Part 8

The filling: In a cup full of sugar mix thoroughly a heaping tablespoonful and one-half of flour. Grate the skin of one lemon, and add the juice. Then add the yolks of two eggs and a cup of water, also a pinch of salt. Stir this thoroughly, all together. Put into a double boiler and let it cook until it is thick and smooth. Then pour it into the cooked pie crust. Add a teaspoonful of water to the whites of the eggs, and a pinch of salt. Then beat until stiff. Cover your pie with this mixture and then sprinkle granulated sugar on top of the meringue. Don’t mix the sugar and the meringue. Put under the broiler to brown.

The crust: Mix two good sized tablespoonfuls of lard with one and a half cups of flour. Mix this with your fingers thoroughly, until it feels like corn meal, although much larger. Add ice water until the mixture holds together; then roll on a floured board. In baking the crust for a lemon pie, either puncture the crust all over with a fork or bake it on the outside of your pie tin. This will keep the crust from creeping.

A DRESSING

(For stuffed tomatoes, cold meat or potato salad.)

Melt a large tablespoonful of butter. Add a saucer of vinegar to the yolks of two eggs. Then add a teaspoonful of dry mustard and a teaspoonful of sugar. Stir the mixture—sugar and eggs—into the vinegar; then add it to the butter which you have on the stove, melting. Keep stirring this until it gets thick, and remember that it will be much thicker when it is cold. In case you wish to use this for potato salad, don’t make it very thick.

XCIX

_Charles W. Chessar_

(“Beefsteak Charlie”)

TIPS ON STEAK

“Why can’t we have steaks like this one when we dine at home?” Thousands of people have asked me that question during the eight years that have given a real significance to the sobriquet, “Beefsteak Charlie.”

And my honest answer to that question has always been: “_You can’t_—unless your butcher is willing to _hang your beef for four or five weeks_—and then you probably would not want to buy it because of its appearance.”

Many people ask me how to cook a steak. There is really no secret about the way it should be done—but most home cooks put the steak into a cold broiler and light the fire. That is fatal! And it is just as fatal if the fire has only been burning a few minutes. The broiler should burn full tilt for some time—until it is blazing hot. Then introduce your steak and let the _intense heat_ of the broiler seal it instantly. If there is a secret, that’s it!

But keep this in mind: the most careful broiling will not help if the beef is too fresh. Fresh beef simply will not do if you want the real thing. Buy the choicest cuts of sirloin or porterhouse from beef that has been hung at least four weeks; broil in the way I have described and your dinner guests will register many polite hints for another invitation. I might add that if the beef is right you will not have to worry about a sauce. Butter, salt, and pepper will properly dress the finest steak in the world.

C

_Arthur T. Vance_

SALADE Á LA TURC

I don’t profess to shine much as a cook. I would rather have somebody do it for me, but there are one or two things that I sometimes like to fix on my own hook.

Years ago there was some sort of a Centennial Exposition out in Nashville, Tenn. I don’t remember what they had to celebrate, but at any rate I had to take it in. I didn’t know a soul and good old Al Williams, the snake man—who died last year—gave me a letter of introduction to the Turk who ran the Hoochy-Koochy show on the midway. It is the only time I ever used a letter of introduction with efficiency and delectation. This Turk—who, incidentally, was one of the finest looking chaps I ever saw, and a man of education—welcomed me with open arms. First of all I had to see the show, and I was so enthusiastic about the gyrations of the sumptuous beauties that he did me the great honor of asking me to dine with him, _en famille_. It was a great experience. All the Hoochy-koochy dancers were there, in their stage costumes, with ma and pa and mother-in-law, and mother’s great uncle and a rabble of other folks, large and small. We had a lot of funny things to eat, but there was one dish that really appealed to me. They called it “Salada” and I ate of it in such copious portions that my friend, the Turk, insisted on showing me how it was made. I have made it many times since for my own pleasure, at least—and most folk who try it once will try it again.

It is a salad of ripe tomatoes, cucumbers and onions. The main point is that you must not slice them up but—after you peel your onions, cucumbers and tomatoes—put them whole into a chopping bowl, and chop them into chunks with a chopping knife. The chunks should be about as large as the end of your thumb. After the chopping operation, put the whole business on the ice until it gets good and cold. Then drain off the juice.

Add a sharp French dressing, get a big spoon and a plate and go to it. If it doesn’t taste good, I’ll eat it myself.

PANDORA FRENCH DRESSING

I have discovered that the secret of French dressing, to my way of thinking, is to use plenty of salt. When I make it at home—say for five or six people—I take an ordinary salt dish or saucer and cover the bottom with a lot of salt. Add black pepper and some of that Chili powder that comes from a place down in Texas. This Chili powder has a better flavor than paprika, and has a sort of onion taste to it, but don’t use too much of it. Then I cover this with a good quantity of olive oil and beat it up with a fork until it gets stiff. It is a good idea to have the olive oil cold. Then add your vinegar—good, old-fashioned cider vinegar. There is a lot of it around nowadays because, while it is easy to turn sweet cider into hard, it is a good deal easier to turn hard cider into vinegar. You add the vinegar to suit your taste—and this depends a good deal on the kind of salad you are going to have. For asparagus I like the dressing a little tart. For lettuce, not so tart. But this is a matter you can easily adjust to your own satisfaction.

WELSH RABBIT Á LA MORGAN ROBERTSON

I wonder how many folk who read these pages remember Morgan Robertson. Poor old Morgan is dead and gone, now, but in his day he wrote some of the best sea stories ever put into English. He used to keep bachelor hall in a funny little studio down on 25th Street, off Sixth Avenue, New York—and when his friends came to call his special delight was a Welsh Rabbit. He told me how to make it, and I am trying to pass the recipe on. The beauty of Robertson’s rabbit was that it never got stringy.

First you put a good-sized lump of butter into a chafing dish and let it sizzle. Add some Coleman’s mustard and paprika and stir it round a bit. For six people I would use two pounds of cheese. Real old New York State full cream cheese—none of this odoriferous imported stuff. The kind of cheese they used to make down on the farm. Cut it up in chunks and put it in the pan with a little beer (near beer will do), or you could use milk. Keep adding a little more beer as the cheese commences to melt and put in a little Worcestershire sauce, if you like it. When it is well melted take a heaping tablespoonful of corn starch, mix it with a little water, and mix it with the mess. Meanwhile keep stirring it. Let it bubble and when it comes to the consistency of pancake batter (meanwhile keep stirring it—you can’t stir it too much!) it is ready to serve. And please serve it on toasted bread. If there is anything makes me tired, it is to have Welsh Rabbit served on crackers—it isn’t the same thing. Don’t be afraid the rabbit will get stringy, because it won’t. Some folks put the corn starch in dry, instead of mixing it with water. Either way is right. Season it to suit yourself. But for the love of Mike don’t beat an egg up in it. That’s another kind of fish entirely.

CI

_Baron de Cartier_

(Ambassador to the United States from Belgium)

WATERZOIE DE VOLAILLE

Without doubt the most popular national dish of Belgium is Waterzoie de Volaille—a most delectable and satisfying soup of chicken. In Brussels the dish reaches perfection under the magic of the chef of the famous restaurant the “Filet de Sole,” known to amateurs of good cooking in almost every country of Europe.

I am going to tell you how they do it at the “Filet de Sole.” First of course you will secure a fine young fowl—chicken—and, after it has been perfectly cleaned and dressed, you will rub it well with a piece of lemon. Now cut it up as you would for frying.

Next prepare the casserole or vessel in which the soup will be made by generously buttering the sides and bottom. Over the bottom of the vessel place a bed of fine julienne composed of one third of fine white celery (remove all fibers or “strings”) one-third of the white part of leek and one-third of white onion. To this add a bouquet composed of a half leaf of laurel, a _soupçon_ of thyme enclosed in a few roots of parsley, the roots having been well scraped and washed.

Upon this bed place the pieces of chicken and over the whole pour a little more than a quart of dry white wine and veal broth—one third broth and two thirds wine. Water may be used instead of the broth but the latter is preferable. Season with kitchen salt, freshly ground white pepper and a pinch of clove.

Bring the mixture to the boiling point and allow it to simmer and steam under a tight cover for at least thirty-five minutes.

Take out the bouquet and pass the roots through a metal strainer. The extract is to be added to the soup. Now add a large pinch of bread crumbs.

At this point you will turn the soup into a large tureen and quickly add the rapidly beaten yolks of four eggs, two wine glasses of extra thick cream and a few thimblefuls of fine butter.

Complete the liaison by adding the pieces of chicken and, with a final sprinkle of chopped parsley, the Waterzoie is ready for the table and for your delectation.

CII

_Dean Cornwell_

SPAGHETTI-MY-STYLE

After thinking over all of the dishes that I like—searching for the favorite—I come right back to the old standby, Spaghetti, and am forced to admit that it is my favorite.

You know how to cook the spaghetti itself, I’m sure, so I will just tell you how to make the sauce that I concocted some years ago and you’ll like it.

Get a big iron kettle and put into it a lot of fine beef cut into small squares, some chopped bacon, dried mushrooms (the kind you get at any little Italian store) a can of tomatoes and some sliced onions. The dried mushrooms should be soaked for an hour or two before cooking.

Cover the materials with plenty of water and season with salt, brown sugar, and Mexican chili powder. Cook slowly all day—the longer the better, I find.

When you are simply famished and cannot wait any longer, ladle the sauce onto the steaming hot spaghetti and enjoy a real meal. The sauce is still better, in my opinion, when warmed up the second day.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Á used frequently in place of the expected À for À LA. This is the case for the entire table of contents and a few of the recipes. It was retained as printed.

FINANCIÉRE was used twice and FINANCIÈRE once.

Page xi, “achitecture” changed to “architecture” (architecture of a gastronomic)

Page xv, “SUPREMÊ” changed to “SUPRÊME” (SUPRÊME OF CHICKEN)

Page xv, “A” changed to “Á” to match rest of usage in table of contents (CROUSTADE Á)

Page xxiii, “COMMADORE” changed to “COMMODORE” (Á LA COMMODORE)

Page xxiv, “EMINCE” changed to “ÉMINCE” (ÉMINCE OF CHICKEN)

Page xxv, “SAUTÈ” changed to “SAUTÉ” (VEAU SAUTÉ)

Page xxvi, “SAUTÈ” changed to “SAUTÉ” twice (EGGPLANT SAUTÉ) (MORELS SAUTÉ)

Page 100, the more usual “Boullabaise” has been printed as “Bouillebaisse” more than once. It was retained as printed.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Stag Cook Book, by Carroll Mac Sheridan