Behind the Recipe -- Jeri Quinzio

Jack O'Lanterns and Spooky Spirits

“There is magic in the night when pumpkins glow by moonlight.”— Unknown.

Halloween pumpkins are everywhere these days. Carved into jack o’lanterns and lit with candles, they act as sentries on suburban porches. Plastic jack o’lanterns hold trick or treaters candies. Hollowed-out pumpkins lit with candles decorate Halloween tables. Some people even place them beside gravestones.

Why are pumpkins a Halloween symbol? Partly it’s the season. Pumpkins, like apples and pears, ripen in autumn. But we’re not obsessed with apples or pears the way we are with pumpkins. We don’t hollow them out, put candles in them, and decorate our doorsteps with them the way we do with pumpkins.

It all goes back to the Celts and the festival known as Samhain, which was celebrated on October 31^st when the year was ending, light was giving way to darkness, and the dead returned to earth. Some ghostly spirits were benign. They just wanted to visit and maybe have a treat. But other evil spirits came to make mischief. The Celts made sure they had some treats like fruits and nuts ready for them. Treats meant crops would be good in the coming year and livestock would be healthy. If there were no treats, the spirits might play tricks with crops or beasts.

 A traditional Irish turnip Jack-o'-lantern from the early 20th century. Photographed at the Museum of Country Life, Ireland. Attribution: Rannpháirtí anaithnid at English Wikipedia.

 

The Celts built bonfires to light the darkness. To ward against evil spirits, they hollowed out large turnips known as rutabagas or Swedes, and put a glowing coal or a candle in their centers. 

They placed the glowing rutabagas at their doorways, and carried them to light their way in the darkening days. Some said the lighted turnips were meant to welcome the good spirits. Others just wanted to keep the bad ones away.

Legend says that the custom originated with a man called Sean na Gealai, which means John of the little moon or, we might say, Jack o’Lantern. Sean had made a pact with the devil that kept him out of hell. But heaven wouldn’t have him, so he was fated to roam the earth until Judgment Day. To find his way through the dark, he carried a hollowed-out turnip lit with a glowing coal the devil had thrown at him.

After Celtic tradition was replaced by Christianity, the old Celtic practices morphed in Halloween observances. People still dressed up as strange creatures, provided treats for good spirits, and guarded against evil ones with hollowed-out, lighted rutabagas. Jack o’Lantern became jack o’lanterns, and when the Irish arrived in America, they brought the old custom along with them. Instead of using rutabagas, they used pumpkins, which were larger and easier to carve. 

By the middle of the nineteenth century, Americans were celebrating Halloween with parties, bobbing for apples, and dressing up in costumes. Halloween became a kids’ holiday after World War II when sugar rationing ended, and candy was available again. On the night itself, little kids dressed up in simple, often homemade, costumes and walked around their neighborhoods looking for treats and threatening tricks.

 

The role of grown-ups was to accompany kids too young to go out on their own. Or to stay home and dole out candy to the ghouls and goblins on their doorsteps, while pretending to be scared of the little monsters. In those days, most families simply carved their jack o’lanterns with a kitchen knife. They made two holes for eyes, another for a nose, and cut a jagged smile for a mouth.

Today, pumpkin carving is an art. Special pumpkin carving tools and kits are changing the face of jack o’lanterns. Sold online and in stores, the equipment includes drills, knives, scoops, stencils of bats, witches, ghosts, and fierce cats. There are pumpkin carving contests everywhere from local schools to the Food Network. NASA scientists at the Space Propulsion Laboratory vie to create the most outrageous ones.

 

Halloween has become a holiday for kids and adults alike, and pumpkins are Halloween icons. We not only carve them and decorate with them, we eat them. We feast on pumpkin pies, cakes, and ice cream, sprinkle pumpkin seeds on our salads and cereals, drink pumpkin ale, and flavor everything from doughnuts to coffee with the ubiquitous pumpkin pie spice.

Whether they’re elaborately carved works of art, or simple homemade jack o’lanterns, they still stand guard at our doorways during the season. We may not believe they’ll keep away evil spirits, but why take a chance?

 

 

 

 

My First Thai Ice Cream Roll

 

I just had my first – but certainly not my last – Thai ice cream roll at a small shop in Boston’s Chinatown called Juicy Spot Café.

Popular street foods in Southeast Asia, ice cream rolls are trending here in the U. S., probably because it’s so much fun to watch them being made. Plus, they not only taste good, but they look so pretty when they’re served.

The rolls are made from a base, which can be ice cream or yogurt, usually with something like fruit or seeds or even Nutella mixed into it, frozen, then shaped into small rolls, and topped with anything from grass jelly to chocolate chip cookies to whipped cream.

Deciding which roll to order isn’t easy. Should it be Unique Dragon, made with a dragon fruit and yogurt base, topped with more dragon fruit, strawberries, dark chocolate shavings, and chocolate drizzle? Or Chocolate Chip Espresso, made with an ice cream base with espresso, a chocolate chip cookie, ground espresso, whipped cream, and chocolate drizzle? Or maybe Watermelon Lychee, another ice cream base with lychee, watermelon, mochi, granola, and condensed milk drizzle? Or…?

                             

 

I chose Black Sesame this time because it seemed exotic. The rolls were made from an ice cream base mixed with black sesame seeds, then topped with more black sesame seeds, grass jelly, mochi, and condensed milk drizzle. Black sesame seeds are said to be extremely healthful. That had nothing to do with my decision.

The ice cream base is a light, milky mixture that’s not as rich or lush as ice cream in a good shop. But the process and the toppings are so fascinating and the flavors so unusual that it’s no wonder people are lining up to try the rolls.

I’ve learned that grass jelly, aka leaf jelly, is a typical Southeast Asian treat made from the leaves and stalks of a plant called mesona chineensis. It’s sold in cans. People usually cut it into small cubes, and serve it with fruit, evaporated milk or, in my case, atop black sesame ice cream rolls.

 

Mochi, as you probably know, is a Japanese rice cake. The frozen version is so popular here that it has its own freezer at my local Whole Foods.

The rolls are all made on an extremely cold (-30°) flat metal plate. First, the ice cream maker pours a small amount of the ice cream or yogurt mixture onto the plate, swirls it around a bit, and adds, for example, black sesame seeds. Then using two utensils that look like good-sized putty knives, she chops it up very fast into small pieces, then spreads the mixture out until it forms a thin even coating over the plate.

 

Then comes the fun part. Using one of the putty knives, she carefully scrapes sections of the frozen mixture into rolls and tucks them into a cup. There are usually six in all. Next she embellishes the dish with the various toppings and serves it. And you get to taste all the different flavors.

 

Ice cream – no matter how many kinds I try, there’s always another out there just waiting for me. Maybe next time, it’ll be Ferre-Roll Rocher or...

 

Almost time for dessert

 

Dessert: A Tale of Happy Endings will be out soon. Meanwhile, here's the cover and the blurb that Ken Albala, author of Noodle Soup, wrote about it.

‘Dessert is a perfectly delightful romp through the history of puddings and cakes and custards, everything from syllabubs to strawberry ice cream. Bring a big spoon.’ – Ken Albala

Biscotti baked just once. Twice as good.

 

The nut-filled, chocolate-frosted biscotti on your local café counter have little in common with their ancestors – rock-hard biscuits that kept Roman legions on the march and fed sailors on long sea voyages in the past. In those days, biscuits were baked twice to dry them out so they wouldn’t get moldy on a trip that would last for weeks.

Later known as hardtack, they weren’t sweetened or coated with chocolate either. They were made from a simple water and flour dough, and baked until they were hard. Really hard. They were made to last, not to enjoy.

 

 

Preserved Civil War era hardtack from the Wentworth Museum in Pensacola, Florida.

 

The name biscotti comes from the Latin panis biscotus, meaning twice-baked bread. Many different cultures made similar biscuits; they’re also called rusks and zwieback, which also means twice baked. Some were baked so hard babies could teeth on them. Today, grownups often soften their crisp biscotti by dipping them into a sweet wine such as vin santo for dessert.

Basically, biscotti were and are made by shaping the dough mixture into a loaf, baking it, letting it cool, then slicing it diagonally, and putting the slices back into the oven to bake for another ten or fifteen minutes to crisp them.

Over time, cooks began to add sugar or honey, butter, eggs, dried or candied fruits, nuts, and flavoring extracts such as almond, anise, or vanilla to their basic biscotti mixtures. Biscotti made with candied orange peel and almonds are a delightful combination. Dried cranberries and pistachios give biscotti the colors of Christmas. The variations are endless.

But not everyone wants their biscotti to be as crisp enough to dip, and they bake them just once to make a soft, light cookie. What do you call biscotti that are not baked twice? Una-cotti probably sounds too awkward to catch on. Most people just call them biscotti regardless of how many times they’re baked.

The first time I had these biscotti, I was surprised that they were baked just once and stayed soft, sweet, and delectable, and I loved them. My Aunt Jean gave me the recipe. She’d made them that way for years, and didn’t remember where they recipe came from or why they weren’t baked twice. But she said everyone liked them that way, so that’s the way she made them. Now, that’s the way I make them.

If you want a crisper version, just bake them for anther ten minutes after you slice them. But if you do go the soft route, don’t worry about keeping them for a long time. They’ll be eaten up right away.

 

 

 

 

Maraschino and walnut biscotti

 

½ cup butter              

1 ½ cups sugar                                   

Cream butter and sugar together and add –

6 eggs                                     

3 ½ cups flour                        

4 teaspoons baking powder   

2 teaspoons anise extract       

Mix all together then fold in –

½ cup chopped walnuts        

½ cup stemmed, drained, and chopped Maraschino cherries

Mixture will be sticky. Chill the dough in the refrigerator for a half hour or so, and it will be easier to handle. Turn onto floured board and shape into two loaves. Leave some space between them as they will spread a bit.

Preheat oven to 350°

Bake on a parchment lined cookie sheet for 15 to 20 minutes. The tops should be golden and when you insert a toothpick into the loaf, it should come out clean.

Cut into diagonal slices when the loaves have cooled a bit.

The recipe makes about three dozen biscotti, depending on how you slice them.

Killer dinner on the Orient Express

Those of us who see David Suchet when we hear the name Hercule Poirot will have to adjust our vision and imagine Kenneth Branagh in his place. He is Poirot in the new film version of Murder on the Orient Express.

Ever since its publication in 1934, Agatha Christie’s famed mystery has been adapted for radio, television, and film. Suchet played the detective who famously used his little grey cells to solve the murder in the PBS series. Albert Finney was Poirot in the 1974 film. And now, Branagh is directing and starring in another film version. No wonder the story’s popularity has endured. It’s the ultimate locked room mystery.

Although it’s not based on a true story (as they say in Hollywood), it does have a basis in reality.

Just imagine it’s January 1929, and you’re a passenger on your way to Istanbul on the famed Orient Express. Your compartment is luxurious and you know from past experience that the service will be impeccable. You also know that meals will rival those of any restaurant in Europe.

When the maître d’hotel welcomes you into the dining car, you see tables covered with fine white linens. Baccarat crystal glasses sparkle in the flattering glow of gas chandeliers, the sterling flatware gleams, and the porcelain plates are embellished with gold. The flowers on the tables are fresh and subtly fragrant.

You’re eager to read the menu. Perhaps tonight, after the consommé, there will be sole poached in white wine, one of your favorites. Then possibly you’ll choose the roast sirloin of beef, served with a fine Burgundy. Naturally the vegetables will be perfectly prepared; the breads freshly baked. There are sure to be wonderful cheeses of the region you’re passing through. You’re hoping the grand finale will be one of the soufflés the Orient Express is famous for or perhaps a selection of its own ices and ice creams. After dinner and a demitasse, you and your companions will retire to the smoking car for port and conversation. Perhaps you’ll play cards or simply enjoy the music of the pianist on board. Outside it’s snowing. Watching the snow swirl by the window makes you feel even warmer and more cosseted. Then the train stops.

But there is no stop scheduled here, just over the border from Budapest. One of the train attendants comes by and explains that it is nothing, just a few moments to clear the snow from tracks ahead. Sure enough, the train starts again. Before long it stops again. This time it’s more serious. Communications along the line are down, the snow is too deep to clear, the train is immobilized. You will spend six days here in the train, as it grows colder and the kitchen runs out of food.

 

When this actually happened, Christie was not aboard the train, nor was anyone murdered. But it was widely reported at the time, and she would have known about it.

Food was central to the Orient Express experience, and its passengers were not people who were accustomed to going without; however, in her book Christie barely mentioned food and never alluded to the lack of it. For Agatha Christie, being stranded on a train surrounded with snowdrifts unsullied by footprints meant just one thing – murder.

 

Cantaloupe and port sorbet

Enjoy your after-dinner port in the form of a sorbet as you picture yourself traveling on a luxurious train through Europe – without a murder.

Ingredients

One large or two small cantaloupes, cut up to make three cups

Pinch of salt

¾ cup sugar

¼ cup port

3 tablespoons of orange juice

Purée the cantaloupe pieces in a blender or food processor. Add the salt and sugar, and mix until the sugar is dissolved. Blend in the port and orange juice. Pour the mixture into a bowl and refrigerate, preferably overnight.

Churn in your ice cream maker according to manufacturer’s directions. Store, tightly covered, in your freezer.

Serve after dinner or anytime. Enjoy.

Makes one quart.

 

The sweet indulgence of Portugal’s convent pastries

 

Portuguese sweets are divine, which may be because they originated in convents.

Back in the 16^th century, the country’s Roman Catholic nuns drew on a heritage of Islamic confectionery and an abundance of egg yolks to create unique, delectable pastries. The convents were dissolved early in the 19^th century, but the pastries continue to be made, often from the same recipes, and attributed to those long-departed nuns. Today, the pastries are served around the world, from Montreal to Mozambique to Macao, but nowhere are they better than in Portugal.

Convent sweets

The pastries are still known as doces conventuais in Portuguese; convent sweets in English. Most consist of a flaky crust and a rich eggy filling, but each convent and, now, each town or even pastry shop has its own special take on the tarts. The filling might be a typical custard or simply ovos moles (translated as soft eggs), which is nothing more than egg yolks and sugar cooked together to create sweet spreadable gold. The nuns had so many egg yolks because egg whites were used to clarify wine, to apply gold and silver leaf to church altars, and to starch nun’s wimples. They used the leftover yolks to create their sublime pastries.

Some pastéis, or pastries, include additions such as cocoanut or almonds or even white beans in their filling. In Belem, people line up outside a bakery for pastéis de Belem, small tarts with a custard filling that’s still warm from the oven. The tops of the famed pastéis de Nata are nearly charred, the pastry crisp, the custard filling creamy and sweet.

 

                                                                                Pastéis de Nata

The tiny town of Tentúgal is known for its special pastéis du Tentúgal, an oblong pastry filled with ovos moles. At O Afonso, a local pastry shop, friends and I watched as a baker took an eight-pound lump of dough made from flour and water and stretched and flipped it until it covered an area of probably 12 by 15 feet. By the time she was through, the dough was thin enough to read through.

 

See-through pastry

Then she cut it into small shapes, layered a few, and added some pastry scraps in the center for extra strength. She then dipped a feather into clarified butter and ever so delicately sprinkled a little of the melted butter onto the pastry. Next, she spooned a line of the egg yolk and sugar filling onto the pastry. She quickly rolled it into a rectangle, folded the ends up, and placed it on a baking sheet along with dozens of others. When they were baked, the ends formed little ruffles, the pastry was shatteringly crisp, and the filling was heavenly. The pastry is made with just five ingredients – flour, water, butter, sugar, and egg yolks - but with consummate skill and many years of practice.

 

Pastéis du Tentúgal

There are other sweets in Portugal, and you’ll find a pastry shop on nearly every street. Portuguese rice pudding topped with cinnamon in decorative patterns, even spelling out a word such as “Welcome,” to guests is wonderful.

 

A welcoming rice pudding

There are cookies and cakes and ice cream and even a few desserts using egg whites. Simple crisp meringues are called suspiros, or sighs, a perfect name. A dessert called Molotov for reasons no one could explain to me is similar to Floating Island. Made two ways, it may be a poached meringue in a pool of custard, as we would expect. Or it can be a baked meringue served with a caramel sauce. Both are light and delectable, however the name remains a mystery.

 

Molotov

 

All of the Portuguese sweets are good, but the egg yolk pastries originated so long ago by the nuns are special. Visiting Portugal without indulging in convent sweets would be sinful.

Rhubarb – the taste of spring

 

 

At the tail end of a winter that’s lasted too long, New Englanders rejoice in the sight of crocus shoots poking up through gritty snow, the arrival of red-breasted robins, or the joy of later sunsets. Those are all fine, but my favorite harbinger of spring is seeing a bin of bright red rhubarb in the market.

To me, rhubarb’s tart flavor is a sharp wake-up call signaling that spring has arrived. When I see rhubarb, I imagine warm weather. I taste puddings, sauces, pies, ice cream. I also remember when a little boy of about five, seeing rhubarb in a supermarket for the first time, exclaimed, “Look, mom, red celery!”

 

 

 

Botanically, like celery, rhubarb is a vegetable and in some countries, it’s used as one. In Iran, it’s an ingredient in stews; in Afghanistan it’s mixed with spinach. I think of rhubarb mostly for desserts, but it’s more versatile than that. Cooked and blended into cream, it makes a lovely sauce for salmon. The Italian liqueur called rabarbara is made with rhubarb and considered healthful.

For centuries, though, rhubarb was a medicine not a food. Its origins are in China, where its dried roots were used as a laxative, as they were in Greece, Rome, and, by the sixteenth century, England. It wasn’t until the eighteenth century that English cooks began cooking the stalks of rhubarb, sweetening them, and using them in pies. That use became so common that, in the U.S., rhubarb was known as “pie-fruit.”

Once people realized how delightful the flavor was, they began cooking rhubarb into puddings, sauces, jams, crisps, and ice creams. Rhubarb plays well with others. It’s often combined with strawberries, but it’s also a good companion for blueberries, cherries, apples, raspberries, oranges, lemons, and ginger.

A friend gave me this Danish pudding recipe. Whenever I make it, spring has arrived – no matter what the weather is doing.

 

 

 

 

Rhubarb flummery (A version of rødgrød med fløde)

4 cups rhubarb cut into one-inch pieces

¾ cup sugar

Grated rind of one orange or lemon

½ cup of water

3 tablespoons cornstarch

Optional topping

Heavy cream or crème fraiche

Combine rhubarb, ¾ cup sugar, orange rind, and water in a saucepan. Bring slowly to a boil, cover, and simmer for two to three minutes or until rhubarb is soft but still holds its shape. Do not overcook.

Blend cornstarch with a small amount of cold water. Stir gently into the rhubarb mixture.

Bring to a boil and cook, stirring gently until clear and thickened.

Pour into a serving dish. Serve slightly warm topped with cream or crème fraiche, or plain. Serves four.

Irish Coffee Pudding for St. Pat's Day

 

 

Pudding is having a moment. Restaurant menus, on-line recipes, magazine articles – they’re all featuring puddings.

Often, they’re under a different name, though. A posher, more sophisticated name than plain old pudding. Like budino. Budino is the Italian singular for pudding, but it sounds more exciting than just plain pudding. These Italian puddings aren’t so different from American ones. Some are thickened with cornstarch, as are many American puddings. Some are custards, made with egg yolks. Some combine the two methods. But most are pretty much what most of us think of as pudding -- the rich homemade kind not the kind from a box. Salted caramel budino is wildly popular as is butterscotch budino and chocolate budino.

Crémeux and crèmes are also restaurant-level pudding words. These creamy puddings are made in flavors like cappuccino, mocha, or lemon. Then there are pots de crèmes, although they are usually baked, like an old-fashioned American baked custard. They can be flavored with vanilla, pumpkin, whatever you like.

Also making an appearance is malabi, a pudding with Turkish/Balkan heritage that’s creamy white, thickened with cornstarch or rice flour and usually flavored with rosewater. It’s often served with raspberry or pomegranate syrup for a splash of color and intense flavor.

Seeing all these puddings on menus made me want to make one of my own. Because coffee is one of my favorite ice cream flavors, I adapted my white coffee ice cream recipe to make a coffee pudding. Adding some Irish whiskey turned it into an Irish coffee pudding and a perfect dessert for St. Patrick’s Day. Or any other day for that matter.

I wasn’t sure what to name it, though. Calling it Irish coffee budino or Irish coffee malabi is too strange. Irish coffee crémeux or crème sounds pretentious, as does pots de crèmes. The Gaelic word for pudding is maróg, so Irish coffee maróg would be a fine name, but maróg seems to be the one pudding word no one is using. So I’m calling it Irish coffee pudding.

Whatever it’s called, it’s rich and delicious. If you want to make it even richer, top it with some crème fraiche or whipped cream or chocolate syrup. But, really, I think it’s wonderful on its own, or with a few crisp chocolate cookies and maybe a small glass of your favorite Irish whiskey on the side.

Sláinte!

 

Irish coffee pudding

1 cup heavy cream

1 cup whole milk

1/3 cup coffee beans

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 tablespoon water

3 large egg yolks

1 tablespoon instant espresso

3 tablespoons sugar

Pinch of salt

1 teaspoon vanilla

2 tablespoons Irish whiskey

Combine milk, cream, and coffee beans in a medium-size saucepan and bring it almost to the boiling point. Remove from heat, cover and let steep for 10 or 15 minutes. Strain the coffee beans out and return the milk mixture to the pan over low heat.

Mix the cornstarch and water to make a smooth slurry. Stir into the milk mixture.

Whisk the egg yolks, instant espresso, sugar, and salt together. Add a small amount of the milk mixture to the egg mixture. Pour into saucepan and stir it all together until it starts to thicken.

Remove from heat, add vanilla and Irish whiskey. Stir thoroughly to combine. Pour into serving dishes and refrigerate until ready to serve.

To prevent a skin from forming on the top, cover with plastic wrap pressed firmly against the surface. Makes four modest servings.

Enjoy!

 

 

Cooking for the Queen -- Victoria and Francatelli

 

Victoria, the PBS Masterpiece drama series about the young queen, features a chef named Francatelli. In fact, Charles Elmé Francatelli was employed by Victoria, and he was one of the era’s most famous chefs.

 

Francatelli lasted for less than two years in the royal household. Some say that was because the royal couple preferred plain food to his sophisticated French cuisine. More important, Francatelli did not take kindly to being told that he was spending too much on the ingredients he insisted on, and he argued with the person in charge of the royal budget. Vociferously. At one point, the police were called. Francatelli moved on.

Still, he continued to have a successful career, working at exclusive London clubs and writing several highly regarded cookbooks. In them, he named several dishes after his former employers – “Salmon, à la Victoria,” “Victoria Biscuits,” “Iced Pudding, à la Prince Albert,” and more. He also referred to himself as “Late maître-d’hotel to her Majesty the Queen.” A royal connection, however brief, was a valuable asset.

Francatelli was famed for his elaborate French food. He was trained by the famed Carême, after all. But it’s his ice creams and ice cream cones that I find fascinating. Francatelli made and wrote about fanciful, elegant ice cream cones in his mid-nineteenth century cookbooks. That was long before the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis so often associated with ice cream cones.

They weren’t called ice cream cones in Francatelli’s time though, since they weren’t always filled with ice cream. They were called cones, cornets, cornucopias, gauffres.

 

 

In his 1852 book, A Plain Cookery Book for the Working Classes, Francatelli had recipes for cones served several different ways. He served some cones sans ice cream and simply sprinkled them with sugar. For his “Iced Pudding, à la Prince Albert,” he filled tiny cones with liqueur-flavored whipped cream and placed them around molded ice creams.

For his “Iced Pudding, à la Chesterfield,” he molded pineapple ice cream into a pyramid and topped it with candied angelica cut to look like a “kind of drooping feather”. Around the base of the pyramid, he arranged tiny cones filled with more pineapple ice cream and topped each one with a strawberry.

I don’t know whether Francatelli served any of his ice cream cones to Queen Victoria, but I am sure that if he had she would have loved them.

 

Cringes or cravings?

 

I’ve been captivated by the New York Public Library’s online collection of menus lately. It’s a fascinating collection on many levels, but especially because the language of the menus says so much about their time.

We’re a lot more squeamish about food terms than our turn of the 20^th century relatives were. For the most part, they don’t use the euphemisms we take for granted today. Take Stewed tripe Lyonnaise, for example. If I were writing that menu today it would read Andouille Lyonnaise. It’s like the difference between snails and escargot. Or cows and beef.

Today, no self-respecting chef -- or at least no one with a good public relations firm -- would put calf’s head with brain sauce on a menu, though it was common then. Likewise pig’s head cheese. Or pigeon pie. If you live in a city, you are not ordering pigeon. Squab, maybe.

Somehow, reading “Canada Frogs, Fried,” as it is listed on the 1900 menu of Dorlon’s Oyster House in New York, is much more disconcerting than reading “frog’s legs” would be.

The spelling of “Hindquarter of american fawn” [sic] from the January 18^th, 1900 menu for the Annual Supper of the Queen City Club in Cincinnati, Ohio bothers me less than the image that springs to mind. But I love that they serve their Virginia ham in the New England style.

 

 

 

 

The menus in the collection are from hotels, restaurants, ocean liners, railroads, oyster houses, and cafeterias. Many list foods we seldom see days, like green (or mock) turtle soup, mutton, stewed prunes, or the young bear served, or at least offered, at the 1912 Waldorf Astoria. The same menu also listed “Monk’s Beard” under salads. There has to be a better, more appetizing name for this type of chicory. How about chicory?

Some names are completely new to me. The rail birds listed on a 1907 menu for the Clover Club dinner held in Philadelphia’s Bellevue-Stratford Hotel, turn out to be wild waterfowl. They’re still hunted during specifically approved times of the year, but I don’t think any find their way onto menus.

 

 

Some names have changed – their alligator pears are our avocados. Eggplant is generally listed as two separate words. Tunny is tuna. Gems are muffins. “Picked-up codfish in cream” is on many menus including New York’s Hotel Vendome in 1900. This turns out to be salted cod that’s been flaked, boned, and soaked to soften, then simmered in a cream sauce with, generally, minced parsley and a dash of cayenne and served on toast. Not codfish they happened to pick up somewhere. The Vendome’s menu, along with many others, lists Yarmouth bloaters. The name makes me think of jellyfish, but they are actually cold-smoked herring.

 

 

 The menus also reveal fascinating historical and cultural tidbits. The Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York lists special meal hours for “Children And Servants” on an August, 1881 menu. Cigarettes and tobacco are often listed under the dessert section. Some restaurants dictate that ladies unaccompanied by gentlemen will not be served after 9 pm.

The menu for the A.M. Sweet & Son Hotel Restaurant, Fulton Street in New York noted, “It is unnecessary to fee the waiter. If you cannot get properly served without doing so, please make mention of it to the Cashier.” An early argument for wages, rather than tips?