It’s time!

Today I give you the menu of the Prohibition banquet and the final drinks list. From then on you get recipes, including two cocktail recipes that didn’t quite make it but that you’ll love anyway and maybe some alternate recipes that I can’t resist.

The Prohibition banquet’s formal title was “A DINNER To Celebrate the Unreal, the Surreal and the Extra-Ordinary”

Olives Stuffed eggs Pim olas Nut and cheese relish
Fruit Cocktail
Bouillon de Boeuf
Roast turkey
Pommes Gaufrettes Seasonal vegetables
Sherbet
Cheese Platter
French Neapolitan Ice Cream
Apple Moscovite
Cream mints Demi Tasse

Vegetarian Dinner

Olives Stuffed eggs Pim olas Nut and cheese relish
Fruit Cocktail
Cream of Almond
Eggs Creole
Pommes Gaufrettes Seasonal vegetables
Sherbet
Cheese Platter
French Neapolitan Ice Cream
Apple Moscovite
Cream mints Demi Tasse

Now you know not only what was on the final menu, but how we got there. From tomorrow I’ll start giving you recipes.

It’s not every recipe that was used, I’m afraid. This year was different to previous years and for some things (bread rolls, beef consommé) I didn’t have to provide recipes at all. If there’s something on the menu and you want a recipe for it and there is none on the blog, then please ask. I can find you something from a cookbook – it won’t be tested, but it will give you a feel for how that item was cooked at that time, which is the crux of it. The trick is to keep an eye out for the recipes you want that I haven’t blogged. Ask me and I shall blog. Simple, really.

By the second meeting, we had moved on. The menu looked something like this:

Menu:

1. cocktails with canapés (while mingling) Canapes: black olives, stuffed eggs, pim olas, nut and cheese relish
2. fruit cocktail (at table)
3. soup (1 clear soup, 1 vegetarian –tentatively vegetarian soup is cream of almond; a fine consommé or oxtail with garnishes will do for the meat version if nothing else comes through) - With Consommé, Bread or Cheese Sticks; with thick soups Crackers or Croutons;
4. roast with vegetable (3 viable alternatives established (tenderloin, tenderloin of beef moderne with vol au vents and rissole potatoes), lamb printaniere or lamb boulangere – lettuce or lettuce and tomato salad with French dressing on the side; 2 vegetarian options – eggs creole or scrambled eggs with tomatoes (more with testers))
5. sherbet/sorbet – small scoop lemon or orange – do we need to test recipes? An alternate recipe to straight lemon or orange (orange has some lemon in it to counteract sweetness) given below
6. game or cheese and biscuits (suggest cheese and biscuits)
7. Dessert – pudding or soufflé (Apple Moscovite is our default, however, testing still continuing) followed by French Neapolitan ice-cream (served separately)
8. coffee, cream mints

Other: small dish of nuts for each diner, plus dinner roll (possibly in napkin – need an alternate source), water glass half filled before diners sit

As you can see, it was close to the final one, but there were still some significant changes to be made. The big change was, of course, the main course. That beef nearly killed the banquet because it brought the cost up above what Conflux participants could pay. Some people would still have been able to go, but most would have been sad but said sorry. The turkey was just as much in period (and so very American) and it had the huge advantage of bringing the price of the meal down to something more people could afford.

And the final menu? I’ll give it to you tomorrow.

Initially, the form of the menu looked like this:

1. cocktails with canapés (while mingling)
2. fruit cocktail (at table)
3. soup (1 clear soup, 1 vegetarian)
4. roast with vegetable (alternate main course for vegetarians)
5. sherbet
6. game or cheese and biscuits (suggest cheese and biscuits)
7. Dessert
8. coffee, cream mints

There were some compromises in it. I had dropped two courses from a moderate menu and 4 from a sumptuous one – it would not have been possible to do it for the amount of money our diners could afford, basically. It’s still within the acceptable food amounts and styles for the period, but it’s trendy (canapes rather than fish and an entrée). The final menu dropped the game, too, again because of cost and availability. Basically, whenever there were choices, I made them to fit local food possibilities, plus cost, plus adding a vegetarian menu. The vegetarian menu is the biggest compromise – vegetarians had some food possibilities in 1921, but they weren’t cheerful. The vegetarian main course was the single hardest dish to find.

Other decisions I made to simplify dietary restrictions. They worked, too. No pork, no seafood, no fish, no peanuts and changing dishes slightly to replace regular flour with rice flour (only where it didn’t affect the quality of the dishes) meant that we have very few allergy issues. Also, me being Jewish and not testing pork is always a good thing. Some vegetarians say “Ah, but I can always eat fish.” Others can’t touch fish. I find it easier to leave fish off if I can, because of this. Also, because it gives me anaphylactic shock and I’m not yet ready to die.

What was interesting is that, because I’d considered the allergies and some of the religious restrictions from very early on, the chef was more comfortable with the menu. Obviously he has to work with these things on a daily basis. One thing I had to say, though, from the word ‘go’ – I couldn’t make the menu suitable for vegans: egg and dairy were too important to it. Interestingly, a range of ‘vegetarian’ food from the period has beef stock in it, so it wasn’t just a matter of flicking through cookbooks for that, either.

From the beginning, too, we decided to have the rinks service separate from the food and have diners pay as they went. The hotel has a bar and that would be open. We decided (thanks again to The Old Foodie) to have a ’secret’ drinks menu slipped inside the other one. This would keep up the feeling of illicit activity, plus make it fairly clear that diners had to sneak out and get their drinks. In return, the hotel agreed to add our own tested cocktails to what they served. What’s more, they charged reasonable amounts for them.

Again at the initial meeting I outlined the main meats that would have been served. Some we crossed off immediately and I expected to lose immediately. Guinea fowl, for instance, was just not practical. With the main meats I included the most popular sauces and sides, so that we were looking at a type of course rather than just at the meat. I had a lot of fun establishing some of the more popular dishes and how they were served. One of my testers and I did a whole lot of them in a single evening, if you can remember back that far.

Conflux is on and I’m not round. What do we do? Well, I was prepared for this. Starting from today, there’s a series of pre-posted blogposts about the banquet. All the background you ever wanted. The last post in the series will be the cocktail recipes, so hang in there. One a day until we’re done. I’ll be back at my desk in a few days, so ask all the questions you like!!

How I developed the menu. First, I read a lot. I read cookbooks and menus and guides to manners and table setting. The decade of the banquet was a terrific decade for this sort of publication. What I loved in particular were the technical manuals for setting up restaurants and how to cost meals and what sort of food was suitable for what sort of catering service. So many instructional manuals. So much good stuff. So, I read thousands of pages.

Thanks some timely and good advice from the “The Old Foodie” I read a lot of menus, too. The example menus from books were the ones I used for the structure of the banquet, and the printed menus in collections were my formatting guide. Garamond was my font of choice, because it appeared in more than one elegant dinner menu of the day.

I put together a dream-list of recipes for testing. Things that fitted the season and the region and were not impossibly expensive (I had to revise the impossibly expensive later on – beef and lamb are dearer than turkey these days – the relative prices of meat have changed significantly over the last few decades in Australia). Then the testing began, and was reported here.

When the dream list of great recipes was down to a reasonable number, Karen (the Conflux chair) and I had our first meeting with the chef. We had the table settings and service background sorted, so that staffing issues could be discussed and we had a really good diagram for table settings. I love the instructional nature of a class of cookbooks from that period – table setting wasn’t an issue this year at all because of the nature of US culture.

As some of you may know, Eneit Press will soon be launching In Bad Dreams Volume Two – Where Death Stalks. Some of you may also know that Gillian is one of our contributing authors. In fact this shall be her thirteenth published story. A horror anthology seems fitting for one’s thirteenth published story, don’t you agree?

To celebrate the forthcoming launch, and to put Gillian on the spot, she is going to do a reading from her story, Passports, at Conflux. She won’t be alone on the reading stage though, I’m not that cruel. Honestly, I’m not (stop laughing back there) After all, why torture one author, when I can torture two? I’ve got another of our authors, Andrew McKiernan also lined up to read an excerpt from his story, Daivadana.

To reward these brave authors, I shall be making some cup cakes, which may, or may not be alcoholic, using this image as my decorating inspiration and two of my favourite cupcake recipes:

Fairy Cakes (makes 12)
125g butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
¾ cup castor sugar
3 eggs
1½ cups self-raising flour
½ cup custard powder
60ml (¼ cup) milk

Beat butter, vanilla and sugar in small bowl with electric mixer until light and creamy. Beat in eggs 1 at a time; mixture might curdle at this stage but will reconstitute later. Add combined sifted flour and custard powder and milk; beat until just combined and smooth. Drop level tablespoons of mixture into greased patty pans with rounded bases. Bake at 180°C for 15 minutes or until light golden brown. Turn onto wire rack to cool. (This recipe works well with the addition of a little Frangelico with the milk)

Basic Chocolate Cup Cake Recipe (makes 12)
5 oz (150g) Butter - softened
5 oz (150g) superfine (castor) sugar
6 oz (175g) self-raising flour
3 eggs
2 tbsp cocoa powder
1 tsp vanilla extract

Pre-heat the oven to 350oF (180oC). Line a 12 cup cake pan, with cup cake papers. Crack the eggs into a cup and beat lightly with a fork. Place all the ingredients in a large bowl. Beat with an electric mixer for 2 minutes, until light and creamy. Divide the mixture evenly between the cake cases. Bake for 18-20 minutes until risen and firm to touch.
Allow to cool for a few minutes and then transfer to a wire rack. Allow to cool fully before icing. (This recipe works best if the alcohol is in the frosting, a Kahlua flavoured frosting is especially nice.)

Sadly, this is the last bit of your New Year present. The good news is tomorrow there’s a special guest blogging and the day after … banqueting stuff!!

“Never mind,” I said to my indignant stomach as we left the table-”Never mind! I shall make it all up to you for this mistreatment at breakfast to-morrow morning. We shall rise early-you and I-and with loud gurgling cries we shall leap headlong into one of those regular breakfasts in which the people of this city and nation specialise so delightfully. Food regulators may work their ruthless will upon the dinner trimmings, but none would dare to put so much as the weight of one impious finger upon an Englishman’s breakfast table to curtail its plenitude. Why, next to Magna Charta, an Englishman’s breakfast is his most sacred right.”

This in confidence was what I whispered to my gastric juices. You see, being still in ignorance of the full scope of the ration scheme in its application to the metropolitan district, and my disheartening experience at the meal just concluded to the contrary notwithstanding, I had my thoughts set upon rashers of crisp Wiltshire bacon, and broad segments of grilled York ham, and fried soles, and lovely plump sausages bursting from their jackets, and devilled kidneys paired off on a slice of toast, like Noah and his wife crossing the gangplank into the Ark.

Need I prolong the pain of my disclosures by longer withholding the distressing truth that breakfast next morning was a failure too? To begin with, I couldn’t get any of those lovely crisp crescent rolls that accord so rhythmically with orange marmalade and strawberry jam. I couldn’t get hot buttered toast either, but only some thin hard slabs of war bread, which seemingly had been dry-cured in a kiln. I could have but a very limited amount of sugar-a mere pinch, in fact; and if I used it to tone up my coffee there would be none left for oatmeal porridge. Moreover, this dab of sugar was to be my full day’s allowance, it seemed. There was no cream for the porridge either, but, instead, a small measure of skimmed milk so pale in colour that it had the appearance of having been diluted with moonbeams. Furthermore, I was informed that prior to nine-thirty I could have no meat of any sort, the only exceptions to this cruel rule being kippered herrings and bloaters; and in strict confidence the waiter warned me that, for some mysterious reason, neither the kippers nor the bloaters seemed to be up to their oldtime mark of excellence just now. From the same source I gathered that it would be highly inadvisable to order fried eggs, because of the lack of sufficient fat in which to cook them. So, as a last resort, I ordered two eggs, soft-boiled. They were served upended, English-fashion, in little individual cups, the theory being that in turn I should neatly scalp the top off of each egg with my spoon and then scoop out the contents from Nature’s own container.

Now Englishmen are born with the faculty to perform this difficult achievement; they inherit it. But I have known only one American who could perform the feat with neatness and despatch; and, as he had devoted practically all his energies to mastering this difficult alien art, he couldn’t do much of anything else, and, except when eggs were being served in the original packages, he was practically a total loss in society. He was a variation of the breed who devote their lives to producing a perfect salad dressing; and you must know what sad affairs those persons are when not engaged in following their lone talent. Take them off of salad dressings and they are just naturally null and void.

Over the next few days I’m involved in gustatory activity. In fact, it’s Jewish New Year very shortly. This year I wanted to give you a slightly different present for the season. It’s the first section of a book called “Eating in Two of Three Languages” by Irvin S Cobb, from 1918. It reflects a moment in time when there was war and deprivation and travel was slow and Cobb was inspired to write. What attracted me first to this was Cobb’s dedication “TO B.B. McALPIN, ESQUIRE, WHO KNOWS A LOT ABOUT EATING.” I was going to give it to you in one enormous post, but, truly, it’s the sort of thing that you’ll enjoy in small snacks, a bit each day. If you want to read it all at once, then just wait till the final day and read through all the posts.

So, from tomorrow, instead of me, you meet Irvin S Cobb and his marvelous dedication to food.

He reminds me a bit of another writer I have blogged (though I interviewed the author of The Shameless Carnivore rather than giving you extracts, as it’s just been published and there are all sorts of copyright restrictions). If I wanted to compare books, I would compare Gold’s with Cobb’s for all sorts of reasons. There is an underlying similarity in their deep passion for their subject and their attribution of personality by foodlove, for instance.

So, from tomorrow, a few Cobb days, in celebration of food at a very celebratory time of year. Soon after that (not much longer to go at all) you’ll find out a whole bunch about the Conflux banquet. This year, you see, I’ve decided to let you in on some of the behind-the-scenes stuff. And after that this blog turns three and there will be prizes. Of course there will be prizes. I don’t know which I’ll be giving out yet, because no-one has jumped up and down and said “Me! Me! I want the picnic wrap!!” I think maybe I’ll give them out over a few weeks and let my whim and fancy decide. That’s not till the second half of October though.

Have a good and sweet New Year – and enjoy the Cobb!

We had our minds set on a steak-a large thick steak served with onions, Desdemona style-that is to say, smothered. It was a pretty thought, a passing fair conception-but a vain one.

“No steaks to-night, sir,” said the waiter sorrowfully.

“All right, then,” one of us said. “How about chops-fat juicy chops?”

“Oh, no, sir; no chops, sir,” he told us.

“Well then, what have you in the line of red meats?”

He was desolated to be compelled to inform us that there were no red meats of any sort to be had, but only sea foods. So we started in with oysters. Personally I have never cared deeply for the European oyster. In size he is anæmic and puny as compared with his brethren of the eastern coast of North America; and, moreover, chronically he is suffering from an acute attack of brass poisoning. The only way by which a novice may distinguish a bad European oyster from a good European oyster is by the fact that a bad one tastes slightly better than a good one does. In my own experience I have found this to be the one infallible test.

We had oysters until both of us were full of verdigris, and I, for one, had a tang in my mouth like an antique bronze jug; and then we proceeded to fish. We had fillets of sole, which tasted as they looked-flat and a bit flabby. Subsequently I learned that this lack of savour in what should be the most toothsome of all European fishes might be attributed to an insufficiency of fat in the cooking; but at the moment I could only believe the trip up from Dover had given the poor thing a touch of car sickness from which he had not recovered before he reached us.

After that we had lobsters, half-fare size, but charged for at the full adult rates. And, having by now exhausted our capacity for sea foods, we wound up with an alleged dessert in the shape of three drowned prunes apiece, the remains being partly immersed in a palish custardlike composition that was slightly sour.

Going up to London we rode in a train that was crowded and darkened. Brilliantly illuminated trains scooting across country offered an excellent mark for the aim of hostile air raiders, you know; so in each compartment the gloom was enhanced rather than dissipated by two tiny pin points of a ghastly pale-blue gas flame. I do not know why there should have been two of these lights, unless it was that the second one was added so that by its wan flickerings you could see the first one, and vice versa.
During the trip, which lasted several hours longer than the scheduled running time, we had for refreshments a few gnarly apples, purchased at a way station; and that was all. Recalling the meals that formerly had been served aboard the boat trains of this road, I realised I was getting my preliminary dose of life on an island whose surrounding waters were pestered by U-boats and whose shipping was needed for transport service. But I pinned my gastronomic hopes on London, that city famed of old for the plenteous prodigality of its victualling facilities. In my ignorance I figured that the rigours of rationing could not affect London to any very noticeable extent. A little trimming down here and there, an enforced curtailment in this direction and that-yes, perhaps so; but surely nothing more serious. Immediately on arrival we chartered a taxicab-a companion and I did. … we rode through the darkened streets to a hotel formerly renowned for the scope and excellence of its cuisine. We reached there after the expiration of the hour set apart under the food regulations for serving dinner to the run of folks. But, because we were both in uniform-he as a surgeon in the British Army, and I as a correspondent-and because we had but newly finished a journey by rail, we were entitled, it seemed, to claim refreshment.

However, he, as an officer, was restricted to a meal costing not to exceed six shillings-and six shillings never did go far in this hotel, even when prices were normal. Not being an officer but merely a civilian disguised in the habiliments of a military man, I, on the other hand, was bound by no such limitations, but might go as far as I pleased. So it was decided that I should order double portions of everything and surreptitiously share with him; for by now we were hungry to the famishing point.

Likewise the English cook has always gone in rather extensively for boiling things. When in doubt she boiled. But it takes a lot of retouching to restore to a piece of boiled meat the juicy essences that have been simmered and drenched out of it. Since the English people, with such admirable English thoroughness, cut down on fats and oils and bacon garnishments, so that the greases might be conserved for the fighting forces; and since they have so largely had to do without imported spices and condiments, because the cargo spaces in the ships coming in were needed for military essentials, the boiled dishes of England appear to have lost most of their taste.
You can do a lot of browsing about at an English table these days and come away ostensibly filled; but inside you there will be a persistent unsatisfied feeling, all the same, which is partly due, no doubt, to the lack of sweetening and partly due to the lack of fats, but due most of all, I think, to a natural disappointment in the results. In the old times a man didn’t feel that he had dined well in England unless for an hour or two afterward he had the comfortable gorged sensation of a python full of pigeons.
I shall never forget the first meals I had on English soil, this latest trip. At the port where we landed, in the early afternoon of a raw day, you could get tea if you cared for tea, which I do not; but there was no sugar-only saccharine-to sweeten it with, and no rich cream, or even skim milk, available with which to dilute it. The accompanying buns had a flat, dry, floury taste, and the portions of butter served with them were very homoeopathic indeed as to size and very oleomargarinish as to flavour.