Excerpted from the late Eduardo Galeano’s Faces and Masks, part of the ‘80s-era Memory of Fire trilogy, here's a 12-hour rundown of antique Peruvian snacks, circa 1769. A running catalog of the toll of corporatist colonialism on the so-called “New World,” the book is particularly focused on charting historical upheavals via the metronomic march of the calendar, which adds a sense of strange menace to this seemingly innocent list of foods, many of them influenced by flavors and ingredients forcibly introduced from Spain. A few of these dishes are self-explanatory, although some others are not. “Curds seller,” to start, likely refers to vendors of Quesillo, a moniker that means something slightly different in every Latin American nation, in Peru signifying a fresh curd cheese still sold on the streets of Lima to this day. The “green velvet” Chirimoyas are the pale-colored, shingle-textured fruit also known as the “custard apple,” although this appellation applies to many of its cousins in the Annona/Soursop family (not including, strangely, the actual Soursop, aka Guanábana), which also includes the “Sugar Apple,” and the American Paw-Paw. Cherimoya means “cold seeds,” in the Quechua language, a reference to the high altitudes at which they are grown. More musings on custard apples, meanwhile, can be found in the second of my Colombia trip report posts.
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I’ve spent some timely lately digging through the 1930 NYC Dining Guide, an invaluable document for illuminating a time period whose dining mores are now pretty hard to envision, far removed as they are from our current views of what constitutes gourmandizing. An especially archaic section is the one detailing drink recipes, which hearkens back to the rosy days of the cocktail party era, when home bars were routinely well stocked enough to support the construction of everyone’s pet cocktails. Beyond this, the very concept of a dining guide with a drinks section (labeled “What to do Until the Taxi Comes”), serves as an important reminder of Prohibition-era restrictions. While media depicting this time period is rightly obsessed with detailing the cavalier party atmosphere of speakeasies, I imagine there was also a large segment of the populace that felt marginally or less than comfortable with flouting the law, and didn’t routinely frequent these subterranean dens of iniquity. Intended perhaps for this homebody set, the primary purpose of these concoctions is clearly to get readers loaded enough to be able to enjoy a dinner without further need of alcoholic sustenance, aside from a few clandestine nips from a hip flask perhaps.
A page from Yukio Mishima’s Spring Snow, demonstrating the Western affectations of the Japanese upper class circa 1913. In the novel this is a sign of decay, the abandonment of proud native traditions, specifically the warrior-caste pride of the weakling protagonist’s nouveau-riche family. Looking like something out of the Gilded Age, from a book written in 1965, the menu provides an interesting time capsule of an era that’s been referred to as Japan’s Jazz Age, a period of curious cultural rebellion quashed by the economic unrest and mounting nationalism of the early '30s. Years before Japanese flappers would embrace Western clothing styles, the affectations of the Taisho era demonstrate the same obsession with illicit outside influence that would make way for modern confections, from sponge cake to milk bread. Both of these seem like modern, post-war innovations, but trace back further, to the early influence of Portugal, perhaps the world’s preeminent seeder of European culture abroad, and conversely a big importer of overseas flavors back to the mainland. It was the Portuguese who originally brought bread (not to mention tempura, itself possibly derived from Indian pakora) to Japan in the 17th century, with the word pan, like the Indian pav, coming from the Portuguese pao.
Closing out a trio of posts dedicated to Bob Brown’s Complete Book of Cheese, here’s one last foray into the wide world of ‘50s-era preserved dairy products. As mentioned previously, the combination of Brown’s raconteur tone, the hazy mists of time, and the fact that not all information is available online and/or in English, leads to a bit of confusion about what is real and what Brown has simply invented. That matters less in this last post, which focuses entirely on recipes, all capable of producing very real, very rich delicacies, fabricated or not. This first dish purports to be a traditional favorite of the Engadine, a lush, Sound of Music-style valley in the Swiss Alps; Googling reveals nothing, although I did find a bit of fantastic web animation on the website of this unrelated London restaurant, named after the valley's famous resort town. The second is an explosion of opulence featuring the King of Cheeses, pushed even further into regal richness with champagne and butter. The third is a little less decadent, perfect for dieters who also want to sample one of the book’s 60 recipes for rarebit, or at least get a glimpse of mid-century dieting fashions.
CHAMOIS CHEESE
“Aristotle said that the most savorous cheese came from the chamois. This small goatlike antelope feeds on wild mountain herbs not available to lumbering cows, less agile sheep or domesticated mountain goats, so it gives, in small quantity but high quality, the richest, most flavorsome of milk.” There's something innately disturbing about the short memory of popular culture, the impetuous hastiness with which celebrated things can be completely and utterly forgotten, a reminder that most people’s legacies don’t extend too far beyond their lifespans. So while it’s nice to imagine we have an adequate picture of what life was like 50 or 60 years ago, a sampling of hit movies and TV shows, icons and stars, fashions and trends, there’s really a huge amount of now-vanished information which leaves this image incomplete. Take for example Bob, Rose and Cora Brown, a by-all-accounts moderately famous husband, wife and mother team of food explorers, who wrote several impressive tomes on the joys of adventurous eating. All of these are now out of print, and the Browns can no longer even boast a Wikipedia entry to their name. Bob, the trio’s de facto leader (if only by virtue of having lived the longest and wrote the most) still has a few scant clippings accessible, including this 2010 NYTimes piece, which seems to completely misinterpret an obvious joke about an idea for an automated reading machine. This disappearance is a shame, since the Browns’ gourmand legacy, the concept of combing the globe for new flavors rather than clinging to the comfortable tastes of home, seems especially relevant today.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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