The Food of a Younger Land (7 page)

The records of that first early morning spread do not speak of weather. It may be assumed that it was frosty. But the affair itself wasn’t a frost. There was a big crowd. Every one stuffed himself. The society reported that it was a “financial success.”

Among other things served at that first breakfast was cold boiled ham. One of the charter members had a secret formula for cooking ham. Her secret has been passed along and today the Oaklawn group cooks ham the way it was cooked by Madame X for that first breakfast in ’67. Cold chicken was also a part of that first May Breakfast. When that became expensive, eggs were substituted. Other delicacies included mashed turnips (later the committee, in an economic mood, decided that turnips must go), creamed potatoes, pickles, pie (all known varieties), doughnuts, fruit, and coffee. Then for the hardy gourmet there were clam cakes.

Through the years other societies took the breakfast idea to their breasts and ran their own May Day food-stuffing contests. In 1898 a society in neighboring Meshanticut Park started serving a May Day repast; this organization gave the Oaklawn group serious competition for that one year. Thereafter its efforts were overshadowed, at least financially, by the innovator. The Meshanticut group evidently couldn’t match Aunt Hannah Babcock’s clam cakes or Roby Wilbur’s hot biscuits or Mary Moon’s hot apple pie.

However, the idea prospered, and soon it became a state-wide event. It was more than a gathering of lovers of good cooking; it was also a social gathering. Before the days of automobiles, people journeyed to the Oaklawn church afoot and in horse and buggy. Whole families arose at sunrise and set out for the church. It was
the
place for a fellow to take his girl. When the trolley cars came into the picture, the event took on added numerical strength. Unfortunately it was a cold ride, especially for the boys and girls who travelled any distance, for the street railway company at that time of year always trotted out its open cars. Any old-timer will testify that to roar and jounce through the countryside in an open car on the first day of May was a “darned cold ride.” But every one got his money’s worth, the celebration in those first days lasted all day, providing a chance to renew old friendships. Many a matrimonial match resulted from one of these May Day gatherings. For the past years the May Breakfast is the whole celebration. People eat, shake hands all around, jump into their cars and either return home or go to work, leaving them a saddened committee of women who gloomily look around and say, “Never again. It isn’t worth all the trouble.”

 

Note:
These same women would undoubtedly rise up in arms if anyone dared suggest that they retire from the May Breakfast committee.

ALLAN ROSS Mac DOUGALL

I
n the two decades between 1840 and 1860 the population of the city of New York almost tripled in size. Larger and more elaborate hotels on the European continental model sprang up. Famous imported French chefs catered to a cosmopolitan and newly rich native clientele, and many elaborate “made” dishes replaced the simple roasts and stews. Even new cuts of beef were introduced, the Steak Delmonico, for instance. Many of the culinary innovations and creations of that period have long since been forgotten; others have passed into the common language and thence into the dictionaries and cook books of the nation.

In Webster is found, beside the Delmonico steak, Waldorf Salad, Delmonico Potatoes, Chicken à la King, and Lobster à la Newburg. Like such creations of hotels outside New York as Parkerhouse rolls and Saratoga chips, the New York dishes have become household words. But often they suffer changes which transform them radically from the original hotel creation.

The famous Waldorf Salad, for example, is generally set forth as a mixture of chopped apples, celery, and nuts dressed with mayonnaise. It is so given in the Webster definition. The original recipe as written down by Oscar in his cook book published in 1896, about three years after the opening of the Waldorf-Astoria, reads, “Peel two raw apples and cut them in small pieces, say about half an inch square, also cut celery the same way and mix it with the apples. Be careful not to let any seeds of the apples be mixed with it. The salad must be dressed with a good mayonnaise.”

 

 

Of all the eating establishments which set the tone of the gilded age, none was more famous than Delmonico’s in lower New York, founded by a Swiss-Italian, Lorenzo Delmonico. It was said that Delmonico menus were copied by the small hash houses of the boom towns and mining camps of the west, places which with the best will in the world could not produce even the basic ingredients of Lobster Newburg, or Guinea Hen sous Cloche, let alone the culinary skill necessary for their preparation.

Of the hundreds of creations that came from the kitchen of Delmonico’s there are three which still figure in menus throughout the country. One has an international reputation. The two still served in restaurants in this country are Steak Delmonico, a planked steak, and Delmonico Potatoes, chopped, creamed, served au gratin, with little red peppers. The third whose fame had travelled round the world is Lobster Newburg.

Many stories have been told of the origin of this dish but the most commonly accepted one is that it was the creation not of the French chef of the establishment but of one of the gourmet patrons, Skipper Ben Wenberg.

Wenberg was the captain-owner of a fleet of passenger and fruit boats that plied between New York and Latin American ports. He was an assiduous frequenter of the various Broadway “Lobster Palaces,” and a particular crony of Charles Delmonico, then head of the famous restaurant. Returning from one of his South American voyages he brought back with him a new way of dressing his favorite shellfish, which he wished to show to Delmonico and some other assembled gourmets. He called for a chafing dish and in it cooked the lobster meat, using large quantities of sweet butter. To that he added the yolk of half a dozen eggs, a pint of heavy cream and a glass of rum, making a rich sauce, which he seasoned with a dash of a special red pepper brought back from some southern port.

The dish was an instantaneous success with the select group. Delmonico decided to add it to his regular menu but before doing so he substituted the suaver accent of sherry wine for the harsher one of the Wenberg rum. On the menu the dish was listed as “Lobster à la Wenberg.” A few years later, following a scandalous scene caused in the public rooms by Wenberg, Charles Delmonico blacklisted the bellicose skipper. On the menu the dish he invented thereafter appeared as “Lobster à la Newberg.” Since then it has suffered many other transformations in name and nature. The original wine flavor is often left out altogether, and the mixture becomes merely another dish of creamed lobster. Some recipes substitute Madeira wine for sherry and sweet paprika for the sharp cayenne.

The tremendous increase in the number of restaurants in the metropolis and the continual seeking after novelty in food by the women’s magazines have produced new dishes and variations on ancient dishes too numerous to have such a wide effect as did the first appearance of Lobster à la Newburg. Yet in the past decade one soup has been created by a New York chef which has been copied more or less successfully by other eating places all over the country. This soup is Crème Vichyssoise.

Despite its name this dish, a perfect prelude to a summer meal, was created for New Yorkers by Louis Diat of the Ritz-Carlton. Most continental gourmets seeing it on a menu expect it to be a cream of carrot soup, for in gastronomic terminology the name of the French watering-place and temporary capital of unoccupied France is associated with carrots. By the same token, any dish termed Florentine always features spinach, dishes termed Clamart, green peas.

Crème Vichyssoise is really a variation of the well-known Potage Parmentier (Parmentier, the French scientist being rated in France as the discoverer and popularizer of the humble potato; dishes featuring that tuber are often termed Parmentier). The chief difference between Crème Vichyssoise and Potage Parmentier is that the New York creation is creamed and served chilled. As given by Louis Diat of the Ritz-Carlton the recipe for eight servings is as follows: Slice finely the white part of 4 leeks and 1 medium sized onion. Lightly brown in 2 ounces of sweet butter, then add 5 medium sized potatoes, also sliced finely. Moisten with about 1 quart water and add a little salt. (If available use chicken consomme instead of water.) Boil 35 to 40 minutes. Mash, then strain through muslin and finish by adding 2 cups of milk and 2 of medium cream. Season to taste and bring to a boil. Let the mixture cool and strain it again through muslin. Add then 1 cup of heavy cream and set aside to cool.

The soup must be served ice cold. Finely chopped chives may be added before serving.

The cut of beef known only in the United States as a Porterhouse steak has been said to have originated at the Porter House Hotel in North Cambridge, Massachusetts. But others maintain with certainty that this cut was first served in 1815 at a New York porterhouse kept by Martin Morrison at 327 Pearl Street, in lower Manhattan. Funk & Wagnall’s gives the definition of Porterhouse as “A choice cut of beef-steak usually next to the sirloin and including part of the tenderloin; so called from a New York porterhouse whose proprietor first brought it into vogue.”

JERRY FELSHEIM

A
s a social institution, the Literary Tea has undergone profound changes in recent years. Originally identified with women’s study clubs, it has been taken over by the smart world and transformed into a cocktail party with incidental literary trimmings. Its hours are from five to seven but, as with the cocktail party, no one ever appears before six fifteen and the host is fortunate if his last guests depart by nine. More than anything else, it has become an informal gathering place for intellectual sophisticates on their way to dinner.

Since the publishing world is concentrated in New York, literary teas reach their apex in that city. Their sponsors are usually connected with the business, a publisher trying to put over a new author; an editor celebrating the start of a magazine; or again, just a head hunter parading another celebrity. In Manhattan, literary teas are given upon the slightest provocation.

The locales of these parties vary from private apartments to special rooms at the smart night clubs and hotels. One condition is paramount, however; the place must always be jammed. Seemingly no literary tea is successful unless it is crowded enough to make an exchange of intellectual ideas an impossibility. The talk is usually limited to the latest publishing blurbs and reviews, Broadway gossip, and inside tips on how much this or that author is making. “Heavy” conversation is invariably frowned upon and
chichi
wit is at a premium.

Tea is a rarity at these gatherings. The conventional beverages are dry martini and Manhattan cocktails, with scotch for those who insist. In this respect, literary teas may be considered slightly more virile than their sister art shows, where tepid sherry is most often the only drink available. Food receives little attention. Usually it consists of a few uninteresting canapés passed haphazardly about, with few takers.

Literary teas are constantly in a state of flux. The uninitiate gravitates toward the author, the author toward the editor or publisher, the publisher toward the reviewer, and the reviewer, in desperation, toward another drink. Since the general rule of conduct is to seek out those who can do one the most good, magazine editors and big-name reviewers enjoy much popularity.

If the party happens to be given in honor of a new author, he is almost always completely ignored. In fact, there is a tradition among veteran literary tea-goers to put the young author in his place as soon as possible. They accomplish this by pretending vociferously not to know for whom the party is being given. The young author usually stands awkwardly in a corner, surrounded by a few dull old ladies, with his publisher frantically trying to circulate him among the “right” people.