine flavour, very refreshing to me.”
Conquest achieved, by the 16th “the warm enthusiasm of love was over”, and by the 18th he had suspicious symptoms. It seems that a glass of negus can restore vigour, but not prevent “that distemper with which Venus, when cross, takes it into her head to plague her votaries”.
In case you need to bribe your way to perfect felicity, I give you a recipe for macaroons:
Macaroons
To one pound of blanched and beaten sweet almonds put one pound of sugar, and a little rosewater to keep them from oiling. Then beat the whites of seven eggs to a froth, put them in and beat them well together. Drop them on wafer paper, grate sugar over them and bake them. (1769)
Assuming you are (safely) successful, here is a nineteenth century recipe for negus, to serve hot or cold.
Negus: This popular beverage derives its name from its originator, Colonel Negus. The ingredients of which it is composed are either port or sherry and hot water, the quantity of the water being double that of the wine. Sweeten with lump sugar, and flavour with a little lemon juice, and grated nutmeg, and a morsel only of the yellow rind of the lemon. It is an improvement to add one drop of essence of ambergris, or eight or ten drops of essence of vanilla to every twelve glasses or so of negus.
Tomorrow: Wine for health.
In 1763, James Boswell, the biographer of Samuel Johnson, had been successful “in search of a woman worthy of my love”, and by this day “Louisa” had at last agreed “to bestow perfect felicity upon me”. No decent lodging place would rent rooms to unmarried folk, so they planned a subterfuge.
“We contrived to seem as if we had come off a journey, and carried in a bundle our night-clothes, handkerchiefs, and other little things. We also had with us some almond biscuits, or as they call them in London, macaroons, which looked like provisions on the road.”
He ordered “ a bowl of negus, very rich of the fruit, which I caused be set in the room as a reviving cordial”. Louisa allowed him “full possession of my warmest wishes” five times (he was proud of his “godlike vigour”) – and “At last I sunk to rest in her arms and she in mine. I found the negus, which had a fine flavour, very refreshing to me.”
Conquest achieved, by the 16th “the warm enthusiasm of love was over”, and by the 18th he had suspicious symptoms. It seems that a glass of negus can restore vigour, but not prevent “that distemper with which Venus, when cross, takes it into her head to plague her votaries”.
In case you need to bribe your way to perfect felicity, I give you a recipe for macaroons:
Macaroons
To one pound of blanched and beaten sweet almonds put one pound of sugar, and a little rosewater to keep them from oiling. Then beat the whites of seven eggs to a froth, put them in and beat them well together. Drop them on wafer paper, grate sugar over them and bake them. (1769)
Assuming you are (safely) successful, here is a nineteenth century recipe for negus, to serve hot or cold.
Negus: This popular beverage derives its name from its originator, Colonel Negus. The ingredients of which it is composed are either port or sherry and hot water, the quantity of the water being double that of the wine. Sweeten with lump sugar, and flavour with a little lemon juice, and grated nutmeg, and a morsel only of the yellow rind of the lemon. It is an improvement to add one drop of essence of ambergris, or eight or ten drops of essence of vanilla to every twelve glasses or so of negus.
Tomorrow: Wine for health.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
A pearl of a recipe.
Today, January 11 …
David Livingstone, intrepid African explorer and missionary wrote in his journal in January 1854:
“On the 11th and 12th we were detained by incessant and violent rains. I had a little tapioca and a small quantity of Libonta meal, which I reserved for emergencies. The patience of my men under hunger was admirable. Present want is never so painful as the prospect of future starvation”
Tapioca is made from the tasteless starchy root of the cassava (or manioc) plant, after the poisonous prussic acid is removed by pounding and cooking. Cassava originated in South America and now thrives in Africa and elsewhere, although food historian Waverley Root has said “It is possible that it could be grown in Florida, but so far as I know, no-one has ever wanted to.”
In the form used most commonly in the West – pearl tapioca made into a glutinous milk pudding – many say that it is poisonous even without the prussic acid. Descriptions of the nursery and sick-room staple are replete with adjectives like “wholesome” and “nourishing”, with a noteable lack of words such as “delicious”, or even “pleasant”. Tapioca is, however, now trendy in the form of “bubble tea”, a drink popular in Asia consisting of sweet tea with or without other flavourings, and large “pearls” or “bubbles” which can be sucked up through the specially wide straw, thus providing both food and drink in a cup. Disgusting.
I give you the tapioca recipe which wins my disgusting prize, from an 1870s cookbook. Take note: the book warns you that tapioca “should be bought of a respectable dealer, as a spurious kind is sometimes offered for sale made of gum and potato flour”. Gum and potato flour being worse, presumably.
If you do happen to be a tapioca fan, you could follow this savoury dish with the milk pudding, accompany it with bubble tea for a complete tapioca meal, and follow it with psychiatric help.
Tapioca and Tomatoes.
Soak a tablespoonful of tapioca in water for a couple of hours, set it to boil, adding a little more water till quite done to the consistency of porridge. Add pepper, salt, and a little fresh butter. Cut two tomatoes in half, remove pips and watery substance, sprinkle with a little pepper and salt. Fill each half-tomato with with the tapioca, sprinkle the top with grated parmesan and baked bread crumbs, put them into the oven for twenty minutes, and serve.
Tomorrow: Food for perfect felicity.
David Livingstone, intrepid African explorer and missionary wrote in his journal in January 1854:
“On the 11th and 12th we were detained by incessant and violent rains. I had a little tapioca and a small quantity of Libonta meal, which I reserved for emergencies. The patience of my men under hunger was admirable. Present want is never so painful as the prospect of future starvation”
Tapioca is made from the tasteless starchy root of the cassava (or manioc) plant, after the poisonous prussic acid is removed by pounding and cooking. Cassava originated in South America and now thrives in Africa and elsewhere, although food historian Waverley Root has said “It is possible that it could be grown in Florida, but so far as I know, no-one has ever wanted to.”
In the form used most commonly in the West – pearl tapioca made into a glutinous milk pudding – many say that it is poisonous even without the prussic acid. Descriptions of the nursery and sick-room staple are replete with adjectives like “wholesome” and “nourishing”, with a noteable lack of words such as “delicious”, or even “pleasant”. Tapioca is, however, now trendy in the form of “bubble tea”, a drink popular in Asia consisting of sweet tea with or without other flavourings, and large “pearls” or “bubbles” which can be sucked up through the specially wide straw, thus providing both food and drink in a cup. Disgusting.
I give you the tapioca recipe which wins my disgusting prize, from an 1870s cookbook. Take note: the book warns you that tapioca “should be bought of a respectable dealer, as a spurious kind is sometimes offered for sale made of gum and potato flour”. Gum and potato flour being worse, presumably.
If you do happen to be a tapioca fan, you could follow this savoury dish with the milk pudding, accompany it with bubble tea for a complete tapioca meal, and follow it with psychiatric help.
Tapioca and Tomatoes.
Soak a tablespoonful of tapioca in water for a couple of hours, set it to boil, adding a little more water till quite done to the consistency of porridge. Add pepper, salt, and a little fresh butter. Cut two tomatoes in half, remove pips and watery substance, sprinkle with a little pepper and salt. Fill each half-tomato with with the tapioca, sprinkle the top with grated parmesan and baked bread crumbs, put them into the oven for twenty minutes, and serve.
Tomorrow: Food for perfect felicity.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Getting the sauce on vegetables.
Today, January 10th …
Officials of the “Nomenclature Sub-Committee” of the “Customs Code Committee” of the European Union met behind closed doors on this day in 2002 to solve a riddle. How lumpy does a sauce have to be before it is a vegetable?
Do not mock, gentle readers, for this was no mere theoretical debate, this was a decision of great financial significance to food importers to the EU, because import tax on sauce was 20%, but on vegetables was 288%. The existing definition was that 20% lumps meant vegetable, and European growers were concerned that if this was raised, veges would be able to sneak across international borders disguised as sauce. Sauce manufacturers wanted the barrier raised to 30%, citing increased manufacturing costs due to consumer demand for “increased textural interest”.
So – how is the lumpiness of a sauce determined? In strictly monitored tests, the sauce is poured through a metal sieve with apertures of five millimetres; the lumps in the sieve are then rinsed in warm water. If they remain lumpy, they are vegetables. I kid you not.
A really, really, smooth sauce is the pinnacle of saucery of course, and is easy nowadays with electric processors. The legendary French chef Carême (1774 – 1833), “The king of chefs and the chef of kings”, had muscular kitchen slaves to press raw chicken flesh through metal sieves and almond pulp through silk for his sauces and mousses. A good kitchen work-out, Non?
The French still consider themselves the masters of sauce-making. Someone, perhaps the gourmet diplomat Talleyrand said: “England has three sauces and 360 religions, and France has three religions and 360 sauces”. Carême, who cooked for Talleyrand, claimed that there were four classic sauces, from which all others were derived: Bechamel, Veloute, Allemande, and Espagnol. Sauce Espagnol is said to have been one of the important factors in getting the tomato accepted as a safe and desirable culinary item several centuries after its introduction from the New World.
Sauce Espagnol.
2 ounces butter, 1 ounce flour, 1 pint dark meat stock, bouquet garni, 1 ounce tomato puree.
Melt the butter, stir in the flour and cook gently on a low heat until well browned. Add the stock and stir till it thickens. Add the bouquet garni and simmer half an hour. By this time the sauce will have reduced. Remove the bouquet garni, add the tomato puree, and simmer another five minutes.
Tomorrow: A pearl of a recipe.
Officials of the “Nomenclature Sub-Committee” of the “Customs Code Committee” of the European Union met behind closed doors on this day in 2002 to solve a riddle. How lumpy does a sauce have to be before it is a vegetable?
Do not mock, gentle readers, for this was no mere theoretical debate, this was a decision of great financial significance to food importers to the EU, because import tax on sauce was 20%, but on vegetables was 288%. The existing definition was that 20% lumps meant vegetable, and European growers were concerned that if this was raised, veges would be able to sneak across international borders disguised as sauce. Sauce manufacturers wanted the barrier raised to 30%, citing increased manufacturing costs due to consumer demand for “increased textural interest”.
So – how is the lumpiness of a sauce determined? In strictly monitored tests, the sauce is poured through a metal sieve with apertures of five millimetres; the lumps in the sieve are then rinsed in warm water. If they remain lumpy, they are vegetables. I kid you not.
A really, really, smooth sauce is the pinnacle of saucery of course, and is easy nowadays with electric processors. The legendary French chef Carême (1774 – 1833), “The king of chefs and the chef of kings”, had muscular kitchen slaves to press raw chicken flesh through metal sieves and almond pulp through silk for his sauces and mousses. A good kitchen work-out, Non?
The French still consider themselves the masters of sauce-making. Someone, perhaps the gourmet diplomat Talleyrand said: “England has three sauces and 360 religions, and France has three religions and 360 sauces”. Carême, who cooked for Talleyrand, claimed that there were four classic sauces, from which all others were derived: Bechamel, Veloute, Allemande, and Espagnol. Sauce Espagnol is said to have been one of the important factors in getting the tomato accepted as a safe and desirable culinary item several centuries after its introduction from the New World.
Sauce Espagnol.
2 ounces butter, 1 ounce flour, 1 pint dark meat stock, bouquet garni, 1 ounce tomato puree.
Melt the butter, stir in the flour and cook gently on a low heat until well browned. Add the stock and stir till it thickens. Add the bouquet garni and simmer half an hour. By this time the sauce will have reduced. Remove the bouquet garni, add the tomato puree, and simmer another five minutes.
Tomorrow: A pearl of a recipe.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Funny fish bits.
Today, January 9th …
The London Times carried an article on this day in 1999 reporting the death of a fugutsu - an aficionado of the fugu or puffer fish, which is an expensive delicacy. There is a traditional Japanese saying: “those who eat fugu soup are stupid, but those who do not eat fugu soup are also stupid.”
In its natural habitat the puffer fish gives its potential predators a more than reasonable warning; it puffs itself up into an ugly spiky ball, becoming very unappetising looking to put off those who do not already know that this is puffer-fish-speak for “Danger! I contain a lethal tetradoxin which is similar to curare, and is 1200 times more dangerous than cyanide”. Each fish contains enough poison to kill 30 adults and it kills quickly, but probably not quickly enough for the unfortunate (or stupid) victim, by paralysing the respiratory muscles so that breathing stops while consciousness is maintained.
The training of a fugu chef is very rigorous: the internal organs of the fish, which contain most of the poison, must be carefully removed without any contamination of the flesh as an amount that will fit on the head of a pin will kill the customer. In the unfortunate event that this happens, the chef would once have been expected to fall on his sword – quite literally, by committing seppuku or ritual suicide by disembowelling.
If you want an exciting seafood dining experience, but aren’t quite prepared to play Japanese roulette, there are some scary sounding fish bits that no-one eats anymore.
From Eliza Acton’s “Modern Cookery for Private Families” (1845)
To boil Cod’s Sounds.
Should they be highly salted, soak them for a night, and on the following day rub off entirely the discoloured skin; wash them well, lay them into plenty of cold milk and water, and boil them gently from thirty to forty minutes, or longer should they not be quite tender. Clear off the scum as it rises with great care, or it will sink and adhere to the sounds, of which the appearance will then be spoiled. Drain them well, dish them on a napkin, and send egg sauce and plain melted butter to table with them.
A cod’s sound is the swim (or floatation) bladder of the fish. You can batter and deep fry the bits after the preliminary boiling, if you prefer.
I’ll risk Death by Chocolate, thanks.
Tomorrow: Getting the sauce on vegetables.
The London Times carried an article on this day in 1999 reporting the death of a fugutsu - an aficionado of the fugu or puffer fish, which is an expensive delicacy. There is a traditional Japanese saying: “those who eat fugu soup are stupid, but those who do not eat fugu soup are also stupid.”
In its natural habitat the puffer fish gives its potential predators a more than reasonable warning; it puffs itself up into an ugly spiky ball, becoming very unappetising looking to put off those who do not already know that this is puffer-fish-speak for “Danger! I contain a lethal tetradoxin which is similar to curare, and is 1200 times more dangerous than cyanide”. Each fish contains enough poison to kill 30 adults and it kills quickly, but probably not quickly enough for the unfortunate (or stupid) victim, by paralysing the respiratory muscles so that breathing stops while consciousness is maintained.
The training of a fugu chef is very rigorous: the internal organs of the fish, which contain most of the poison, must be carefully removed without any contamination of the flesh as an amount that will fit on the head of a pin will kill the customer. In the unfortunate event that this happens, the chef would once have been expected to fall on his sword – quite literally, by committing seppuku or ritual suicide by disembowelling.
If you want an exciting seafood dining experience, but aren’t quite prepared to play Japanese roulette, there are some scary sounding fish bits that no-one eats anymore.
From Eliza Acton’s “Modern Cookery for Private Families” (1845)
To boil Cod’s Sounds.
Should they be highly salted, soak them for a night, and on the following day rub off entirely the discoloured skin; wash them well, lay them into plenty of cold milk and water, and boil them gently from thirty to forty minutes, or longer should they not be quite tender. Clear off the scum as it rises with great care, or it will sink and adhere to the sounds, of which the appearance will then be spoiled. Drain them well, dish them on a napkin, and send egg sauce and plain melted butter to table with them.
A cod’s sound is the swim (or floatation) bladder of the fish. You can batter and deep fry the bits after the preliminary boiling, if you prefer.
I’ll risk Death by Chocolate, thanks.
Tomorrow: Getting the sauce on vegetables.
Friday, January 06, 2006
The art of tarts.
Today, January 6th …
Today is Twelfth Day, or Epiphany, or Three Kings Day, whichever you prefer. It is the end of the traditional Christmas season, celebrating the day when the three Wise Men paid their visit and gave their gifts to the infant Jesus, or the last party day before starting the real work of the year, whichever you prefer. It is the day to put the ham bone in the freezer ready for winter soup, take down the tree, and have some Twelfth Cake or King Cake.
Every country with a European heritage has its version of the Twelfth Cake. It may be a special sweet bread, or a fruit cake, or a flaky pastry confection, and the symbolic associations are at least as important as the gastronomic. One more slice than the number of guests should be cut, the extra slice being “for God”, and is to be given to the first poor person who comes to the house. For purely secular luck, a tradition which has its roots in ancient pagan fertility rites says that a small item – a bean, a coin, or a tiny doll – must be hidden inside the cake, and the finder is elected king or queen for the day. This was a dubious privilege, with the winner – depending on the particular local custom – being responsible for leading the fun (usually drinking), paying the bill, performing the rituals that rid the house of evil for the forthcoming year, or hosting the Candlemas celebrations on February 2nd.
The proud domestic pastry-makers of England had a variation of the homely jam tart which allowed them to show off their skills at church socials. It was the “Epiphany Tart”, and kudos was attached to the intricacy of the pastry lattice on top of the open tart, and the number of different coloured jams which it contained. A popular design was in the form of the Star of David, which in expert hands allowed for 13 different colours, and must have looked like an edible stained-glass window.
For your pastry, try this recipe, from Charles Francatelli, chef to Queen Victoria.
Tart Paste
Spread a pound of flour on the table with a hollow in the centre; add half a pound of butter, three ounces of sugar, one egg, half an ounce of salt, and a gill of water; mix and work the paste into a smooth compact body.
On Monday: Funny fish bits.
Today is Twelfth Day, or Epiphany, or Three Kings Day, whichever you prefer. It is the end of the traditional Christmas season, celebrating the day when the three Wise Men paid their visit and gave their gifts to the infant Jesus, or the last party day before starting the real work of the year, whichever you prefer. It is the day to put the ham bone in the freezer ready for winter soup, take down the tree, and have some Twelfth Cake or King Cake.
Every country with a European heritage has its version of the Twelfth Cake. It may be a special sweet bread, or a fruit cake, or a flaky pastry confection, and the symbolic associations are at least as important as the gastronomic. One more slice than the number of guests should be cut, the extra slice being “for God”, and is to be given to the first poor person who comes to the house. For purely secular luck, a tradition which has its roots in ancient pagan fertility rites says that a small item – a bean, a coin, or a tiny doll – must be hidden inside the cake, and the finder is elected king or queen for the day. This was a dubious privilege, with the winner – depending on the particular local custom – being responsible for leading the fun (usually drinking), paying the bill, performing the rituals that rid the house of evil for the forthcoming year, or hosting the Candlemas celebrations on February 2nd.
The proud domestic pastry-makers of England had a variation of the homely jam tart which allowed them to show off their skills at church socials. It was the “Epiphany Tart”, and kudos was attached to the intricacy of the pastry lattice on top of the open tart, and the number of different coloured jams which it contained. A popular design was in the form of the Star of David, which in expert hands allowed for 13 different colours, and must have looked like an edible stained-glass window.
For your pastry, try this recipe, from Charles Francatelli, chef to Queen Victoria.
Tart Paste
Spread a pound of flour on the table with a hollow in the centre; add half a pound of butter, three ounces of sugar, one egg, half an ounce of salt, and a gill of water; mix and work the paste into a smooth compact body.
On Monday: Funny fish bits.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
What’s in a name?
Today, January 5th …
The OED says that the word “hamburger” first appeared in print on this day in 1889 in the Walla Walla Union, a Washington newspaper. The quotation given is: ‘You are asked if you will have “porkchopbeefsteakhamandegghamburgersteakorliverandbacon”’. Careful reading shows that this is misleading, as it refers to hamburger steak, not hamburger(s). Anyway, this little researcher has found (purely by chance) a 1873 reference to “hamburger steak” in the New York Times of 1873, so the OED is WRONG!
The issue of the first written reference aside, the reality is that minced meat patties have been around for as long as there have been kitchen slaves to finely chop the less appetising cuts of meat. When and how did a lump of fried or grilled chopped up meat become a burger?
The first question is: Why Hamburger and not Berlinburger, or Parisburger for that matter? It seems that the idea of minced meat masquerading as steak came from Germany, presumably Hamburg, to the USA in the first half of the nineteenth century with the wave of migrants from that country. Leaving aside the recipes for “Hamburg beef” that are instructions for salted meat, most recipes of the time are for minced meat patties, called “hamburg steak” and often “shaped as sirloin”.
The real question is, who first got the idea to put the meat in a bun, thus creating a burger as we know it? There are many contenders for the original idea, and they will no doubt be scrapping over the honour for centuries yet, but burgers in buns were certainly being sold at the St Louis Fair of 1904.
Here are a couple of recipes from Fannie Farmer’s “Boston Cooking School Cookbook” of 1896. She doesn’t mention bread, but it is obviously the onion that makes the burger difference.
Broiled Meat Cakes
Chop finely lean raw beef, season with salt and pepper, shape in small flat cakes, and broil in a greased broiler or frying-pan. Spread with butter, or serve with Maitre d’hotel Butter. In forming the cakes, handle as little as possible; for if pressed too compactly, cakes will be found solid.
Hamburg Steaks.
Chop finely one pound lean raw beef; season highly with salt, pepper, and a few drops onion juice or one half shallot, finely chopped. Shape, cook, and serve as Meat Cakes. A few gratings of nutmeg and one egg slightly beaten may be added.
Tomorrow: The art of tarts.
The OED says that the word “hamburger” first appeared in print on this day in 1889 in the Walla Walla Union, a Washington newspaper. The quotation given is: ‘You are asked if you will have “porkchopbeefsteakhamandegghamburgersteakorliverandbacon”’. Careful reading shows that this is misleading, as it refers to hamburger steak, not hamburger(s). Anyway, this little researcher has found (purely by chance) a 1873 reference to “hamburger steak” in the New York Times of 1873, so the OED is WRONG!
The issue of the first written reference aside, the reality is that minced meat patties have been around for as long as there have been kitchen slaves to finely chop the less appetising cuts of meat. When and how did a lump of fried or grilled chopped up meat become a burger?
The first question is: Why Hamburger and not Berlinburger, or Parisburger for that matter? It seems that the idea of minced meat masquerading as steak came from Germany, presumably Hamburg, to the USA in the first half of the nineteenth century with the wave of migrants from that country. Leaving aside the recipes for “Hamburg beef” that are instructions for salted meat, most recipes of the time are for minced meat patties, called “hamburg steak” and often “shaped as sirloin”.
The real question is, who first got the idea to put the meat in a bun, thus creating a burger as we know it? There are many contenders for the original idea, and they will no doubt be scrapping over the honour for centuries yet, but burgers in buns were certainly being sold at the St Louis Fair of 1904.
Here are a couple of recipes from Fannie Farmer’s “Boston Cooking School Cookbook” of 1896. She doesn’t mention bread, but it is obviously the onion that makes the burger difference.
Broiled Meat Cakes
Chop finely lean raw beef, season with salt and pepper, shape in small flat cakes, and broil in a greased broiler or frying-pan. Spread with butter, or serve with Maitre d’hotel Butter. In forming the cakes, handle as little as possible; for if pressed too compactly, cakes will be found solid.
Hamburg Steaks.
Chop finely one pound lean raw beef; season highly with salt, pepper, and a few drops onion juice or one half shallot, finely chopped. Shape, cook, and serve as Meat Cakes. A few gratings of nutmeg and one egg slightly beaten may be added.
Tomorrow: The art of tarts.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
The Baron’s hat and other mysteries.
Today, January 4th …
Today I want to de-bunk some myths about the lamington, because persisting myths are ruining a perfectly good mystery. What is certain that “a subscriber” had a recipe for lamingtons published in The Queenslander newspaper on this date in 1902, and that this is the earliest known published recipe for our national cake. What is not certain is how the name originated.
Fakelore says that it was named after Baron Lamington, governor of Queensland from 1896-1901. The most ridiculous version of this says that it was so named because it resembled the hat he habitually wore, which either meant he had a lot of dandruff, or that the real name of the cake should have been “homburg”. What is also absolutely untrue (pity though) is that he referred to them as “‘those bloody poofy woolly biscuits”. The best that can be said is that the cake “came to be associated with him”.
One possibility is that the lamington is named after a locality, and there are three contenders: Lamington village (in Scotland), Leamington Spa (Warwickshire), and Lemmington (Northumberland). There are recipes for Leamington cake and puddings in some late Victorian cookbooks which are layered jam sponge-cake type mixtures, so the lamington could have developed from these.I hope this does not turn out to be the case, as it would be a very boring explanation. Naturally the New Zealanders claim to have invented lamingtons, as they do the pavlova, but this is from the nation that also had the idea of re-naming the Chinese gooseberry as “kiwi fruit”.
My favourite explanation, so good that it should be true, is that “lemmingtons” are made out of minced lemmings who have not yet drowned themselves.
I now give you that first known recipe. Call me if you make them.
Lamington Cake.
The weight of two eggs in butter, sugar and flour; 2 eggs; ½ tsp baking powder.
Beat the butter to a cream, add the sugar and yolks of eggs, one by one, then the whites beaten stiff, lastly add flour and baking powder. Bake in a moderate oven. When cold cut the cake like a sandwich and put the white mixture between, then cut into small pieces and cover on all sides with the chocolate mixture. Dip the cakes into grated coconut and put in a cool place.
Tomorrow: What’s in a name?
Today I want to de-bunk some myths about the lamington, because persisting myths are ruining a perfectly good mystery. What is certain that “a subscriber” had a recipe for lamingtons published in The Queenslander newspaper on this date in 1902, and that this is the earliest known published recipe for our national cake. What is not certain is how the name originated.
Fakelore says that it was named after Baron Lamington, governor of Queensland from 1896-1901. The most ridiculous version of this says that it was so named because it resembled the hat he habitually wore, which either meant he had a lot of dandruff, or that the real name of the cake should have been “homburg”. What is also absolutely untrue (pity though) is that he referred to them as “‘those bloody poofy woolly biscuits”. The best that can be said is that the cake “came to be associated with him”.
One possibility is that the lamington is named after a locality, and there are three contenders: Lamington village (in Scotland), Leamington Spa (Warwickshire), and Lemmington (Northumberland). There are recipes for Leamington cake and puddings in some late Victorian cookbooks which are layered jam sponge-cake type mixtures, so the lamington could have developed from these.I hope this does not turn out to be the case, as it would be a very boring explanation. Naturally the New Zealanders claim to have invented lamingtons, as they do the pavlova, but this is from the nation that also had the idea of re-naming the Chinese gooseberry as “kiwi fruit”.
My favourite explanation, so good that it should be true, is that “lemmingtons” are made out of minced lemmings who have not yet drowned themselves.
I now give you that first known recipe. Call me if you make them.
Lamington Cake.
The weight of two eggs in butter, sugar and flour; 2 eggs; ½ tsp baking powder.
Beat the butter to a cream, add the sugar and yolks of eggs, one by one, then the whites beaten stiff, lastly add flour and baking powder. Bake in a moderate oven. When cold cut the cake like a sandwich and put the white mixture between, then cut into small pieces and cover on all sides with the chocolate mixture. Dip the cakes into grated coconut and put in a cool place.
Tomorrow: What’s in a name?
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Food in the city.
Today, January 3rd …
One of the great food places of the world was officially named on this day in 1847, when the little town of Yerba Buena became San Francisco. Jack Kerouac sums it up better than anyone, in “On the Road”. In case you didn’t read it in the 60’s (and if not, why not?), here it is:
“In the window I smelled the food of San Francisco. There were seafood places out there where the buns were hot and the baskets were good enough to eat too; where the menus themselves were soft with foody esculence as though dipped in hot broths and roasted dry and good enough to eat too. Just show me the bluefish spangle on a seafood menu and I'd eat it; let me smell the drawn butter and lobster claws. There were places where they specialized in thick red roast beef au jus, or roast chicken basted in wine. There were places where the hamburgers sizzled on grills and the coffee was only a nickel. And oh, that pan-fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from chinatown, vying with spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman's Wharf-nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market Street chili beans, redhot, and french fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausilito across the bay, and that's my ah-dream of San Francisco … ”
The city is famous for its sourdough bread and its cioppino (fish stew by a far nicer name), and many famous dishes have been invented at its hotels: Oysters Kirkpatrick, Green Goddess Salad, and perhaps Chicken Tetrazzini at the gorgeous Palace Hotel, for example. From the gorgeous St Francis hotel come a number of dishes named for the chef Victor Hertzler. His signature dish was his celery salad:
Celery Victor
Wash six stalks of large celery. Make a stock with one soup hen or chicken bones, and five pounds of veal bones, in the usual manner, with carrots, onions, bay leaves, parsley, salt and whole pepper. Place celery in vessel and strain broth over same, and boil until soft. Allow to cool in the broth. When cold press the broth out of the celery gently with the hands, and place on plate. Season with salt, fresh- ground black pepper, chervil, and one-quarter white wine tarragon vinegar to three-quarters of olive oil.
Tomorrow: The Baron’s hat and other mysteries.
One of the great food places of the world was officially named on this day in 1847, when the little town of Yerba Buena became San Francisco. Jack Kerouac sums it up better than anyone, in “On the Road”. In case you didn’t read it in the 60’s (and if not, why not?), here it is:
“In the window I smelled the food of San Francisco. There were seafood places out there where the buns were hot and the baskets were good enough to eat too; where the menus themselves were soft with foody esculence as though dipped in hot broths and roasted dry and good enough to eat too. Just show me the bluefish spangle on a seafood menu and I'd eat it; let me smell the drawn butter and lobster claws. There were places where they specialized in thick red roast beef au jus, or roast chicken basted in wine. There were places where the hamburgers sizzled on grills and the coffee was only a nickel. And oh, that pan-fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from chinatown, vying with spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman's Wharf-nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market Street chili beans, redhot, and french fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausilito across the bay, and that's my ah-dream of San Francisco … ”
The city is famous for its sourdough bread and its cioppino (fish stew by a far nicer name), and many famous dishes have been invented at its hotels: Oysters Kirkpatrick, Green Goddess Salad, and perhaps Chicken Tetrazzini at the gorgeous Palace Hotel, for example. From the gorgeous St Francis hotel come a number of dishes named for the chef Victor Hertzler. His signature dish was his celery salad:
Celery Victor
Wash six stalks of large celery. Make a stock with one soup hen or chicken bones, and five pounds of veal bones, in the usual manner, with carrots, onions, bay leaves, parsley, salt and whole pepper. Place celery in vessel and strain broth over same, and boil until soft. Allow to cool in the broth. When cold press the broth out of the celery gently with the hands, and place on plate. Season with salt, fresh- ground black pepper, chervil, and one-quarter white wine tarragon vinegar to three-quarters of olive oil.
Tomorrow: The Baron’s hat and other mysteries.
Monday, January 02, 2006
A sweet start to the New Year
Today, January 2nd …
Today is the eighth day of Christmas, and two right royal Frenchmen were given a great treat on this day in 1701. The Dukes of Burgundy and Berry, grandsons of Louis XIV were passing through the city of Montelimar in Provence, and were presented with one quintal of white nougat – the town’s specialty - by the mayor. Like so many other units of measurement, a quintal has varied over time and place, but in 1701 used to be about 48.95 kilos, so it is to be hoped that the royal grandsons didn’t eat it all at once.
Montelimar is “the nougat capital of the world”, but it was not invented there. The ancients all had sweetmeats based on honey, but it was the Arabs (who gave us the word “candy”, from their qandi) who were true confectionary artists. A thirteenth century manuscript in Istanbul – the only surviving medieval Arabic cookbook – contains a number of recipes for sweetmeats, and many of these are based on honey and nuts, and sound just like nougat (or halva). The Arabs took their nut trees and their recipes to Spain, and from there they spread to the rest of Europe, with the almond trees finding that they liked the area around Montelimar.
By amazing co-incidence, today is also the feast day of St Macarius, who was a merchant of candy and pastries before he became a hermit, so is the patron saint of pastrycooks and confectioners. Sweetmeats can be “wet” (fruit in syrup) or “dry” like nougat and “sugarplums” (candied fruit), but the latter are tricky for the faint-hearted and candy-thermometerless, so I give you this recipe for a sugared fruit, which would make a fine dessert, and is from a little cookbook from 1718 by Mary Eales, “Confectioner to her late Majesty, Queen Anne”, who must have been very busy as her boss was variously called “The Gouty Queen of the Gourmands”, “Brandy Nan” (because she liked a drop), and “the fat old bitch”.
To sugar all Sorts of small FRUIT.
Beat the White of an Egg, and dip the Fruit in it; let it lye on a Cloth that it may not wet; then take fine sifted Sugar, and rowl the Fruit in it ‘till ‘tis quite cover’d with Sugar; lay it on a Sieve in a Stove, or before a Fire, to dry it well; it will keep well a Week.
Tomorrow: Food in the city.
Today is the eighth day of Christmas, and two right royal Frenchmen were given a great treat on this day in 1701. The Dukes of Burgundy and Berry, grandsons of Louis XIV were passing through the city of Montelimar in Provence, and were presented with one quintal of white nougat – the town’s specialty - by the mayor. Like so many other units of measurement, a quintal has varied over time and place, but in 1701 used to be about 48.95 kilos, so it is to be hoped that the royal grandsons didn’t eat it all at once.
Montelimar is “the nougat capital of the world”, but it was not invented there. The ancients all had sweetmeats based on honey, but it was the Arabs (who gave us the word “candy”, from their qandi) who were true confectionary artists. A thirteenth century manuscript in Istanbul – the only surviving medieval Arabic cookbook – contains a number of recipes for sweetmeats, and many of these are based on honey and nuts, and sound just like nougat (or halva). The Arabs took their nut trees and their recipes to Spain, and from there they spread to the rest of Europe, with the almond trees finding that they liked the area around Montelimar.
By amazing co-incidence, today is also the feast day of St Macarius, who was a merchant of candy and pastries before he became a hermit, so is the patron saint of pastrycooks and confectioners. Sweetmeats can be “wet” (fruit in syrup) or “dry” like nougat and “sugarplums” (candied fruit), but the latter are tricky for the faint-hearted and candy-thermometerless, so I give you this recipe for a sugared fruit, which would make a fine dessert, and is from a little cookbook from 1718 by Mary Eales, “Confectioner to her late Majesty, Queen Anne”, who must have been very busy as her boss was variously called “The Gouty Queen of the Gourmands”, “Brandy Nan” (because she liked a drop), and “the fat old bitch”.
To sugar all Sorts of small FRUIT.
Beat the White of an Egg, and dip the Fruit in it; let it lye on a Cloth that it may not wet; then take fine sifted Sugar, and rowl the Fruit in it ‘till ‘tis quite cover’d with Sugar; lay it on a Sieve in a Stove, or before a Fire, to dry it well; it will keep well a Week.
Tomorrow: Food in the city.
Friday, December 30, 2005
The naming of the cheese.
Today, December 30th …
Today is the feast day of St Egwin, the seventh century bishop of Worcester. Apart from a legendary rescue-by-salmon, there are no food stories associated with him. This caused me something of a problem for this day, as I had decided to test my theory of three degrees of separation between any person and any food item. I had chosen the menu recommended for December 30th from a book called “Cre-Fydd’s Family Fare, or Young Housewife’s Daily Assistant” published in 1864.
Breakfast: Broiled haddock, ham, poached eggs, soda scones.
Dinner: Cold oysters, lemon, brown bread and butter.
Roast pheasant, veal and ham patties, mashed potatoes.
Chestnut pudding, cheese fondu.
Kitchen (i.e. for the servants): Liver and bacon, potatoes, rice pudding.
“Fondu” immediately caught my eye. I distinctly remember it being invented sometime in the 70’s, and here it was in the mid-nineteenth century. How to investigate this as well as test my theory?
It turns out that there is a modern cheese named for St Egwin, being produced on a farm near his home town in England. It is similar in style to a Swiss cheese. There is my link, for surely fondu is Swiss?
Well, the Swiss claim fondue (from the French word meaning to melt), but the ancients had something like it – there is mention in Homer’s Iliad of a mixture of Pramian wine, goat’s cheese and barley flour. There are no old written recipes for what we would now call fondu, because melted cheese has always been a homely, one-pot peasant dish designed to use up stale ends of cheese and bread, and not requiring instructions.
The Swiss would utterly reject the Cre-Fydd “fondu” recipe because it contains eggs, and is really a soufflé. So is the famous version from Brillat-Savarin, and so is Mrs. Beeton’s. Escoffier’s are more like fritters. So, what do I give you today?
I give you a thoroughly modern Anglo-Swiss recipe, just so you can dust off your 1970’s fondue sets – because the good news is, that fondue is “in” again. This recipe also includes Worcestershire sauce, which originated in Egwin’s home-town. Does that mean that the connection between him and fondue can be reduced to 2 ½ degrees?
3 cups cheese, ¼ cup butter, ¼ cup flour, ½ teas dry mustard, 1 cup milk, 1 cup beer, 1 tab Worcestershire sauce, and a drop or two of Tabasco.
On Monday: A sweet start to the New Year.
Today is the feast day of St Egwin, the seventh century bishop of Worcester. Apart from a legendary rescue-by-salmon, there are no food stories associated with him. This caused me something of a problem for this day, as I had decided to test my theory of three degrees of separation between any person and any food item. I had chosen the menu recommended for December 30th from a book called “Cre-Fydd’s Family Fare, or Young Housewife’s Daily Assistant” published in 1864.
Breakfast: Broiled haddock, ham, poached eggs, soda scones.
Dinner: Cold oysters, lemon, brown bread and butter.
Roast pheasant, veal and ham patties, mashed potatoes.
Chestnut pudding, cheese fondu.
Kitchen (i.e. for the servants): Liver and bacon, potatoes, rice pudding.
“Fondu” immediately caught my eye. I distinctly remember it being invented sometime in the 70’s, and here it was in the mid-nineteenth century. How to investigate this as well as test my theory?
It turns out that there is a modern cheese named for St Egwin, being produced on a farm near his home town in England. It is similar in style to a Swiss cheese. There is my link, for surely fondu is Swiss?
Well, the Swiss claim fondue (from the French word meaning to melt), but the ancients had something like it – there is mention in Homer’s Iliad of a mixture of Pramian wine, goat’s cheese and barley flour. There are no old written recipes for what we would now call fondu, because melted cheese has always been a homely, one-pot peasant dish designed to use up stale ends of cheese and bread, and not requiring instructions.
The Swiss would utterly reject the Cre-Fydd “fondu” recipe because it contains eggs, and is really a soufflé. So is the famous version from Brillat-Savarin, and so is Mrs. Beeton’s. Escoffier’s are more like fritters. So, what do I give you today?
I give you a thoroughly modern Anglo-Swiss recipe, just so you can dust off your 1970’s fondue sets – because the good news is, that fondue is “in” again. This recipe also includes Worcestershire sauce, which originated in Egwin’s home-town. Does that mean that the connection between him and fondue can be reduced to 2 ½ degrees?
3 cups cheese, ¼ cup butter, ¼ cup flour, ½ teas dry mustard, 1 cup milk, 1 cup beer, 1 tab Worcestershire sauce, and a drop or two of Tabasco.
On Monday: A sweet start to the New Year.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
The Battle for Food.
Today, December 29 …
Legend has it that on this day in 1777, “Philadelphia Pepper Pot soup” – “the soup that won the war”, was invented by a cook in the American Continental Army. They had failed to repulse the British, who were in Philadelphia, and George Washington decided to set up winter quarters 20 miles away in Valley Forge, which had good natural defences.
It proved to be a harsh, miserable winter for the raggle-taggle band of 10,000 troops and associated women and children. Many were, quite literally, half-naked, and disease was rife. Officially, the basic ration per man per day was a pound of bread, a pound of meat or fish, a quart of beer, and a pint of milk. In reality the army often went days without bread, or meat, or both. In late December, the absence of meat almost caused a mutiny, and – the story goes – Washington instructed his cook to make a soup “that will warm and strengthen the body of a soldier and inspire his flagging spirit.” Supposedly, he came up with one made from tripe, scraps of meat, and a lot of pepper - the soldiers were warmed and made war-ready, and the British were finally routed.
“Pepper pot” is a dish with West Indian roots. In the Caribbean is a very spicy stew (a “Pallat-scorching Devil’s Broath”) which can be made with any available ingredients, but preferably sea turtle. Tripe would have given a similar desirable gelatinous texture to turtle meat. The interesting thing is that two-thirds of the Continental Army were foreign born, and many of these were African Americans - who would not fight in the same regiments alongside white Americans again until Korea. The cook responsible for the soup must surely have had African roots.
Strangely, for a dish with supposed eighteenth century origins, there is no recipe in the “Boston Cooking School Cookbook” before the 1918 edition.
Philadelphia Pepper Pot Soup.
Sliced onion, 1/4 cup each 1/2 lb. honeycomb tripe, cut in cubes, chopped celery, chopped green peppers, 11/2 cups potato cubes, 4 tablespoons butter, 1/2 teaspoon peppercorns, finely pounded, 31/2 tablespoons flour, 5 cups hot White Stock, 3/4 tablespoon salt, 1/2 cup heavy cream.
Cook vegetables in three tablespoons butter fifteen minutes; add flour, and stir until well mixed; then add remaining ingredients except cream. Cover, and let cook one hour. Just before serving, add cream and remaining butter.
Tomorrow: The naming of the cheese.
Legend has it that on this day in 1777, “Philadelphia Pepper Pot soup” – “the soup that won the war”, was invented by a cook in the American Continental Army. They had failed to repulse the British, who were in Philadelphia, and George Washington decided to set up winter quarters 20 miles away in Valley Forge, which had good natural defences.
It proved to be a harsh, miserable winter for the raggle-taggle band of 10,000 troops and associated women and children. Many were, quite literally, half-naked, and disease was rife. Officially, the basic ration per man per day was a pound of bread, a pound of meat or fish, a quart of beer, and a pint of milk. In reality the army often went days without bread, or meat, or both. In late December, the absence of meat almost caused a mutiny, and – the story goes – Washington instructed his cook to make a soup “that will warm and strengthen the body of a soldier and inspire his flagging spirit.” Supposedly, he came up with one made from tripe, scraps of meat, and a lot of pepper - the soldiers were warmed and made war-ready, and the British were finally routed.
“Pepper pot” is a dish with West Indian roots. In the Caribbean is a very spicy stew (a “Pallat-scorching Devil’s Broath”) which can be made with any available ingredients, but preferably sea turtle. Tripe would have given a similar desirable gelatinous texture to turtle meat. The interesting thing is that two-thirds of the Continental Army were foreign born, and many of these were African Americans - who would not fight in the same regiments alongside white Americans again until Korea. The cook responsible for the soup must surely have had African roots.
Strangely, for a dish with supposed eighteenth century origins, there is no recipe in the “Boston Cooking School Cookbook” before the 1918 edition.
Philadelphia Pepper Pot Soup.
Sliced onion, 1/4 cup each 1/2 lb. honeycomb tripe, cut in cubes, chopped celery, chopped green peppers, 11/2 cups potato cubes, 4 tablespoons butter, 1/2 teaspoon peppercorns, finely pounded, 31/2 tablespoons flour, 5 cups hot White Stock, 3/4 tablespoon salt, 1/2 cup heavy cream.
Cook vegetables in three tablespoons butter fifteen minutes; add flour, and stir until well mixed; then add remaining ingredients except cream. Cover, and let cook one hour. Just before serving, add cream and remaining butter.
Tomorrow: The naming of the cheese.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Any peas with that?
Today, December 28th …
The most important anniversary on this day, is that of the Old Foodie’s birth. In South Australia they think that Proclamation Day is also important. This is the day, in 1836, that SA was declared a colony, the most important result of which is that the day is a public holiday.
It is apt for both that the theme for today is the meat pie. Firstly, it is the OF’s culinary specialty. Secondly, the SA’s are famous for their meat pie floaters. They didn’t invent the combination of meat pie with mushy peas of course, they merely act like they did: meat pies have been around for ever, mushy peas even longer, and the combination for “a long time”. We will never know who had the brilliant inspiration for the specific SA format of a pie “floating” in a sea of mushy peas, but the first pie cart was licenced in Adelaide in 1871. By 2003, so significant had it become that the “pie floater” was recognised as a South Australian Heritage Icon by the National Trust of Australia.
The idea of the pie floater inspires many things: fear and loathing or ecstasy and longing, for example – often simultaneously in the same person. To the brilliantly funny Terry Pratchett, a hero is “someone who will eat a Meat Pie Floater when he is sober”. To the outrageously funny Billy Connolly, it has a particularly masculine nationalism: “You can tell a lot about a nation by its food. Here in Adelaide I discovered a real southern Australian speciality - the pie floater. We're talking proper food here - man's food, none of your Continental rubbish.” Considering that some of the affectionate names for this culinary icon are fly cemetery, rat coffin, maggot bag, I am not sure what this says about proper men.
The very first Australian cookbook contains a recipe for mushy peas, which are just a lumpy version of pease pudding after all.
Pease Pudding.
Soak the peas for ten or twelve hours; tie them loosely in a cloth, leaving room for them to swell, and simmer for a couple of hours*. When tender, drain them; rub them through a colander with a wooden spoon; add an ounce of butter, one egg, beat up, and pepper and salt to taste. Beat them well together, tie lightly in a cloth, and boil for half an hour.
Tomorrow: The Battle for Food.
The most important anniversary on this day, is that of the Old Foodie’s birth. In South Australia they think that Proclamation Day is also important. This is the day, in 1836, that SA was declared a colony, the most important result of which is that the day is a public holiday.
It is apt for both that the theme for today is the meat pie. Firstly, it is the OF’s culinary specialty. Secondly, the SA’s are famous for their meat pie floaters. They didn’t invent the combination of meat pie with mushy peas of course, they merely act like they did: meat pies have been around for ever, mushy peas even longer, and the combination for “a long time”. We will never know who had the brilliant inspiration for the specific SA format of a pie “floating” in a sea of mushy peas, but the first pie cart was licenced in Adelaide in 1871. By 2003, so significant had it become that the “pie floater” was recognised as a South Australian Heritage Icon by the National Trust of Australia.
The idea of the pie floater inspires many things: fear and loathing or ecstasy and longing, for example – often simultaneously in the same person. To the brilliantly funny Terry Pratchett, a hero is “someone who will eat a Meat Pie Floater when he is sober”. To the outrageously funny Billy Connolly, it has a particularly masculine nationalism: “You can tell a lot about a nation by its food. Here in Adelaide I discovered a real southern Australian speciality - the pie floater. We're talking proper food here - man's food, none of your Continental rubbish.” Considering that some of the affectionate names for this culinary icon are fly cemetery, rat coffin, maggot bag, I am not sure what this says about proper men.
The very first Australian cookbook contains a recipe for mushy peas, which are just a lumpy version of pease pudding after all.
Pease Pudding.
Soak the peas for ten or twelve hours; tie them loosely in a cloth, leaving room for them to swell, and simmer for a couple of hours*. When tender, drain them; rub them through a colander with a wooden spoon; add an ounce of butter, one egg, beat up, and pepper and salt to taste. Beat them well together, tie lightly in a cloth, and boil for half an hour.
Tomorrow: The Battle for Food.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
A young woman in possession of a good recipe.
Today, December 27th …
Jane Austen did not save her delicious wit for her novels. She wrote often to her sister, Cassandra, and on this day in 1808 described an evening party at her brother’s house in Southampton, where she was living at the time.
The last hour, spent in yawning and shivering in a wide circle round the fire, was dull enough, but the tray had admirable success. The widgeon and the preserved ginger were as delicious as one could wish. But as to our black butter, do not decoy anybody to Southampton by such a lure, for it is all gone. The first pot was opened when Frank and Mary were here, and proved not at all what it ought to be; it was neither solid nor entirely sweet, and on seeing it Eliza remembered that Miss Austen had said she did not think it had been boiled enough. It was made, you know, when we were absent. Such being the event of the first pot, I would not save the second, and we therefore ate it in unpretending privacy; and though not what it ought to be, part of it was very good.
The “black butter” that Jane refers to is not a sauce of butter cooked until it is burnt, but a thick, dark, spiced conserve of apples cooked in cider, with a history going back to mediaeval times. It is still a particular specialty of Jersey – where they add liquorice to make it even blacker. There is a dearth of cookbook recipes for such a homely preserve, even under its plain name of “apple butter”. Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery (1870’s) actually calls it “American”, reflecting its popularity in the former colony, and the ignorance of the editors in respect of its history. Like pumpkin pie, it crossed the Atlantic, and then acted as if it had been born there.
Apple Butter, American.
Fill a preserving pan with apples, peeled, quartered, and cored. Add a slight flavouring of cloves, allspice, and cinnamon. Cover with good cider, and boil slowly, stirring from time to time with a wooden spoon, until the whole becomes a dark brown jam, with only juice sufficient to keep it soft and buttery. Remove it from the fire, and place in well-covered jars, and in a few weeks it will be ready for use. It makes an excellent substitute for butter, and is very wholesome for children.
Tomorrow: Any peas with that?
Jane Austen did not save her delicious wit for her novels. She wrote often to her sister, Cassandra, and on this day in 1808 described an evening party at her brother’s house in Southampton, where she was living at the time.
The last hour, spent in yawning and shivering in a wide circle round the fire, was dull enough, but the tray had admirable success. The widgeon and the preserved ginger were as delicious as one could wish. But as to our black butter, do not decoy anybody to Southampton by such a lure, for it is all gone. The first pot was opened when Frank and Mary were here, and proved not at all what it ought to be; it was neither solid nor entirely sweet, and on seeing it Eliza remembered that Miss Austen had said she did not think it had been boiled enough. It was made, you know, when we were absent. Such being the event of the first pot, I would not save the second, and we therefore ate it in unpretending privacy; and though not what it ought to be, part of it was very good.
The “black butter” that Jane refers to is not a sauce of butter cooked until it is burnt, but a thick, dark, spiced conserve of apples cooked in cider, with a history going back to mediaeval times. It is still a particular specialty of Jersey – where they add liquorice to make it even blacker. There is a dearth of cookbook recipes for such a homely preserve, even under its plain name of “apple butter”. Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery (1870’s) actually calls it “American”, reflecting its popularity in the former colony, and the ignorance of the editors in respect of its history. Like pumpkin pie, it crossed the Atlantic, and then acted as if it had been born there.
Apple Butter, American.
Fill a preserving pan with apples, peeled, quartered, and cored. Add a slight flavouring of cloves, allspice, and cinnamon. Cover with good cider, and boil slowly, stirring from time to time with a wooden spoon, until the whole becomes a dark brown jam, with only juice sufficient to keep it soft and buttery. Remove it from the fire, and place in well-covered jars, and in a few weeks it will be ready for use. It makes an excellent substitute for butter, and is very wholesome for children.
Tomorrow: Any peas with that?
Monday, December 26, 2005
On keeping husbands at home.
Today, December 26th …
In 1899, when war with the Boers was inevitable, Winifred Heberden stayed on in Kimberley with her surgeon husband. She kept a diary during the four month siege, and on Boxing Day wrote:
The men stood to arms both yesterday and to-day at 3 a.m., expecting 'Christmas Boxes' from the Boers, but everything was quiet at our end of Kimberley … Eggs are now 6/6 a dozen, and so scarce that their price is sure to rise rapidly. Potatoes have vanished, and we have dried beans or crushed mealies with our meat …
She saw more of her husband by staying along for the military ride than most nineteenth century wives, if a little book from Canada is any guide. According to its male author, husbands on their way home from the corporate battlefield were easily waylaid by the gentleman’s club, for “the majority of men (when the pleasures of the table alone are considered) prefer to dine at their club or restaurant rather than at home.”
The title said it all: ‘The little helpmate, or, How to keep husbands at home: a dictionary of useful information not generally known; what dishes are good as well as cheap; the cost, and how it is done by professional cooks; together with several valuable household recipes, including the wonderful carpet shampoo which is alone worth many times the price.’
Luckily Winifred did not need the advice, because a generous supply of eggs was necessary.
Bearnaise Sauce.
“… as it is a favorite of club-men, I think their wives ought to know how to make it. Do not be discouraged if you don't succeed the first or second time, but try again. Put four tablespoonsfuls of chopped shallots into a small saucepan and let them stew for fifteen minutes. Then add two teaspoonsfuls of beef extract and six egg yolks, one a time, stirring all the while over a slow fire until it begins to thicken. Remove the saucepan to still cooler part of the range, and add, a little at a time, half a pound of butter, with occasional drops of water. When all the butter is stirred in , strain through a wire strainer, and add a little cayenne pepper, salt, and finely chopped green parsley.
Presumably nice clean carpet also helped keep the husband at home. If you want the wonderful carpet shampoo recipe, you only have to ask.
Tomorrow: A young woman in possession of a good recipe.
In 1899, when war with the Boers was inevitable, Winifred Heberden stayed on in Kimberley with her surgeon husband. She kept a diary during the four month siege, and on Boxing Day wrote:
The men stood to arms both yesterday and to-day at 3 a.m., expecting 'Christmas Boxes' from the Boers, but everything was quiet at our end of Kimberley … Eggs are now 6/6 a dozen, and so scarce that their price is sure to rise rapidly. Potatoes have vanished, and we have dried beans or crushed mealies with our meat …
She saw more of her husband by staying along for the military ride than most nineteenth century wives, if a little book from Canada is any guide. According to its male author, husbands on their way home from the corporate battlefield were easily waylaid by the gentleman’s club, for “the majority of men (when the pleasures of the table alone are considered) prefer to dine at their club or restaurant rather than at home.”
The title said it all: ‘The little helpmate, or, How to keep husbands at home: a dictionary of useful information not generally known; what dishes are good as well as cheap; the cost, and how it is done by professional cooks; together with several valuable household recipes, including the wonderful carpet shampoo which is alone worth many times the price.’
Luckily Winifred did not need the advice, because a generous supply of eggs was necessary.
Bearnaise Sauce.
“… as it is a favorite of club-men, I think their wives ought to know how to make it. Do not be discouraged if you don't succeed the first or second time, but try again. Put four tablespoonsfuls of chopped shallots into a small saucepan and let them stew for fifteen minutes. Then add two teaspoonsfuls of beef extract and six egg yolks, one a time, stirring all the while over a slow fire until it begins to thicken. Remove the saucepan to still cooler part of the range, and add, a little at a time, half a pound of butter, with occasional drops of water. When all the butter is stirred in , strain through a wire strainer, and add a little cayenne pepper, salt, and finely chopped green parsley.
Presumably nice clean carpet also helped keep the husband at home. If you want the wonderful carpet shampoo recipe, you only have to ask.
Tomorrow: A young woman in possession of a good recipe.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Keeping cool over the Christmas Ham.
Today, December 23rd …
James Woodforde was an English country parson who kept a diary for over 40 years, giving us a wonderful picture of middle class life in the eighteenth century. Like his contemporary Samuel Johnson, he minded his belly very much, and often recorded his dinners.
As Christmas approached, on this day in 1769, he bought his Christmas goose:
“To a fatted Goose at 5 Pence per Pound”
Nine years later on December 23rd 1778 he entertained guests. The ham was disappointing:
“ I gave them for dinner 3 Fowls boiled, part of a Ham, the major part of which Ham was entirely eat out by the flies getting into it, a tongue boiled, a Leg of Mutton rosted, and an excellent currant Pudding. I gave them for Supper a couple of Rabbits smothered in onions, some Hash Mutton and some rosted Potatoes, We were exceedingly merry indeed all the night.”
Folks were generally much more forgiving in the days before refrigeration, although Samuel Pepys over a century earlier recorded a dinner at which “my stomach was turned when my sturgeon came to table, upon which I saw very many little worms creeping, which I suppose was through the staleness of the pickle.” Most of us would never, ever, host a dinner party again, if we had given fly-blown ham to guests - and the guests certainly wouldn’t have stayed on for supper and been exceeding merry. An excellent pudding can only make up for so much.
It is highly unlikely that there was any sort of cookbook in the parson’s household, although they were being churned out thick and fast at the time. Charlotte Mason’s “Lady’s Assistant for regulating and supplying her table … ”, was published in the same year as the ham disaster. Here are a couple of her suggestions:
Goose roasted.
It must be seasoned with sage and onion, cut very small, and mixed with pepper and salt; an hour will roast it: boil the sage and onion in a little water before they are cut, it prevents their eating so strong, and takes off the rawness.
For sauce – gravy and apple sauce.
A very good common pudding, with currants.
A pound of currants, a pound of suet, five eggs, four spoonfuls of flower, half a nutmeg, a tea-spoonful of ginger, a little powder sugar, a little salt; boil this three hours.
On Monday: On keeping husbands at home.
James Woodforde was an English country parson who kept a diary for over 40 years, giving us a wonderful picture of middle class life in the eighteenth century. Like his contemporary Samuel Johnson, he minded his belly very much, and often recorded his dinners.
As Christmas approached, on this day in 1769, he bought his Christmas goose:
“To a fatted Goose at 5 Pence per Pound”
Nine years later on December 23rd 1778 he entertained guests. The ham was disappointing:
“ I gave them for dinner 3 Fowls boiled, part of a Ham, the major part of which Ham was entirely eat out by the flies getting into it, a tongue boiled, a Leg of Mutton rosted, and an excellent currant Pudding. I gave them for Supper a couple of Rabbits smothered in onions, some Hash Mutton and some rosted Potatoes, We were exceedingly merry indeed all the night.”
Folks were generally much more forgiving in the days before refrigeration, although Samuel Pepys over a century earlier recorded a dinner at which “my stomach was turned when my sturgeon came to table, upon which I saw very many little worms creeping, which I suppose was through the staleness of the pickle.” Most of us would never, ever, host a dinner party again, if we had given fly-blown ham to guests - and the guests certainly wouldn’t have stayed on for supper and been exceeding merry. An excellent pudding can only make up for so much.
It is highly unlikely that there was any sort of cookbook in the parson’s household, although they were being churned out thick and fast at the time. Charlotte Mason’s “Lady’s Assistant for regulating and supplying her table … ”, was published in the same year as the ham disaster. Here are a couple of her suggestions:
Goose roasted.
It must be seasoned with sage and onion, cut very small, and mixed with pepper and salt; an hour will roast it: boil the sage and onion in a little water before they are cut, it prevents their eating so strong, and takes off the rawness.
For sauce – gravy and apple sauce.
A very good common pudding, with currants.
A pound of currants, a pound of suet, five eggs, four spoonfuls of flower, half a nutmeg, a tea-spoonful of ginger, a little powder sugar, a little salt; boil this three hours.
On Monday: On keeping husbands at home.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
The Taste of Music.
Today, December 22nd …
The composer Giacomo Puccini was born on this day in 1858. Every Christmas he had panettone baked and sent to friends. One year he quarreled with Toscanini and tried to cancel the order, but it was too late and the cake had already been delivered. He sent a telegram to Toscanini saying “Panettone sent by mistake”, to which the reply came “Panettone eaten by mistake.”
The first opera (Euridice) for which the music has survived was written in 1600 for the wedding of Henry IV of France and Marie de Medici at the Pitti Palace in Florence. Classical dishes and fine dining have kept their association with opera ever since.
There was a vogue in the nineteenth century for naming dishes in honour of celebrities and special events, and opera provided plenty. Should you be so inclined, a complete meal could be made on the theme of Aida (salad, turbot, bombe), or Tosca, or Carmen, for example.
Strangely, there does not seem to be a dish named in honour of Puccini himself, although there is a recipe for “Oeufs poche Manon”. Rossini (a passionate gourmand) wins in the composer stakes with, among others, Tournedos, an Escalope de foie gras, and a dish of partridge breast. Verdi has a chicken breast dish, and another was created for Berlioz for the opening night of “Benvenuto Cellini” in 1838. Performers are not left out: we have Peach Melba and Melba toast, “Chicken Tetrazzini” (for Luisa) and “Coupe Adelina Patti”. There are many more!
Puccini was was born in Lucca, in Tuscany, the home of magnificent beans and superb olive oil. His heritage shows in this letter written to his publisher, Giulio Ricordi in 1895:
“ … you will receive some beans; they are oustanding, and this is how you cook them: put them into a pan of cold water (you must get the quantity right, not too much and not too little) and simmer them for two hours over a low flame so that when they are cooked there are only two or three spoonfuls of broth left - that's why you must be careful about the quantity of water.N.B. When you put them in the water add four or five sage leaves, two or three whole bulbs of garlic, salt and pepper and when they (the beans) are half done add a bit of oil to boil with it.
Tomorrow: Keeping cool over the Christmas Ham.
The composer Giacomo Puccini was born on this day in 1858. Every Christmas he had panettone baked and sent to friends. One year he quarreled with Toscanini and tried to cancel the order, but it was too late and the cake had already been delivered. He sent a telegram to Toscanini saying “Panettone sent by mistake”, to which the reply came “Panettone eaten by mistake.”
The first opera (Euridice) for which the music has survived was written in 1600 for the wedding of Henry IV of France and Marie de Medici at the Pitti Palace in Florence. Classical dishes and fine dining have kept their association with opera ever since.
There was a vogue in the nineteenth century for naming dishes in honour of celebrities and special events, and opera provided plenty. Should you be so inclined, a complete meal could be made on the theme of Aida (salad, turbot, bombe), or Tosca, or Carmen, for example.
Strangely, there does not seem to be a dish named in honour of Puccini himself, although there is a recipe for “Oeufs poche Manon”. Rossini (a passionate gourmand) wins in the composer stakes with, among others, Tournedos, an Escalope de foie gras, and a dish of partridge breast. Verdi has a chicken breast dish, and another was created for Berlioz for the opening night of “Benvenuto Cellini” in 1838. Performers are not left out: we have Peach Melba and Melba toast, “Chicken Tetrazzini” (for Luisa) and “Coupe Adelina Patti”. There are many more!
Puccini was was born in Lucca, in Tuscany, the home of magnificent beans and superb olive oil. His heritage shows in this letter written to his publisher, Giulio Ricordi in 1895:
“ … you will receive some beans; they are oustanding, and this is how you cook them: put them into a pan of cold water (you must get the quantity right, not too much and not too little) and simmer them for two hours over a low flame so that when they are cooked there are only two or three spoonfuls of broth left - that's why you must be careful about the quantity of water.N.B. When you put them in the water add four or five sage leaves, two or three whole bulbs of garlic, salt and pepper and when they (the beans) are half done add a bit of oil to boil with it.
Tomorrow: Keeping cool over the Christmas Ham.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Drowning in Armagnac.
Today, December 21st …
Today is the anniversary of the birth of Benjamin Disraeli, Britain’s only Jewish Prime Minister. Before he entered politics, he was a writer, and being a dandy and gourmet, there are many references to the good life in his novels. One of his most frequently quoted sentences, from “The Young Duke”, is:
“All paradise opens! Let me die eating ortolans to the sound of soft music.”
Unless we are prepared to break the law, most of us will never know this paradisical experience, for these tiny European garden birds are now protected. The French chef M. Massialot (1702) described the ortolan as “a delicate Fowl of an exquisite taste, about the bigness of a Lark.” For centuries, in France, they have represented the abolute pinnacle of gastronomic experience. Francois Mitterand had them prepared (illegally) for what was his final fine dining experience before his death from cancer in 1996. I wonder, did he have soft music playing?
The famous chef, Alexis Soyer was briefed in 1846 to provide a dinner at the Reform Club in London, with “magnificent contempt of expense”. One of his inspirational thoughts was: “An ortolan can hardly be truffled, but I will undertake that a truffle shall be ortolaned!” Or, in other words he would cook “the delicate native of Provence .. gloriously interred in the choicest production of Perigord”. This culinary gilding of the lily did not eventuate; the birds were not delivered in time. Poor gourmets.
Poor birds: ortolans were caught and force-fed until they were “lumps of fat”, and were then suffocated (“take them by the Beak, and holding it close between your Finger and Thumb, the Bird will be stifled in about a Minute”), or drowned in Armagnac (super-gourmet method).
Soyer’s guests would not have needed instruction in the ritual of ortolan-eating. A large napkin covers the head and plate while the diner eats the whole bird (except the beak), with the hands. Depending on beliefs or sensibilities, the purpose of the napkin is to (a) capture the aroma (b) hide the messy process from other guests, or (c) hide the greediness from God.
As for cooking them, the method is simple. M. Massialot says:
Ortolans must be drawn, and roasted on a small Spit, and basted with a little Lard: Then they may be cover’d or strew’d with Bread and Salt, and eaten with Salt and Orange.
Tomorrow: The Taste of Music.
Today is the anniversary of the birth of Benjamin Disraeli, Britain’s only Jewish Prime Minister. Before he entered politics, he was a writer, and being a dandy and gourmet, there are many references to the good life in his novels. One of his most frequently quoted sentences, from “The Young Duke”, is:
“All paradise opens! Let me die eating ortolans to the sound of soft music.”
Unless we are prepared to break the law, most of us will never know this paradisical experience, for these tiny European garden birds are now protected. The French chef M. Massialot (1702) described the ortolan as “a delicate Fowl of an exquisite taste, about the bigness of a Lark.” For centuries, in France, they have represented the abolute pinnacle of gastronomic experience. Francois Mitterand had them prepared (illegally) for what was his final fine dining experience before his death from cancer in 1996. I wonder, did he have soft music playing?
The famous chef, Alexis Soyer was briefed in 1846 to provide a dinner at the Reform Club in London, with “magnificent contempt of expense”. One of his inspirational thoughts was: “An ortolan can hardly be truffled, but I will undertake that a truffle shall be ortolaned!” Or, in other words he would cook “the delicate native of Provence .. gloriously interred in the choicest production of Perigord”. This culinary gilding of the lily did not eventuate; the birds were not delivered in time. Poor gourmets.
Poor birds: ortolans were caught and force-fed until they were “lumps of fat”, and were then suffocated (“take them by the Beak, and holding it close between your Finger and Thumb, the Bird will be stifled in about a Minute”), or drowned in Armagnac (super-gourmet method).
Soyer’s guests would not have needed instruction in the ritual of ortolan-eating. A large napkin covers the head and plate while the diner eats the whole bird (except the beak), with the hands. Depending on beliefs or sensibilities, the purpose of the napkin is to (a) capture the aroma (b) hide the messy process from other guests, or (c) hide the greediness from God.
As for cooking them, the method is simple. M. Massialot says:
Ortolans must be drawn, and roasted on a small Spit, and basted with a little Lard: Then they may be cover’d or strew’d with Bread and Salt, and eaten with Salt and Orange.
Tomorrow: The Taste of Music.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Another sort of shipboard victuals.
Today, December 20 …
In 1853, the good ship “Sir Edward Parry” left Plymouth on this day, bound for South Australia, its passengers hungry for the gold recently discovered in the colony. They were usually pretty hungry on the three month voyage too.
The recommended ration for adults aboard emigrant ships run by “respectable shipowners” was:
Every day: 8oz. of “ships’ biscuit”, 6 oz. flour, 3 oz. oatmeal, and 3 Quarts of water.
Meat: Saturdays: 8 oz. Beef ; Monday, Wednesday and Friday: 6 oz. pork; Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday: 8 oz preserved meat.
Weekly: Coffee: 2 oz.; Tea 1 ½ oz; Treacle 8 oz.; Raisins 8 oz; Suet 6 oz; Pease 2/3 pint; Rice 12 oz; Butter 4 oz; Cheese 4 oz; Preserved Potatoes 8 oz.
Also each week: mixed pickles one gill; mustard, ½ oz., salt 2 oz. and pepper ½ oz.
Many passengers supplemented the ration with personal supplies, but it was still pretty grim fare for most, particularly when you take into account that the flour and biscuit would almost certainly have been weevily, and the meat so heavily salted and tough as to be uneatable except by the very hungry.
The preserved potatoes were almost always hated. One emigrant to New Zealand in 1879 wrote “We had preserved potatoes today for the first time. None of our Mess could eat them so we threw them overboard”. Many preserving methods were tried, but the usual method for use at sea involved covering them with quicklime, which must certainly have added something to the flavour. A simple drying method would have kept them more palatable, but keeping them dry on board ship would have been impossible.
If you have a bumper crop, you could try the recipe from the very useful book “Enquire Within Upon Everything” (1894).
Preserving Potatoes
The preservation of potatoes by dipping them in boiling water is a valuable and useful discovery. Large quantities may be cured at once, by putting them into a basket as large as the vessel containing the boiling water will admit, and then just dipping them a minute or two, at the utmost. The germ, which is so near the skin, is thus destroyed without injury to the potato. In this way several tons might be cured in a few hours. They should be then dried in a warm oven, and laid up in sacks, secure from the frost, in a dry place.
Tomorrow: Drowning in Armagnac.
In 1853, the good ship “Sir Edward Parry” left Plymouth on this day, bound for South Australia, its passengers hungry for the gold recently discovered in the colony. They were usually pretty hungry on the three month voyage too.
The recommended ration for adults aboard emigrant ships run by “respectable shipowners” was:
Every day: 8oz. of “ships’ biscuit”, 6 oz. flour, 3 oz. oatmeal, and 3 Quarts of water.
Meat: Saturdays: 8 oz. Beef ; Monday, Wednesday and Friday: 6 oz. pork; Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday: 8 oz preserved meat.
Weekly: Coffee: 2 oz.; Tea 1 ½ oz; Treacle 8 oz.; Raisins 8 oz; Suet 6 oz; Pease 2/3 pint; Rice 12 oz; Butter 4 oz; Cheese 4 oz; Preserved Potatoes 8 oz.
Also each week: mixed pickles one gill; mustard, ½ oz., salt 2 oz. and pepper ½ oz.
Many passengers supplemented the ration with personal supplies, but it was still pretty grim fare for most, particularly when you take into account that the flour and biscuit would almost certainly have been weevily, and the meat so heavily salted and tough as to be uneatable except by the very hungry.
The preserved potatoes were almost always hated. One emigrant to New Zealand in 1879 wrote “We had preserved potatoes today for the first time. None of our Mess could eat them so we threw them overboard”. Many preserving methods were tried, but the usual method for use at sea involved covering them with quicklime, which must certainly have added something to the flavour. A simple drying method would have kept them more palatable, but keeping them dry on board ship would have been impossible.
If you have a bumper crop, you could try the recipe from the very useful book “Enquire Within Upon Everything” (1894).
Preserving Potatoes
The preservation of potatoes by dipping them in boiling water is a valuable and useful discovery. Large quantities may be cured at once, by putting them into a basket as large as the vessel containing the boiling water will admit, and then just dipping them a minute or two, at the utmost. The germ, which is so near the skin, is thus destroyed without injury to the potato. In this way several tons might be cured in a few hours. They should be then dried in a warm oven, and laid up in sacks, secure from the frost, in a dry place.
Tomorrow: Drowning in Armagnac.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Some baloney about Bologna.
Today, December 19th …
If you had been a Second Cabin guest aboard the famous “Lusitania” in 1911 on this day, this would have been your luncheon menu:
If you had been a Second Cabin guest aboard the famous “Lusitania” in 1911 on this day, this would have been your luncheon menu:
Lettuce Sliced Tomatoes
Bordeaux Sardines
Puree of Split Peas
Fillets Flounder, Florentine
Steak and Kidney Pudding
Roast Mutton and Onion Sauce
Corned Brisket of Beef with Cabbage
Spinach Parsnips, Creme
Baked, Boiled, & Mashed Potatoes
COLD
Roast Beef Brawn Ox Tongue
Galantine of Veal Bologna Sausage
Beetroot
Plums and Rice Small Pastry
Sago Pudding
Ice Cream
Apples Oranges Dates Roasted Peanuts
Cheese Tea Coffee
I bet the sago pudding was popular. What about the Bologna Sausage?
The mystery that is sausage meat causes us a great deal of food anxiety, and this is reflected in our word “baloney”, meaning nonsense or “rubbish”, which supposedly derives from the idea of Bologna (or “Poloney”) sausage. This is grossly unfair to Bologna, which has no more sinister a potential than any other type of sausage.
Genuine Bologna sausage is Mortadella. It has been made for at least 500 years from pure pork studded with distinctive cubes of white fat, flavoured with pepper, coriander, anise, and pistachio nuts, without smoking or drying. Someone once got an inspiration from it and created luncheon meat, which really is baloney.
The only constant factor in recipes for Bologna sausage in old cookbooks is the name. Robert May’s recipe (1660) comes pretty close to the real thing. He uses “a good leg of pork” and a lot of lard, flavoured with cloves, nutmeg, mace, pepper and caraway seeds. Rabisha’s “Poloney Sassages to keep all year” (1682) are all wrong from point of view of authenticity, although they do sound delicious: they are a smoked dried sausage made from a gammon of bacon, with cloves, mace, nutmeg, pepper, and red wine.
Mistress Margaret Dods, the Scottish pseudonymous author of the very amusing “Cook and Housewife’s Manual” (1856), says in a footnote: “Bologna sausages labour under the calumnious imputation of being made of asses’ flesh”. She does not commit herself to an opinion as to what the correct ingredient should be, but plays it safe by using a bit of everything in her version, and calling it:
Imitation Bologna Sausage.
Take equal weight of bacon, beef, pork, and veal. Mince, and season high with pepper, salt, and sage. Fill a well-cleaned gut, and boil for an hour; or smoke and dry them for future use.
Tomorrow: Another sort of shipboard victuals.
The mystery that is sausage meat causes us a great deal of food anxiety, and this is reflected in our word “baloney”, meaning nonsense or “rubbish”, which supposedly derives from the idea of Bologna (or “Poloney”) sausage. This is grossly unfair to Bologna, which has no more sinister a potential than any other type of sausage.
Genuine Bologna sausage is Mortadella. It has been made for at least 500 years from pure pork studded with distinctive cubes of white fat, flavoured with pepper, coriander, anise, and pistachio nuts, without smoking or drying. Someone once got an inspiration from it and created luncheon meat, which really is baloney.
The only constant factor in recipes for Bologna sausage in old cookbooks is the name. Robert May’s recipe (1660) comes pretty close to the real thing. He uses “a good leg of pork” and a lot of lard, flavoured with cloves, nutmeg, mace, pepper and caraway seeds. Rabisha’s “Poloney Sassages to keep all year” (1682) are all wrong from point of view of authenticity, although they do sound delicious: they are a smoked dried sausage made from a gammon of bacon, with cloves, mace, nutmeg, pepper, and red wine.
Mistress Margaret Dods, the Scottish pseudonymous author of the very amusing “Cook and Housewife’s Manual” (1856), says in a footnote: “Bologna sausages labour under the calumnious imputation of being made of asses’ flesh”. She does not commit herself to an opinion as to what the correct ingredient should be, but plays it safe by using a bit of everything in her version, and calling it:
Imitation Bologna Sausage.
Take equal weight of bacon, beef, pork, and veal. Mince, and season high with pepper, salt, and sage. Fill a well-cleaned gut, and boil for an hour; or smoke and dry them for future use.
Tomorrow: Another sort of shipboard victuals.
Friday, December 16, 2005
The goodly litter of the cupboard.
Today, December 16th …
Today is the traditional beginning of the mince(meat) pie season, so if you haven’t organised your supply by now, it is almost too late.
We don't put meat in our mincemeat now, partly because we have lost our taste for sweet-savoury foods, but also because we no longer need to preserve meat this way. A pie with a thick crust, unless it got damp or cracked, would keep meat for a long time before refrigeration.
Mince pies evolved from the special occasion “plum porridge” mixture that also gave us Christmas cake and pudding. At Christmas, the “ goodly litter of the cupboard, thus various in kind and aspect, was carefully swept into one common receptacle; the mingled mass enveloped in pastry and enclosed within the duly heated oven … ” and Lo! Mince Pies!
They were briefly banned during the Puritan era, along with everything else that was fun, one killjoy writer even going so far as to describe them as “idolatry in crust”, but thankfully they were restored to the Christmas menu with the Restoration of the monarchy. Sometimes they were very large, and the envy of foreign visitors to England, such as the Frenchman M. Misson. In 1698 he wrote that "Every family against Christmas makes a famous Pye, which they call Christmas Pye. It is a great Nostrum the Composition of this Pasty. It is a most learned Mixture of Neats-tongues, Chicken, Eggs, Sugar, Raisins, Lemon and Orange Peel, various kinds of Spices etc."
If you want extra Christian symbolism with your traditional pie, you can make them crib-shaped (they used to also be called “crib pies”) to represent the manger, and add three spices (cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves) to represent the gifts of the three wise men. If you want extra secular tradition with the tradition, eat one every day of the twelve days of Christmas (until January 6th) to have twelve lucky months.
In Queensland of course, at this time of the year “the goodly litter of the cupboard” includes mangoes, so here is a mincemeat recipe from the Australian Women’s Mirror in 1932.
Queensland Mincemeat.
Peel and slice enough green mangoes to make, when run through mincer 1 cup of pulp (minus excess juice). Add ½ cup sugar, 1 cup currants, 1 cup raisins cut up finely, 2 heaped Tabs. Home-made orange marmalade, 1 heaped Tbs. Butter and 1 ½ tsp. Mixed spice. Mix thoroughly.
On Monday: Some baloney about Bologna.
2006 Update: There is a collection of Vintage Christmas Recipes HERE.
Today is the traditional beginning of the mince(meat) pie season, so if you haven’t organised your supply by now, it is almost too late.
We don't put meat in our mincemeat now, partly because we have lost our taste for sweet-savoury foods, but also because we no longer need to preserve meat this way. A pie with a thick crust, unless it got damp or cracked, would keep meat for a long time before refrigeration.
Mince pies evolved from the special occasion “plum porridge” mixture that also gave us Christmas cake and pudding. At Christmas, the “ goodly litter of the cupboard, thus various in kind and aspect, was carefully swept into one common receptacle; the mingled mass enveloped in pastry and enclosed within the duly heated oven … ” and Lo! Mince Pies!
They were briefly banned during the Puritan era, along with everything else that was fun, one killjoy writer even going so far as to describe them as “idolatry in crust”, but thankfully they were restored to the Christmas menu with the Restoration of the monarchy. Sometimes they were very large, and the envy of foreign visitors to England, such as the Frenchman M. Misson. In 1698 he wrote that "Every family against Christmas makes a famous Pye, which they call Christmas Pye. It is a great Nostrum the Composition of this Pasty. It is a most learned Mixture of Neats-tongues, Chicken, Eggs, Sugar, Raisins, Lemon and Orange Peel, various kinds of Spices etc."
If you want extra Christian symbolism with your traditional pie, you can make them crib-shaped (they used to also be called “crib pies”) to represent the manger, and add three spices (cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves) to represent the gifts of the three wise men. If you want extra secular tradition with the tradition, eat one every day of the twelve days of Christmas (until January 6th) to have twelve lucky months.
In Queensland of course, at this time of the year “the goodly litter of the cupboard” includes mangoes, so here is a mincemeat recipe from the Australian Women’s Mirror in 1932.
Queensland Mincemeat.
Peel and slice enough green mangoes to make, when run through mincer 1 cup of pulp (minus excess juice). Add ½ cup sugar, 1 cup currants, 1 cup raisins cut up finely, 2 heaped Tabs. Home-made orange marmalade, 1 heaped Tbs. Butter and 1 ½ tsp. Mixed spice. Mix thoroughly.
On Monday: Some baloney about Bologna.
2006 Update: There is a collection of Vintage Christmas Recipes HERE.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Sex and Science in the kitchen.
Today, December 15 …
On this day in 1926, Dr John Harvey Kellogg, the man who gave us cornflakes, gave a speech to the Chicago Medical Society on the danger of excessive weight loss “to meet the demand of the fashion for slimness”. Few of us would argue with that theory, nor his promotion of regular exercise. Vegetarianism is OK too, for those who don't mind murdering plants, although his was a strict, condiment-free version.
Actually, he wasn’t keen on anything even remotely spicy. All “sexual excess” was sinful, and he had so broad idea an of “excess” that he spent his honeymoon in 1892 writing “Plain Facts for Old and Young: Embracing the Natural History and Hygiene of Organic Life”. He also managed to distract himself from dangerous excesses by the practice and promotion of what we would now call “klismaphilia” (look it up!).
John and Ella never had children, so perhaps his dedication to writing pre-occupied him beyond their honeymoon. She occupied herself with writing too, and in 1893 published “Science in the Kitchen. A Scientific Treatise on Food Substances and their Dietetic Properties, Together with a Practical Explanation of the Principles of Healthful Cookery, and a Large Number of Original, Palatable, and Wholesome Recipes”.
Wholesome, perhaps. Palatable? I leave it to you to decide.
A sample daily menu:
BREAKFAST
Fresh Fruits
Graham Grits and Cream
Prune Toast
Graham Puffs
Cream Crisps
Strawberries
Caramel Coffee or Hot Milk
DINNER
Vegetable Broth with Toasted Rolls
Baked Potato with Pease Gravy
Stewed Asparagus
Cracked Wheat and Cream
Whole-Wheat Bread
Canned Berries
Manioca with Fruit
Caramel Coffee or Hot Milk
Real coffee being forbidden (too stimulating), you must substitute:
Caramel Coffee. Take three quarts best bran, one quart corn meal, three tablespoonfuls of molasses; mix and brown in the oven like ordinary coffee. For every cup of coffee required, use one heaping tablespoonful of the caramel. Pour boiling water over it, and steep, not boil, for fifteen or twenty minutes.
Instead of bacon:
Prune Toast. Cook prunes,allowing them to simmer very slowly for a long time. When done, rub through a colander, and if quite thin, they should be stewed again for a time, until they are about the consistency of marmalade. Moisten slices of zwieback with hot cream, and serve with a spoonful or two of the prune dressing on each. One third dried apple may be used with the prune, if preferred.
Tomorrow: The goodly litter of the cupboard.
On this day in 1926, Dr John Harvey Kellogg, the man who gave us cornflakes, gave a speech to the Chicago Medical Society on the danger of excessive weight loss “to meet the demand of the fashion for slimness”. Few of us would argue with that theory, nor his promotion of regular exercise. Vegetarianism is OK too, for those who don't mind murdering plants, although his was a strict, condiment-free version.
Actually, he wasn’t keen on anything even remotely spicy. All “sexual excess” was sinful, and he had so broad idea an of “excess” that he spent his honeymoon in 1892 writing “Plain Facts for Old and Young: Embracing the Natural History and Hygiene of Organic Life”. He also managed to distract himself from dangerous excesses by the practice and promotion of what we would now call “klismaphilia” (look it up!).
John and Ella never had children, so perhaps his dedication to writing pre-occupied him beyond their honeymoon. She occupied herself with writing too, and in 1893 published “Science in the Kitchen. A Scientific Treatise on Food Substances and their Dietetic Properties, Together with a Practical Explanation of the Principles of Healthful Cookery, and a Large Number of Original, Palatable, and Wholesome Recipes”.
Wholesome, perhaps. Palatable? I leave it to you to decide.
A sample daily menu:
BREAKFAST
Fresh Fruits
Graham Grits and Cream
Prune Toast
Graham Puffs
Cream Crisps
Strawberries
Caramel Coffee or Hot Milk
DINNER
Vegetable Broth with Toasted Rolls
Baked Potato with Pease Gravy
Stewed Asparagus
Cracked Wheat and Cream
Whole-Wheat Bread
Canned Berries
Manioca with Fruit
Caramel Coffee or Hot Milk
Real coffee being forbidden (too stimulating), you must substitute:
Caramel Coffee. Take three quarts best bran, one quart corn meal, three tablespoonfuls of molasses; mix and brown in the oven like ordinary coffee. For every cup of coffee required, use one heaping tablespoonful of the caramel. Pour boiling water over it, and steep, not boil, for fifteen or twenty minutes.
Instead of bacon:
Prune Toast. Cook prunes,allowing them to simmer very slowly for a long time. When done, rub through a colander, and if quite thin, they should be stewed again for a time, until they are about the consistency of marmalade. Moisten slices of zwieback with hot cream, and serve with a spoonful or two of the prune dressing on each. One third dried apple may be used with the prune, if preferred.
Tomorrow: The goodly litter of the cupboard.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
A prophet in the kitchen.
Today, December 14 …
Michel de Nostredame, better known by his Latinised name of Nostradamus was born on this day in Provence in 1503. What has this “prophet” got to do with food, you ask? Well, it just goes to show that the interest in his “prophesies” is so great that it has completely overwhelmed his work as a physician. And what has his work as a physician got to do with food, you ask? Well, in those days they believed that medicine was food, and food was medicine – a modern idea, no?
His “prophesies” were written in such obscure and convoluted language that they may be interpreted as broadly as the interpreter wishes. Luckily, his other book, “An excellent and most useful little work essential to all who wish to become acquainted with some exquisite recipes”, also published in 1555, is much more straightforward.
There were numerous jellies and sweetmeats amongst the more obviously medicinal recipes, including this one:
How to make a jam or preserve with heart-cherries, which the Italians call 'amarenes'.
Take some of the nicest heart-cherries you can find, good and ripe … Take three pounds or so of them. Then take a pound-and-a-half of sugar, and let it dissolve in the juice of three or four pounds of other heart-cherries. And take care that once the juice has been extracted you add it to the sugar at once. .. Boil it up as quickly as possible … When you have removed all the scum and can see that your sugar is as red as it was to start with and is thoroughly clarified, … immediately put in the heart-cherries to boil, stirring them neither too much nor too little, until they are perfect, all the while removing the scum on the top with a spatula. Do not take them off the fire until they are cooked right through ... Then put one drop on a pewter plate, and once you see that it will not run down in either direction, they are ready. … pour them while still hot into small containers holding three or four ounces each. You will then have beautiful red, whole heart-cherries with a wonderful taste that will keep for a long time.
… if a sick person takes just a single one, it will be to him like a balsam or other restorative.
Might come in handy for the post-Christmas sloth, yes?
Tomorrow: Sex and Science in the kitchen.
Michel de Nostredame, better known by his Latinised name of Nostradamus was born on this day in Provence in 1503. What has this “prophet” got to do with food, you ask? Well, it just goes to show that the interest in his “prophesies” is so great that it has completely overwhelmed his work as a physician. And what has his work as a physician got to do with food, you ask? Well, in those days they believed that medicine was food, and food was medicine – a modern idea, no?
His “prophesies” were written in such obscure and convoluted language that they may be interpreted as broadly as the interpreter wishes. Luckily, his other book, “An excellent and most useful little work essential to all who wish to become acquainted with some exquisite recipes”, also published in 1555, is much more straightforward.
There were numerous jellies and sweetmeats amongst the more obviously medicinal recipes, including this one:
How to make a jam or preserve with heart-cherries, which the Italians call 'amarenes'.
Take some of the nicest heart-cherries you can find, good and ripe … Take three pounds or so of them. Then take a pound-and-a-half of sugar, and let it dissolve in the juice of three or four pounds of other heart-cherries. And take care that once the juice has been extracted you add it to the sugar at once. .. Boil it up as quickly as possible … When you have removed all the scum and can see that your sugar is as red as it was to start with and is thoroughly clarified, … immediately put in the heart-cherries to boil, stirring them neither too much nor too little, until they are perfect, all the while removing the scum on the top with a spatula. Do not take them off the fire until they are cooked right through ... Then put one drop on a pewter plate, and once you see that it will not run down in either direction, they are ready. … pour them while still hot into small containers holding three or four ounces each. You will then have beautiful red, whole heart-cherries with a wonderful taste that will keep for a long time.
… if a sick person takes just a single one, it will be to him like a balsam or other restorative.
Might come in handy for the post-Christmas sloth, yes?
Tomorrow: Sex and Science in the kitchen.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Minding the belly.
Today, December 13th …
Samuel Johnson – “the second most quoted man in the world” - died on this day in 1783. His admirers around the world have formed societies to celebrate his life and work, the first one (The Johnson Society) being formed in London in 1884. Every year it held a supper of steak and ale on the anniversary of his death.
Some of his most deliciously quotable sayings are on the topic of food:
“Some people have a foolish way of not minding, or pretending not to mind, what they eat. For my part, I mind my belly very studiously and very carefully, for I look upon it that he who does not mind his belly will hardly mind anything else”
“A man seldom thinks with more earnestness of any thing than he does of his dinner; and if he cannot get that well dressed, he should be suspected of inaccuracy in other things."
"A cucumber should be well sliced, and dressed with pepper and vinegar, and then thrown out, as good for nothing."
Sam’s magnum opus was, of course, his dictionary, and his definitions are far wittier than most:
Oats: A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.
Kickshaw: A dish so changed by the cookery that it can scarcely be known.
The word “kickshaw” comes from the French “quelque chose”, and came to mean any dish so frivolous it could not possibly have an English origin.
The authorship of Hannah Glasse’s famous “Art of Cookery made plain and easy …”, published in 1747, was the subject of much debate at the time, with Samuel himself weighing in on the side that said it was written by a man, for “women can spin very well, but they cannot make a good book of cookery.” He thought that he himself could write a very good cookbook, because he would write it upon “philosophical principles”.
In spite of her vigorous condemnation of the fad for French cooks, Hannah did include a recipe for a “kickshaw” in her book:
Kickshaws
Make puff paste, roll it thin, and if you have any moulds work it upon them; make them up with preserved pippins: you may fill some with gooseberries, some with raspberries, or what you please: then close them up, and either bake or fry them; throw grated sugar over them, and serve them up.
Tomorrow: A prophet in the kitchen.
Samuel Johnson – “the second most quoted man in the world” - died on this day in 1783. His admirers around the world have formed societies to celebrate his life and work, the first one (The Johnson Society) being formed in London in 1884. Every year it held a supper of steak and ale on the anniversary of his death.
Some of his most deliciously quotable sayings are on the topic of food:
“Some people have a foolish way of not minding, or pretending not to mind, what they eat. For my part, I mind my belly very studiously and very carefully, for I look upon it that he who does not mind his belly will hardly mind anything else”
“A man seldom thinks with more earnestness of any thing than he does of his dinner; and if he cannot get that well dressed, he should be suspected of inaccuracy in other things."
"A cucumber should be well sliced, and dressed with pepper and vinegar, and then thrown out, as good for nothing."
Sam’s magnum opus was, of course, his dictionary, and his definitions are far wittier than most:
Oats: A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.
Kickshaw: A dish so changed by the cookery that it can scarcely be known.
The word “kickshaw” comes from the French “quelque chose”, and came to mean any dish so frivolous it could not possibly have an English origin.
The authorship of Hannah Glasse’s famous “Art of Cookery made plain and easy …”, published in 1747, was the subject of much debate at the time, with Samuel himself weighing in on the side that said it was written by a man, for “women can spin very well, but they cannot make a good book of cookery.” He thought that he himself could write a very good cookbook, because he would write it upon “philosophical principles”.
In spite of her vigorous condemnation of the fad for French cooks, Hannah did include a recipe for a “kickshaw” in her book:
Kickshaws
Make puff paste, roll it thin, and if you have any moulds work it upon them; make them up with preserved pippins: you may fill some with gooseberries, some with raspberries, or what you please: then close them up, and either bake or fry them; throw grated sugar over them, and serve them up.
Tomorrow: A prophet in the kitchen.
Monday, December 12, 2005
First catch your cockatoo.
Today, December 12 …
An Australian Christmas theme today, by popular request. We have met Ludwig Leichhardt before, on his overland expedition across the continent. Ludwig was very mindful of maintaining morale amongst his men, and always attempted to mark special days, no matter how difficult the circumstances.
On this day in 1844 he wrote:
Our meat was all consumed; but we wished to reserve our bullocks for Christmas, which was, in every one of us, so intimately associated with recollections of happy days and merriment, that I was determined to make the coming season as merry as our circumstances permitted.
A few days later, he decided to take advantage of the good weather and killed the beast early. While the flesh was drying, he and several of his party went off on a reconnoitering expedition. When they returned on Christmas Day his companions were just sitting down to their Christmas dinner of “suet pudding and stewed cockatoos”.
Parrots and cockatoos were a common bush food for early explorers and settlers, with varying degrees of enthusiasm: “Parrot-pie is as much esteemed in Australia as rook-pie in England” – which gives you some idea of the esteem level. More likely it was felt that “Parrot pie is pretty good; at least, it may be so when other animal food is scarce”. Parrot stew became a bush joke, with many variations of the recipe “take a parrot and an axe-head, boil them until the axe-head is tender, throw the parrot away and eat the axe-head.”
Very oddly, later editions of Mrs. Beeton (after her death in 1869) had chapters on “General Observations on Australian Cookery”, no doubt on the assumption that copies would be taken to the colonies, which they were.
Parrot Pie
Ingredients: 1 doz. paraqueets, a few slices of beef (underdone cold beef is best for this purpose), 4 rashers of bacon, 3 hard-boiled eggs, minced parsley and lemon peel, pepper and salt, stock, puff-paste.
Mode: Line a pie-dish with the beef cut into slices, over them place 6 of the paraqueets, dredge with flour, fill up the spaces with the egg cut in slices and scatter over the seasoning. Next put in the bacon, cut in small strips, then 6 paraqueets and fill up with the beef, seasoning all well. Pour in stock or water to nearly fill the dish, cover with puff-paste and bake for one hour.
Tomorrow: Minding the belly.
An Australian Christmas theme today, by popular request. We have met Ludwig Leichhardt before, on his overland expedition across the continent. Ludwig was very mindful of maintaining morale amongst his men, and always attempted to mark special days, no matter how difficult the circumstances.
On this day in 1844 he wrote:
Our meat was all consumed; but we wished to reserve our bullocks for Christmas, which was, in every one of us, so intimately associated with recollections of happy days and merriment, that I was determined to make the coming season as merry as our circumstances permitted.
A few days later, he decided to take advantage of the good weather and killed the beast early. While the flesh was drying, he and several of his party went off on a reconnoitering expedition. When they returned on Christmas Day his companions were just sitting down to their Christmas dinner of “suet pudding and stewed cockatoos”.
Parrots and cockatoos were a common bush food for early explorers and settlers, with varying degrees of enthusiasm: “Parrot-pie is as much esteemed in Australia as rook-pie in England” – which gives you some idea of the esteem level. More likely it was felt that “Parrot pie is pretty good; at least, it may be so when other animal food is scarce”. Parrot stew became a bush joke, with many variations of the recipe “take a parrot and an axe-head, boil them until the axe-head is tender, throw the parrot away and eat the axe-head.”
Very oddly, later editions of Mrs. Beeton (after her death in 1869) had chapters on “General Observations on Australian Cookery”, no doubt on the assumption that copies would be taken to the colonies, which they were.
Parrot Pie
Ingredients: 1 doz. paraqueets, a few slices of beef (underdone cold beef is best for this purpose), 4 rashers of bacon, 3 hard-boiled eggs, minced parsley and lemon peel, pepper and salt, stock, puff-paste.
Mode: Line a pie-dish with the beef cut into slices, over them place 6 of the paraqueets, dredge with flour, fill up the spaces with the egg cut in slices and scatter over the seasoning. Next put in the bacon, cut in small strips, then 6 paraqueets and fill up with the beef, seasoning all well. Pour in stock or water to nearly fill the dish, cover with puff-paste and bake for one hour.
Tomorrow: Minding the belly.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Pottages for the King’s Dyet.
Today, December 9 …
A new employee started on this day in 1674 in the Kings Privy Kitchen. Charles II had appointed a “French Cooke for the making of Pottages for our Dyet”.
Too many years of dull Puritan rule had made England yearn for European fun and fashion in all things. Now it had Royal affirmation. There would be no resisting the extravagance of the court of the Sun King, Louis XIV, particularly at Versailles. The Frenchification of English food was inevitable, even if it remained controversial and in some quarters, resented. In 1747, Hannah Glasse said “So much is the blind Folly of this Age, that they would rather be impos'd on by a French Booby, than give Encouragement to a good English Cook!”
In the year of the appointment of Charles’ cook, “several approved cooks of London and Westminster” published a book called “The English and French cook … ”, which described “the best and newest ways of ordering and dressing all sorts of flesh, fish and fowl”, which was “full and plain so that from the Maid to the Master Cook, all may reap benefit”. It has a selection of “potages and soops” that would put a modern cookbook to shame, so what to choose for you? Potage made from quails, larks, thrushes, tortoises, or “farced” (stuffed) barnacles? “An excellent Potage to cleanse the blood”? “Potage without the sight of Herbs”?
I was tempted by the recipe for a pottage made from “lamb’s purtenances”, but they seem to be in short supply these days, so a Lenten pottage (from frogs), and a very modern-sounding raspberry soup will have to do.
Potage of Frogs.
Having broken their bones and trust them, blanch them, and drain them very well, then lay them into a Dish till you have made some Pease-broth, fry into it a little minced Parsley with Butter; having boiled a while , put the Frogs into your broth, but take them out presently, then allay a little Saffron, and put it into your Pot, having soaked your Bread, garnish it with the Frogs.
Pottage of Rasberries.
Take the yolks of half a dozen Eggs, and allay them with the juyce of a pint of rasberries, then put over a pottle of Milk, and when it boils, pour in your ingredients aforesaid, stir it very well, season with a little Salt, then dish it and garnish it with Rasberries.
On Monday … First catch your cockatoo
A new employee started on this day in 1674 in the Kings Privy Kitchen. Charles II had appointed a “French Cooke for the making of Pottages for our Dyet”.
Too many years of dull Puritan rule had made England yearn for European fun and fashion in all things. Now it had Royal affirmation. There would be no resisting the extravagance of the court of the Sun King, Louis XIV, particularly at Versailles. The Frenchification of English food was inevitable, even if it remained controversial and in some quarters, resented. In 1747, Hannah Glasse said “So much is the blind Folly of this Age, that they would rather be impos'd on by a French Booby, than give Encouragement to a good English Cook!”
In the year of the appointment of Charles’ cook, “several approved cooks of London and Westminster” published a book called “The English and French cook … ”, which described “the best and newest ways of ordering and dressing all sorts of flesh, fish and fowl”, which was “full and plain so that from the Maid to the Master Cook, all may reap benefit”. It has a selection of “potages and soops” that would put a modern cookbook to shame, so what to choose for you? Potage made from quails, larks, thrushes, tortoises, or “farced” (stuffed) barnacles? “An excellent Potage to cleanse the blood”? “Potage without the sight of Herbs”?
I was tempted by the recipe for a pottage made from “lamb’s purtenances”, but they seem to be in short supply these days, so a Lenten pottage (from frogs), and a very modern-sounding raspberry soup will have to do.
Potage of Frogs.
Having broken their bones and trust them, blanch them, and drain them very well, then lay them into a Dish till you have made some Pease-broth, fry into it a little minced Parsley with Butter; having boiled a while , put the Frogs into your broth, but take them out presently, then allay a little Saffron, and put it into your Pot, having soaked your Bread, garnish it with the Frogs.
Pottage of Rasberries.
Take the yolks of half a dozen Eggs, and allay them with the juyce of a pint of rasberries, then put over a pottle of Milk, and when it boils, pour in your ingredients aforesaid, stir it very well, season with a little Salt, then dish it and garnish it with Rasberries.
On Monday … First catch your cockatoo
Thursday, December 08, 2005
To tease a jaded palate.
Today, December 8 ...
The Roman lyric poet Horace was born on this day in 65BC. In one of his “Satires” he illuminates the extravagant excesses of the obscenely wealthy by describing a dinner held by a boring and pretentious host. When a large wall-hanging fell down, bringing with it much dust and dirt, the guests could hardly contain their glee at his discomfort.
Among the “things that tease a jaded palate” were wild boar (caught when a soft southerly blew), crane’s legs, blackbirds with “charred” breasts, the liver of a white goose fattened on figs, and …
“ … Then a lamprey was brought in, lying on a great platter with shrimp sauce. Our host informed us that it had been caught before spawning, as its meat is less succulent if caught after spawning, and he gave us the recipe for the sauce. ‘You need virgin oil from Venafrum; roe and juices from the Spanish mackerel, a domestic wine five years old, added while the sauce is simmering … ”
The lamprey is a scaleless parasitic fish that looks like an eel, with a powerful sucker for a mouth, and was prized as a delicacy from ancient times - especially during Lent, because of its oily flesh and gamey taste. A large lamprey pie was a traditional demonstration of loyalty from the Corporation of Gloucester (the best lampreys came for the river Severn) to the King or Queen at the Coronation. After a century in the doldrums, the practice was resurrected in 1953 for Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation.
It is odd, this enthusiasm to give lampreys to royalty, given that Henry I is supposed to have died from eating “a surfeit” of them. Are the burghers of Gloucester trying to send a message to his descendants in the First Family?
Here are the 15th century instructions to prepare your lamprey by first drowning it in red wine (with the lid on the pot in case it leapt out), before cooking it in its own blood:
Take a quicke lamprey; do hem in a pott. Do thereto a porcyon of rede wine, & stop the pott above that he lepe nought out. When he ys endyng, take hym out & put hym in scalding watyr; & take hym in a linnen cloth in thy hond, & strip hem well that all the glame go awey, & save the skuyn hole …
Tomorrow … Pottages for the King’s Dyet. …
The Roman lyric poet Horace was born on this day in 65BC. In one of his “Satires” he illuminates the extravagant excesses of the obscenely wealthy by describing a dinner held by a boring and pretentious host. When a large wall-hanging fell down, bringing with it much dust and dirt, the guests could hardly contain their glee at his discomfort.
Among the “things that tease a jaded palate” were wild boar (caught when a soft southerly blew), crane’s legs, blackbirds with “charred” breasts, the liver of a white goose fattened on figs, and …
“ … Then a lamprey was brought in, lying on a great platter with shrimp sauce. Our host informed us that it had been caught before spawning, as its meat is less succulent if caught after spawning, and he gave us the recipe for the sauce. ‘You need virgin oil from Venafrum; roe and juices from the Spanish mackerel, a domestic wine five years old, added while the sauce is simmering … ”
The lamprey is a scaleless parasitic fish that looks like an eel, with a powerful sucker for a mouth, and was prized as a delicacy from ancient times - especially during Lent, because of its oily flesh and gamey taste. A large lamprey pie was a traditional demonstration of loyalty from the Corporation of Gloucester (the best lampreys came for the river Severn) to the King or Queen at the Coronation. After a century in the doldrums, the practice was resurrected in 1953 for Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation.
It is odd, this enthusiasm to give lampreys to royalty, given that Henry I is supposed to have died from eating “a surfeit” of them. Are the burghers of Gloucester trying to send a message to his descendants in the First Family?
Here are the 15th century instructions to prepare your lamprey by first drowning it in red wine (with the lid on the pot in case it leapt out), before cooking it in its own blood:
Take a quicke lamprey; do hem in a pott. Do thereto a porcyon of rede wine, & stop the pott above that he lepe nought out. When he ys endyng, take hym out & put hym in scalding watyr; & take hym in a linnen cloth in thy hond, & strip hem well that all the glame go awey, & save the skuyn hole …
Tomorrow … Pottages for the King’s Dyet. …
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Prayers in the kitchen.
Today, December 7th …
On this day in 1824 the Royal Horticultural Society of London heard "An Account and Description of the Different Varieties of Strawberries which have been cultivated and examined in the garden of the Horticultural Society". The strawberry had finally yielded to several hundred years of natural and deliberate hybridisation of Old and New World wild varieties, and become a berry that we would find familiar today.
Wild strawberries were enjoyed for centuries before this of course, and we probably still agree with the ex-monk, physician and nutrition writer Andrew Boorde that simple is best. He said “Rawe crayme [cream] undecocted, eaten with strawberyes … is a rurall mannes banket [banquet]” (1542)
There were some recipes for cooking with strawberries in the sixteenth century, but the problem with trying to recreate recipes from this era is that the cookbooks were, to say the very least, minimalist. They were meant as memory aides for the few literate household staff, and, (like computer manuals today) were based on much assumed knowledge. There was less information to impart anyway – there were no strict cooking times (no clocks in kitchens), no cooking temperatures (no thermometers) and ingredient amounts were vague (no standardised measuring implements).
Literacy rates were very low, but even illiterate kitchen staff were expected to be able to say their prayers, and cooking times were sometimes given as the duration of a particular prayer, or combination of prayers. A short time might be several “Paternoster whiles” or “Ave Maria whiles” - which, I am reliably informed, are about 20 seconds and 13 seconds each respectively.
The anonymous author of “A Propre New Booke of Cokery” (1545) assumes that you know how much butter and how many strawberries to use, and the number of crusts for a strawberry tart. You will need to have your oven “hot enough”, and cook the tart “till it be done”.
To make a tarte of strawberies.
Take and strayne them with the yolkes of foure egges and a little white brede [bread] grated, then ceason it up with sugar and swete butter and so bake it.
“Anonymous” does, however, give us the first known recipe for pastry.
To make short paest for tarte.
Take fyne floure and a cursey of fayre water and a dyshe of swete butter and a lyttel saffron, and the yolckes of two egges and make it thynne and tender as ye maye.
Tomorrow … To tease a jaded palate.
On this day in 1824 the Royal Horticultural Society of London heard "An Account and Description of the Different Varieties of Strawberries which have been cultivated and examined in the garden of the Horticultural Society". The strawberry had finally yielded to several hundred years of natural and deliberate hybridisation of Old and New World wild varieties, and become a berry that we would find familiar today.
Wild strawberries were enjoyed for centuries before this of course, and we probably still agree with the ex-monk, physician and nutrition writer Andrew Boorde that simple is best. He said “Rawe crayme [cream] undecocted, eaten with strawberyes … is a rurall mannes banket [banquet]” (1542)
There were some recipes for cooking with strawberries in the sixteenth century, but the problem with trying to recreate recipes from this era is that the cookbooks were, to say the very least, minimalist. They were meant as memory aides for the few literate household staff, and, (like computer manuals today) were based on much assumed knowledge. There was less information to impart anyway – there were no strict cooking times (no clocks in kitchens), no cooking temperatures (no thermometers) and ingredient amounts were vague (no standardised measuring implements).
Literacy rates were very low, but even illiterate kitchen staff were expected to be able to say their prayers, and cooking times were sometimes given as the duration of a particular prayer, or combination of prayers. A short time might be several “Paternoster whiles” or “Ave Maria whiles” - which, I am reliably informed, are about 20 seconds and 13 seconds each respectively.
The anonymous author of “A Propre New Booke of Cokery” (1545) assumes that you know how much butter and how many strawberries to use, and the number of crusts for a strawberry tart. You will need to have your oven “hot enough”, and cook the tart “till it be done”.
To make a tarte of strawberies.
Take and strayne them with the yolkes of foure egges and a little white brede [bread] grated, then ceason it up with sugar and swete butter and so bake it.
“Anonymous” does, however, give us the first known recipe for pastry.
To make short paest for tarte.
Take fyne floure and a cursey of fayre water and a dyshe of swete butter and a lyttel saffron, and the yolckes of two egges and make it thynne and tender as ye maye.
Tomorrow … To tease a jaded palate.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
The food which is also a toy.
Today, December 6th …
What a relief to have a jolly saint for the day – one who is rotund and generous rather than skeletal and ascetic! It is of course St Nicholas’ day – the saint who has been transformed by popular vote into “Santa Claus”, who even in real life was associated with anonymous gift-giving. He was born in the third century AD in what is now Turkey, and is now particularly revered in Northern Europe, where his day marks the beginning of the Christmas season.
He is the only saint who has a special beer brewed and named in his honour. The Swiss lager called “Samichlaus” (Santa Claus) is made on December 6th one year and released on December 6th the next. At an awesome 14% alcohol the beer probably assists in the development of jollity even more than most!
As befits a jolly saint, he is also associated with the most fun food – gingerbread – the food which is also a toy, as it can be made into gingerbread men or gingerbread houses, or even in some areas, gingerbread pigs.
“Gingerbread” did not always mean “cake”. Originally it simply meant preserved ginger, but by the middle ages it was a fudgy sort of concoction, made with honey and breadcrumbs flavoured with a variety of spices, which could be cut or moulded into different shapes. Supposedly Queen Elizabeth I had gingerbread made to represent her favourite courtiers, which is a good enough reason for me to give you a courtly recipe from her era, from “Delights for ladies …” (Hugh Plat, 1602).
To make Gingerbread.
Take three stale manchets [small loaves] and grate them, drie them, and sift them through a fine sieve, then adde unto them one ounce of ginger being beaten, and as much Cinamon, one ounce of liquerice & anniseedes beeing beaten together and searced [sifted], halfe a pound of sugar, then boile all these together in a posnet [3 legged metal pot], with a quart of claret wine till they come to a stiff paste with often stirring of it; and when it is stiffe, molde it on a table and so drie it thin, & pring it in your moldes, dust your moldes with Cinamon, Ginger, and liquerice, being mixed together in fine powder. This is your Gingerbread used at Court, and in all gentlemens houses at festivall times.
Tomorrow … Prayers in the kitchen.
What a relief to have a jolly saint for the day – one who is rotund and generous rather than skeletal and ascetic! It is of course St Nicholas’ day – the saint who has been transformed by popular vote into “Santa Claus”, who even in real life was associated with anonymous gift-giving. He was born in the third century AD in what is now Turkey, and is now particularly revered in Northern Europe, where his day marks the beginning of the Christmas season.
He is the only saint who has a special beer brewed and named in his honour. The Swiss lager called “Samichlaus” (Santa Claus) is made on December 6th one year and released on December 6th the next. At an awesome 14% alcohol the beer probably assists in the development of jollity even more than most!
As befits a jolly saint, he is also associated with the most fun food – gingerbread – the food which is also a toy, as it can be made into gingerbread men or gingerbread houses, or even in some areas, gingerbread pigs.
“Gingerbread” did not always mean “cake”. Originally it simply meant preserved ginger, but by the middle ages it was a fudgy sort of concoction, made with honey and breadcrumbs flavoured with a variety of spices, which could be cut or moulded into different shapes. Supposedly Queen Elizabeth I had gingerbread made to represent her favourite courtiers, which is a good enough reason for me to give you a courtly recipe from her era, from “Delights for ladies …” (Hugh Plat, 1602).
To make Gingerbread.
Take three stale manchets [small loaves] and grate them, drie them, and sift them through a fine sieve, then adde unto them one ounce of ginger being beaten, and as much Cinamon, one ounce of liquerice & anniseedes beeing beaten together and searced [sifted], halfe a pound of sugar, then boile all these together in a posnet [3 legged metal pot], with a quart of claret wine till they come to a stiff paste with often stirring of it; and when it is stiffe, molde it on a table and so drie it thin, & pring it in your moldes, dust your moldes with Cinamon, Ginger, and liquerice, being mixed together in fine powder. This is your Gingerbread used at Court, and in all gentlemens houses at festivall times.
Tomorrow … Prayers in the kitchen.
Monday, December 05, 2005
A long experiment.
Today, December 5th …
The “Noble Experiment” of Prohibition ended on this day in 1933 in the USA. For 13 years, 10 months, 19 days, 17 hours, 32½ minutes, the country had been officially “dry”.
Unofficially of course, it was pretty well as wet as ever. The experiment did not so much fail as backfire, and some historians believe alcohol consumption actually increased, particularly among the young. Alcohol was (and is) closely woven into the fabric of society, and powerful social forces ensured that society did not miss its favourite commodity. Against a background of great hypocrisy there was “widespread disregard” for the law, assisted by increased corruption, large-scale organised crime, sheer human ingenuity –and a few legal loopholes. Alcohol, for example, could be prescribed for medical reasons, so doctors became popular house-guests!
The actual number of drinking establishments probably doubled during Prohibition, and illegal “speakeasies” were not so choosy about legal drinking age. Homes became distilleries, with spirits being made from anything and everything fermentable. One very brilliant piece of marketing saw the sale of a “grape brick” of compressed dried fruit being sold with an attached packet of yeast which carried a “warning” that if it was added to the grape juice, “fermentation might result”.
A few restaurants survived what was the death-knell for most. Some indicated the availability of alcohol to well-known patrons by a discreet notice called an “Entre Nous” (Between Ourselves) slipped into the spine of the menu book. One such was the Biltmore, which listed Cocktail Los Angeles, Solera Theresa, Montebello, Crement Brut Chatreuse 1869, Fine Champagne Courvoisier V.V.O. 1848, and Perfection Scotch on its little note.
In 1919, the chef (Victor Hertzler) of the Hotel St Francis in San Francisco had produced a cookbook. Many of the recipes contained alcohol, so could not have been served for almost 14 years.
Victoria punch. Two pounds of sugar, two quarts of water, and the juice of six oranges, mixed. Then add a small glass of rhum, a small glass of kirsch, and a glass of sauternes. Freeze. Serve in glasses, covered with a meringue made with the white of three eggs and one-half pound of sugar.
A “Sorbet au Kirsch” served at the Repeal Dinner at the Waldorf Astoria in New York on the night of the 5th must have been similar to this frozen punch. The Old Foodie will send the full menu on request!
Tomorrow … The food which is also a toy.
The “Noble Experiment” of Prohibition ended on this day in 1933 in the USA. For 13 years, 10 months, 19 days, 17 hours, 32½ minutes, the country had been officially “dry”.
Unofficially of course, it was pretty well as wet as ever. The experiment did not so much fail as backfire, and some historians believe alcohol consumption actually increased, particularly among the young. Alcohol was (and is) closely woven into the fabric of society, and powerful social forces ensured that society did not miss its favourite commodity. Against a background of great hypocrisy there was “widespread disregard” for the law, assisted by increased corruption, large-scale organised crime, sheer human ingenuity –and a few legal loopholes. Alcohol, for example, could be prescribed for medical reasons, so doctors became popular house-guests!
The actual number of drinking establishments probably doubled during Prohibition, and illegal “speakeasies” were not so choosy about legal drinking age. Homes became distilleries, with spirits being made from anything and everything fermentable. One very brilliant piece of marketing saw the sale of a “grape brick” of compressed dried fruit being sold with an attached packet of yeast which carried a “warning” that if it was added to the grape juice, “fermentation might result”.
A few restaurants survived what was the death-knell for most. Some indicated the availability of alcohol to well-known patrons by a discreet notice called an “Entre Nous” (Between Ourselves) slipped into the spine of the menu book. One such was the Biltmore, which listed Cocktail Los Angeles, Solera Theresa, Montebello, Crement Brut Chatreuse 1869, Fine Champagne Courvoisier V.V.O. 1848, and Perfection Scotch on its little note.
In 1919, the chef (Victor Hertzler) of the Hotel St Francis in San Francisco had produced a cookbook. Many of the recipes contained alcohol, so could not have been served for almost 14 years.
Victoria punch. Two pounds of sugar, two quarts of water, and the juice of six oranges, mixed. Then add a small glass of rhum, a small glass of kirsch, and a glass of sauternes. Freeze. Serve in glasses, covered with a meringue made with the white of three eggs and one-half pound of sugar.
A “Sorbet au Kirsch” served at the Repeal Dinner at the Waldorf Astoria in New York on the night of the 5th must have been similar to this frozen punch. The Old Foodie will send the full menu on request!
Tomorrow … The food which is also a toy.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Eating backwards.
Today, December 2nd …
This was the day in 1936 that King Edward VIII made his final decision to marry the divorced American, Wallis Simpson. After spending the day discussing the impending constitutional crisis with the PM, he had dinner that eveing with Wallis and her cousin and aunt. This was the menu:
Clear Turtle Soup
Lobster Mousse with Light Piquant Sauce
Roast Pheasant
Potatoes Soufflé Mixed Green Salad
Bordeaux Wine
Frozen Fresh Pineapple and Toasted Cheese Savoury
Coffee and Liqueur
This habit of finishing a meal with a savoury – always hot, often “devilled”, and usually with cheese, salted or smoked fish, or bacon – is a peculiarly masculine English one. The idea, supposedly, was to cleanse the palate of the sweet course (the ladies having already left the room), before seriously tackling the port and cigars. A less colourful and much older explanation relates to the ancient belief that hard cheese “closed up the digestion” and therefore was sensible at the end of a large meal.
Edward and Wallis went into exile in France after his abdication. Meanwhile, the Vicomte de Mauduit a Frenchman with aristocratic origins, and self-styled “wandering nobleman”, had made the opposite journey some time before. He was “a born cook” and wrote several books about food while living in England in the 1930’s before mysteriously disappearing back in his native country the 1940’s. He said:
“Savouries are essentially an English dish, and are to the English what hors d’oeuvres are to the French, only backwards, in the sense that hors d’oeuvres begin a French meal and savouries end the English dinner.”
His recipe for “Welsh Rarebit” in “The Vicomte in the Kitchen” (1933) is quite acceptable, except for its name, for the dish should properly be called Welsh Rabbit (a full explication will have to wait until the completion of my “Almost Definitive History of Welsh Rabbit”, which, like so many other projects, is “pending”). As a matter of high principle, I cannot give this incorrectly titled recipe. I suppose a Frenchman can be trusted with fish and cream sauce however, especially if it is “en cocotte”.
Finnan en Cocottes.
Take the meat off a raw finnan haddock, cut it into fine flakes, and divide them into individual china dishes. Mix some whipped cream with some parmesan, salt, and cayenne, then pour this over the fish and bake in a quick oven for about ten minutes.
On Monday … A long experiment.
This was the day in 1936 that King Edward VIII made his final decision to marry the divorced American, Wallis Simpson. After spending the day discussing the impending constitutional crisis with the PM, he had dinner that eveing with Wallis and her cousin and aunt. This was the menu:
Clear Turtle Soup
Lobster Mousse with Light Piquant Sauce
Roast Pheasant
Potatoes Soufflé Mixed Green Salad
Bordeaux Wine
Frozen Fresh Pineapple and Toasted Cheese Savoury
Coffee and Liqueur
This habit of finishing a meal with a savoury – always hot, often “devilled”, and usually with cheese, salted or smoked fish, or bacon – is a peculiarly masculine English one. The idea, supposedly, was to cleanse the palate of the sweet course (the ladies having already left the room), before seriously tackling the port and cigars. A less colourful and much older explanation relates to the ancient belief that hard cheese “closed up the digestion” and therefore was sensible at the end of a large meal.
Edward and Wallis went into exile in France after his abdication. Meanwhile, the Vicomte de Mauduit a Frenchman with aristocratic origins, and self-styled “wandering nobleman”, had made the opposite journey some time before. He was “a born cook” and wrote several books about food while living in England in the 1930’s before mysteriously disappearing back in his native country the 1940’s. He said:
“Savouries are essentially an English dish, and are to the English what hors d’oeuvres are to the French, only backwards, in the sense that hors d’oeuvres begin a French meal and savouries end the English dinner.”
His recipe for “Welsh Rarebit” in “The Vicomte in the Kitchen” (1933) is quite acceptable, except for its name, for the dish should properly be called Welsh Rabbit (a full explication will have to wait until the completion of my “Almost Definitive History of Welsh Rabbit”, which, like so many other projects, is “pending”). As a matter of high principle, I cannot give this incorrectly titled recipe. I suppose a Frenchman can be trusted with fish and cream sauce however, especially if it is “en cocotte”.
Finnan en Cocottes.
Take the meat off a raw finnan haddock, cut it into fine flakes, and divide them into individual china dishes. Mix some whipped cream with some parmesan, salt, and cayenne, then pour this over the fish and bake in a quick oven for about ten minutes.
On Monday … A long experiment.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Liquid Lunches.
Today, December 1st …
The hotel that Somerset Maugham said symbolised “all the fables of the exotic East” opened on this day in 1887 in Singapore. There are no prizes for guessing that it was The Raffles.
It was the “high noon” of the British Empire, and the hotel was unflinchingly Colonial - with mod-cons. There were modern electric fans, but there were also punkah wallahs to work the canvas ceiling blades via ropes attached to their big toes. One must keep up appearances, mustn’t one?
Food was always a feature at The Raffles. The imported European chefs turned out hearty mutton-chop breakfasts that were, like the strict dress code, entirely appropriate for England. But there was Tiffin. Raffles was famous for its “Tiffin” - an Anglo-Indian concept first appearing at the beginning of the nineteenth century:
“The English corresponding term is luncheon: but how meagre a shadow is the European meal to its glowing Asiatic cousin.” [Thomas de Quincey].
This Asiatic cousin was a light, informal meal, usually buffet-style, of a variety of curry dishes served with the usual accompanying sambals. No mutton chops.
The word comes from a North England dialect word meaning “to take a little drink”. In other words, its original meaning may have suggested the liquid refreshment enjoyed by the sahibs and memsahibs who were naturally very thirsty in the tropical heat. Their drinking was facilitated by the “chit” system at The Raffles, which meant that drinks were never paid for at the time of consumption (a bit low-class, that) but were signed for, (and often never ultimately paid for), by the largely the long-term and permanent residents.
And what would be a discussion of The Raffles without instruction for its signature “tiff” for your next liquid lunch?
Singapore Sling: one half gin, one quarter cherry brandy, one quarter mixed fruit juices, a few drops Cointreau and Benedictine, a dash of Angostura bitters; top with a cherry and a slice of pineapple.
Should you insist on food too, for your tiffin lunch (or BBQ, if you must), here is a very simple Raffles recipe named for another of its literary guests.
Brochette of Prawns Rudyard Kipling.
350 gm King prawns, skewered and seasoned with salt, pepper, lemon juice. Fry until just done. Place on a bed of Saffron rice. Heat up some chopped Mango chutney, and pour over. Garnish with a sprig of parsley and serve.
Tomorrow …. Eating backwards.
The hotel that Somerset Maugham said symbolised “all the fables of the exotic East” opened on this day in 1887 in Singapore. There are no prizes for guessing that it was The Raffles.
It was the “high noon” of the British Empire, and the hotel was unflinchingly Colonial - with mod-cons. There were modern electric fans, but there were also punkah wallahs to work the canvas ceiling blades via ropes attached to their big toes. One must keep up appearances, mustn’t one?
Food was always a feature at The Raffles. The imported European chefs turned out hearty mutton-chop breakfasts that were, like the strict dress code, entirely appropriate for England. But there was Tiffin. Raffles was famous for its “Tiffin” - an Anglo-Indian concept first appearing at the beginning of the nineteenth century:
“The English corresponding term is luncheon: but how meagre a shadow is the European meal to its glowing Asiatic cousin.” [Thomas de Quincey].
This Asiatic cousin was a light, informal meal, usually buffet-style, of a variety of curry dishes served with the usual accompanying sambals. No mutton chops.
The word comes from a North England dialect word meaning “to take a little drink”. In other words, its original meaning may have suggested the liquid refreshment enjoyed by the sahibs and memsahibs who were naturally very thirsty in the tropical heat. Their drinking was facilitated by the “chit” system at The Raffles, which meant that drinks were never paid for at the time of consumption (a bit low-class, that) but were signed for, (and often never ultimately paid for), by the largely the long-term and permanent residents.
And what would be a discussion of The Raffles without instruction for its signature “tiff” for your next liquid lunch?
Singapore Sling: one half gin, one quarter cherry brandy, one quarter mixed fruit juices, a few drops Cointreau and Benedictine, a dash of Angostura bitters; top with a cherry and a slice of pineapple.
Should you insist on food too, for your tiffin lunch (or BBQ, if you must), here is a very simple Raffles recipe named for another of its literary guests.
Brochette of Prawns Rudyard Kipling.
350 gm King prawns, skewered and seasoned with salt, pepper, lemon juice. Fry until just done. Place on a bed of Saffron rice. Heat up some chopped Mango chutney, and pour over. Garnish with a sprig of parsley and serve.
Tomorrow …. Eating backwards.
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