On My Shelf: The Food of a Younger Land

From Mark Kurlansky, the author of Cod and Salt, comes The Food of a Younger Land  (Riverhead Books: 397 pages, $27.95)– “A portrait of American food before the national highway system– before chain restaurants, and before frozen food, when the nation’s food was seasonal, regional, and traditional– from the lost WPA files.”

That’s quite a mouthful.

Reading this book at a time in history when eating local, organic, seasonal food in an urban setting like San Francisco is either a genuine passion, a fashion statement for those wealthy enough to afford it, or somewhere in between, it’s a pleasure to find a book that chronicles a time when eating in such a manner was not a matter of choice or politics, but rather one’s only option.

Culled from boxes of manuscripts originally intended for publication nearly 70 years ago as America Eats, Kurlansky  took on the task of finishing what the Federal Writer’s Project under Katherine Kellock could not, thanks to an interruption of funding and interest created by a little something people called World War II.

Writers and would-be writers in the late 1930’s were given the task of collecting recipes, statistics, and food lore from around the country to create a comprehensive tome of American foods and local culinary traditions,region by region, the likes of which had never been attempted. All paid for by the United States government and its Federal Writer’s Project,  an organization poet W. H. Auden, as Kurlansky states, referred to as “one of the noblest and most absurd undertakings ever attempted by any state.”

While Kurlansky’s claim that American foodways are quickly becoming homogenized or altogether disappearing (for a good musing on this, please read Jane and Michael Stern’s review) is arguable, and not all of the writing is, well, brilliant (Kurlansky shares that an alarming number of entries began with the phrase, “In the Fall, when the air turns crisp…), there are a number of gems worth mining in this work.

Some (very subjective) highlights include:

“Diddy-Wah-Diddy”, a one-paragraph story by Zora Neale Hurston.

“An Oregon Protest Against Mashed Potatoes” by Claire Warner Churchill.

“New York Soda-Luncheonette Slang and Jargon”, uncredited

And, naturally, an uncredited poem entitled “Nebraskans Eat the Weiners.”

It’s good fun, and a grand source of old-fashioned– even obscure– recipes and traditions. I, for one, can’t wait to try baking a Depression Cake (p. 316), but might just take a pass (for now) on Kentucky Oysters (p. 157). Not because I’m squeamish, mind you. It’s just not the right season for it. I’ll have to just wait until the fall.

For more on The Food of a Younger Land, listen to Michael Krasny’s interview with Kurlansky on Forum.

Check, Please: How to Pay without looking like a fool or making everyone uncomfortable.

 For most diners, paying one’s bill at the finish of a restaurant meal is a simple, uncomplicated process, a no-brainer. Or should be. It never fails to amaze me how many people screw this up.

The ideal execution of bill getting-and-paying should be a near-non-event. The only words exchanged should be those of thanks between the payer and the server, and from the recipients of the evening’s generosity to one giving it.

This should be obvious to most of you out there. Hopefully.Sadly, it isn’t to everyone.

Here are a few handy tips on how to pay a restaurant bill with grace:

1. In a fine dining environment, when a server delivers the bill to a table, he or she will either place it  nearest the host or hand it directly to him/her if the host reaches out for it, or place the bill in the center of the table if the host is not clearly certain (for example, if more than one person orders wine or food for the table as a whole). Typically, we assume that the person paying is the one who asks for the check. If that happens to be you, please proceed to step 2.

2. When you are ready to make payment, place your credit card, cash, cowrie shells, or whatever method of payment is accepted inside the bill folder with just enough spilling out to indicate that you are ready to make payment. This is important. It is most likely (and hoped for) that your server will not be staring at you as you rifle through your wallet. When you have accomplished this feat, place the bill folder at the edge of the table next to you or, if you are seated in a booth, the end of the table nearest the server’s approach.

I find it surprising how many people  do not understand this small-but-important ritual. The folder could be stuffed with cash, but if it looks as though it has been both untouched and unmoved, it’s not going anywhere. Servers are often expected to read the minds of guests, but I think they deserve a little help on this one. Please, make it obvious that you are ready to give payment.

3. When the server hands you back your bill, sign it at your leisure, but when you are finished, please place it back on the edge of the table. Your server may then take it away. He (in most cases) is not taking it away out of greed, but rather to take care of the paperwork, especially if you have paid by credit card. Your bill must be closed with the proper paperwork. Read: the restaurant’s copy of the credit card receipt. If, in your wine-soaked joy of the evening, you have accidentally pocketed the receipt (and we’ve all done it at least once, waiters included), the server might gently ask you for it as you leave. You might expect your server to guess what sort of wine you might like with your pork, but do you really expect him or her to guess the amount of gratuity you’ve left? I didn’t think so.

Isn’t that easy? Yes.

Now for a couple of other hints.

You’ve been Declined

If your credit card is declined, it is not necessarily your fault (credit card companies sometimes put a hold on cards on which an unusual amount of spending has occurred at any given time, etc.), but it definitely is not your server’s. As a waiter, this can be remarkably painful. I worry that I am embarrassing one of my guests– especially one of my guests who happens to be leaving me a tip. Any server worth his salt will just treat it (outwardly) that it’s no big deal and, rather than say, “I’m sorry, your card’s been declined,” will say something to the effect of, “Excuse me, do you have another card? This one doesn’t seem to be working.” Unless I’m handed one of those black titanium American Express cards. Then I always give a little frown and tell them it’s declined. The response is invariably one of, “Uh huh. Sure it is.” And then I go away and giggle. 

Essentially, if you are planning on taking people out to dinner, have a back up payment method.If you see no reason your card should be declined, your server will be happy to make a call for you and look into it. Remain calm.

Fighting Over the Check

One of the most irritating things about waiting tables is guests fighting over the check. Suddenly, the food-and-alcohol-induced peace and harmony at the table is shattered by diners grabbing the checks and credit cards out of each others’ hands in a seriously misguided effort to pay for the meal and be “hospitable.” Or they’re just trying to play Alpha Dog. There is a certain ritual to this that must be followed:

One of your dining partners grabs the check and insists on paying. You then say, “Oh, no, I just couldn’t let you do that.” Then they counter with something like, “But I’d really like to treat you to dinner tonight. Really, it would make me very happy to do it!” You are then supposed to respond with something to the effect of, “Well… alright, if it will make you happy, but I’m taking you out next time.”

And then you’re done.

Do not, I repeat, do not drag the server into this. At my tables, I have in most cases been spending the previous two hours making sure that everyone in my charge is as comfortable and happy as possible. I am not there to referee. Taking sides is not in my economic interest. If I am approached privately by a member of a dining party who hands me his or her card and insists on paying, I will: a) run the credit card and hand back at the end of the meal, run and ready so that he or she is one step ahead of arguments, or b) if the card-giver is not the clear-cut host, I will hand the card back uncharged. To the host.

In extreme cases, when different people start shoving cards or check presenters in my face (it happens) saying everything but “Pick me! Pick me!” I am polite, but firm. And mildly, chidingly sarcastic. I tell the contenders something akin to, “Oh, you’re all just so wonderful to want to pay for dinner, I wish I could pick all of you!” I then take a step back  from the table, saying, “I can’t wait to see who wins!”

And then I walk away.

I Hate(d) Peas

Look at me, I’m eating peas. I’m nearly 40 years old and I’m eating peas. Who says middle-aged men don’t have growth spurts?

I never cared for peas as a child. Perhaps that’s too mildly put. I had always hated peas. No, still not enough. I had a terror of peas as a child.

That’s more like it.

I would not touch them, I hated looking at them, and I certainly would never eat them. If I saw them on television, I would either cover my eyes or run from the room, just as I did anytime I saw two people kissing. Peas,for no good reason, caused me acute emotional distress. When it was beef stew night in our household, I thought my mother was making it specifically to torture me.

I would spend the hours before dinner time hiding in my room, wondering what I had done to deserve something as hideous and traumatizing as beef stew made with a heavy dose of frozen Green Giant peas. When finally lured to the table with threats of punishment, I would sit quietly with my eyes puffy from crying and my hands sore from wringing, and think to myself, “what greater punishment is there than a plateful of stringy beef dotted with disintegrating potatoes, carrots, and grey-green peas?”

I couldn’t think of anything.

I would drink several glasses of milk trying to get the stuff down without having it immediately brought back up. Nights would be sleepless knowing those little green monsters were inside of me.

As I grew a little older, I learned to work my way around the peas. My place at the dinner table was closest to the Tomorrowland-blue napkin holder. I would line my lap with three or four of napkins and, when my mother wasn’t looking, dump a forkful into onto my semi-protected pants. The warmth of the stew caused an unexpectedly pleasant sensation, which I will not go into here.

When my lap was full of warm stew, I would quietly fold up my bundle with one hand while trying to keep the dogs’ noses out of my crotch with the other, and politely ask if I might be excused to go to the pantry cupboard, which was where we kept our trash bin, cereal, dog food, and was, coincidentally, very near my mother’s seat at the table. I would walk around the table, past my brother who was more than likely too busy separating all the ingredients on his plate and then eating each one in alphabetical order to notice what I was doing in my lap, past my sister and her glass of Mountain Dew that she could not seem to drink without tinting it some even-more-unnatural color with Schilling food coloring, and over to the cupboard, where I would pause and give a thoughtful look at the childhood growth markers that covered the inside of the door. When I thought my mother wasn’t looking, I would drop my bundle into the garbage.

This ritual would be repeated at least two more times during the meal.

I don’t know who I thought I was kidding. Certainly not my mother. Apparently, she just go tired of fighting with me over the peas and the stew, so she let me carry on my charade– it freed her from an annoying confrontation, it freed me from having to eat peas, and it freed everyone from having to listen to me cry and gag.

Win-win-win.

And now, I am an almost-40 year-old man eating peas. Why? I have no real idea. Perhaps I just grew out of hating them.

Then again, I may have this salad to thank…

Green Pea and Feta Salad

Serves 4

There are a few seasonal dishes we obsess about at work. This is one of them. Towards the end of every March, someone will ask our chef, Erik Cosselmon, this question: “Are peas in season yet?” The question will be repeated about every two days until peas do finally make their appearance. I never thought I would join the ranks of pea-loving waiters, but I have.

It’s an embarrassingly easy salad to make (apart from shelling the peas). The saltiness of the feta that has been creamed together with good olive oil mixes with the sweet burst of the peas as they pop inside your mouth (which is one of the things I hated about them as a child) makes for a remarkable combination.

Ingredients:

2 cups fresh English or Snap peas (typically, one pound of peas in their pod yields 1 cup of shelled peas)

About 1/3 cup feta, crumbles (Greek. Use Greek feta. Really.)

2 to 3 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil (I will give you a pass if you don’t use the Greek stuff here)

The juice of 1/2 lemon

a small handful of both chopped mint (or cilantro) and scallion for garnish.

Preparation:

1. Blanch peas is simmering water for 1 to 2 minutes (they should appear bright green). Remove the peas and place them in an ice bath to prevent further cooking. Cool and drain.

2. In a medium-sized bowl, cream together the feta cheese and olive oil, but not obsessively. lumps are both texturally necessary and attractive. Add peas and mix enough to coat them thoroughly with the feta and oil.

3. To serve, place pea mixture in a serving-appropriate dish, squeeze the lemon over it, and garnish with mint and scallion. If you are making this dish in advance, I would advise you to add the lemon only just prior to serving. If left in contact with the peas for a long time, the lemon will turn them an unappetizing color. Just think about what lemon juice does to very dark-haired people when they rub it in their hair and then go out in the sun. Sort of like Sun In, but organic.

39 Rue de Barbe

Rhubarb. I have loved it for years. And why not? It’s a tart, refreshing, and completely extraordinary thing when handled properly.

Of course, it is also highly seasonal. It’s one of the first bits of produce to show up in markets when the ground warms up in the spring, it hangs around in the summertime, when the living is supposedly easy, but it has a predictable habit of disappearing when the weather gets rough. It’s a fair weather thing. And, though most commonly lumped together with fruits, it is, in fact a vegetable– a truth I’ve found very difficult to grasp over the past few years.

When you slow down long enough to really notice the word, when you break it down into its two syllables and sound it out, it just seems like a really bad idea.”Rue”, as a noun connotes sorrow. As a verb, it means to regret. And barb? It can mean any sharp protrusion that points backward, like a hook or an arrow. It is something that prevents easy extraction. When you put the two pieces of the word together, however, it evokes freshly baked pies and springtime. Or, of course, it can conjure up some sad, sorrowful thing that pulls you in and won’t let you go. Take your pick. I have been historically attracted to both, but that is one for my therapist. I can just see the silhouettes of the Electric Company’s Oscar-winning duo, Morgan Freeman and Rita Moreno, sounding it all out for me. Rhu. Barb. Rhubarb. They make it sound like so much fun.

The Latin name for the plant, Rheum rhabarbarum, should give one pause. At its base is barbarum, which indicates that the plant was, for the Greeks and Romans at least, from some place other. In the case of the rhubarb plant, this place was the Volga river– an area at the time populated by what the “civilized” Mediterraneans considered barbarian: bearded and coarse, with a language totally incomprehensible to their own.

And Rheum? From the Latin rheuma, it means “a watery discharge from the mucous membranes, especially the eyes and nose.” Charming.

The Greek word bárbaros, by the way, refers to the sound of random, incomprehensible noises one hears when listening to a language one cannot understand. The sound they made to mimic this was “bar bar”. The terms “babble” and “blah blah”, may be derived from this. One usage of the word “rhubarb” certainly is– it is one of the words chosen by stage actors to chatter repeatedly in order to provide indecipherable background noise in crowd or party scenes.

Only the stalk of the rhubarb plant is edible. The green leaves of the plant– the part of the organism from which it derives its strength and energy– are toxic, containing the nephrotoxin oxalic acid. When eaten in quantity or over a long period of time, one may suffer kidney damage. The roots that give the plant its stability are rich in anthraquinones like emodin and rhein, which are natural laxatives and cathartics.

Well, I’ve had about enough catharsis, thank you very much. I no longer see rhubarb through the rosy-hued glasses that bare a remarkable resemblence to the color of the stalk itself. With the exception of the following recipe, I’m not giving rhubarb much thought anymore. Instead, I shall focus my energy and attention elsewhere. Like going to Paris for a week– a place where the only rue-ing I’ll be doing is wandering the streets of that city and the only barbs I will encounter are the bons mots flung by a couple of charming and very clever friends.

Now that’s the kind of rhubarb I can really get behind.

Rapaperikiisseli (Finnish Rhubarb Soup)

Serves 2 to 4, depending.

And why not Rapaperikiisseli? It is a word I do not understand and could never hope to pronounce. It’s all bar bar to me. I’ve simplified the dish somewhat, omitting the need for cornstarch. It is, in a real sense, rhubarb boiled down to its essence, with just a little help from its good friends Mr. Sugar, Señor Water, and a couple of spicy numbers from down the street. It requires little in the way of time and effort, and even less in terms of thought, which is pretty much what I should have been giving rhubarb all along.

Enjoy.

Ingredients:

2 cups cold water

2 cups rhubarb, chopped and peeled (reserve the peel for use, please)

1/2 cup sugar

1 cinnamon stick, whole

a pinch of ground clove

mint, if you like, for garnish (I am not one of those people who garnishes everything with mint. It just happens to work nicely in this particular case.

Preparation:

1. In a medium-sized saucepan equipped with a lid (for future use), place water and rhubarb peel. Bring to a simmer and cook the peel until the color has been leached out. Remove and discard peel.

2. Add to the now-pink water the sugar, chopped rhubarb, and cinnamon stick. Stir, bring to a simmer, and cover. Simmer until the rhubarb falls completely apart. In my experience, it will do this with some regularity over the span of a few years. In the case of this recipe, however, give it 15 minutes. Remove the cinnamon stick and let cool enough so that, when put in a blender, the top will not burst off and scald you with hot liquid.

3. When the rhubarb is blender-ready… ummm… blend. Continue to do so until it is of a smooth, even consistency. Set to chill in the refrigerator.

4. Serve chilled in appropriate serving bowls with bits of torn mint thrown over the top. Or add little fluffy clouds of whipped cream or a dollop of crème fraîche. Your choice. The rhubarb is yours to do with as you please.

Coronation Chicken Salad: Fit for a Queen.

…and, boy, I know a lot of them.

Last weekend, I was (cheerfully) roped into helping prepare and serve a “proper” English tea by an old friend who had offered up her home, her china, and her silver tea pots for the benefit of my goddaughter’s school. I have placed the word “proper” in quotation marks, because this was a tea hosted by Canadian-Americans, which means that it just might have been even more so than a true, English tea. The Canadians, after all, still celebrate Queen Victoria’s birthday. The English, however, have long since moved on.

Scones were baked and served with Devonshire cream, butter, and jam. Little tea cakes were made available as were a number of precious, crustless tea sandwiches: cucumber, egg salad, smoked salmon, and Coronation Chicken.

It was the last one that really caught my attention. I asked Mary Pat, my friend Shannon’s mother (and my former, formidable piano teacher), about it and she explained that the dish was called Coronation Chicken Salad because it was served at a luncheon in honor of Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation. Well, that seemed straightforward enough.

It also fit in nicely with the conversation about World War II food rationing I was having with my friend Craig and my goddaughter, Zelly, on the way to their house. Don’t ask. These things just happen. We got so involved talking about u-boats, the Battle of Britain, and how Queen Elizabeth (mother of the present queen regnant) was glad Buckingham Palace was bombed so that she could then “look the East End in the face”, that we forgot to stop for some necessary but overlooked tea supplies.

The Back Story

Coronation Chicken Salad was created by chef Rosemary Hume and the credit grabbed by one Constance Spry, a social-climbing society florist when students at her Winkfield Domestic Science School (at which Miss Hume was an instructress) were asked to cater a luncheon for the leaders of the Commonwealth Nations gathering together for the new queen’s coronation.

Yes, Winkfield. The dish was anything but new at the time; merely a rehashing of the chicken in curried mayonnaise concocted for Elizabeth’s grandfather, George V, in celebration of his Silver Jubilee. The name of the dish was, unsurprisingly, “Jubilee Chicken”. And you’ll never guess what was served in honor of Elizabeth’s Golden Jubilee. It’s true. Jubilee Chicken.

But we made it because we thought you loved it so much. I can just hear her mother (god rest her soul) saying that.

The recipe was published in the newspapers ahead of the coronation so that the common people might partake of what their new queen would be eating on her very special day. However, since food rationing did not end until 1954 (several months later), it is very doubtful that most of the common folk had had sufficient amounts of chicken and dairy products on hand to whip of a batch of the stuff. If they had learned anything in 14 years of food restrictions and shortages, it was to make do, to improvise. Perhaps that is why there are so many different versions of this particular salad. Individual households approximated the dish with what they had on hand.

Today’s Coronation Chicken Salad is, essentially, cold chicken in curried mayonnaise. Simple but good. The original version, however, is a much more complex organism that included a cooked-down sauce of red wine, bay leaf, and tomato purée, and an addition of apricot purée and heavy cream. Throw in some mayonnaise and curry powder and… I’ll put it this way– I get the feeling that anyone who ate it would be spending more time on the throne than Elizabeth Regina.

Coronation-ish Chicken Salad

This is not the original recipe. Given the food rationing of the time, I think it’s entirely in the spirit of the thing to improvise with ingredients one has on hand. For example, if a bottle of red wine is opened in my house, there will never be any left over for use in a chicken salad. Instead, I have added vinegar. I’ve also omitted the original call for heavy cream, and the cooking of the onions, owing to my own preference for bolder flavors and an even stronger tendency towards laziness. Feel free to add or subtract whatever ingredients you like. Except for chicken, mayonnaise, and curry powder. I don’t mind, and I don’t think Her Britannic Majesty will mind much, either. For the original recipe, please visit The Greasy Spoon, a site I stumbled upon and of which I am now rather fond.

Note: I had chosen to serve my salad clad in nothing but a crown of watercress. Upon examination of the opening photo, however, I realized that crowns are meant to be worn upon the head, not sat upon. It is a small but important error. If it bothers you, please feel free to turn the whole thing upside down and place upon your head or the head of the queen nearest you.

Ingredients:

Serves 4 to 6

4 chicken breasts, boneless and skinless, poached and diced

1/2 cup mayonnaise

1 tablespoon curry powder (more or less, according to taste.)

2 tablespoons mango chutney or apricot preserves

1/2 yellow onion, finely diced

1 stalk celery, finely diced

1/4 cup currants or raisins

1 tablespoon vinegar: cider, champagne or whatever

the juice of 1/2 lemon

salt and pepper to taste

1/4 cup chopped cashews for garnish

watercress, washed and de-stemmed, for garnish

Preparation:

1. Combine mayonnaise, curry powder, vinegar, chutney, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Stir well.

2. Throw in the chopped chicken breast meat, celery, and currants/raisins. Stir until everything is well-coated.

3. Refrigerate overnight to let all the ingredients get to know each other a little better.

4. To serve, place on a bed of watercress and top with chopped cashews. Or slap some between two slices of bread. I will leave the decision of whether or not to discard the bread crust up to you.