It's All Gone to Custard

Mmm, custardy goodness. Love the retro packaging too.

Excited by the sudden improvement in the weather, and inspired in part by reading Matt O'Connor's new book The Icecreamists last week (on which more later if I get around to it), I purchased myself a new ice cream maker this week. (My old one is leaking weird liquid, so I have consigned it to the bin. I wouldn't have thought it of you, John Lewis! It was own brand and everything!) I like to be prepared when I cook, so I've been doing some research on ice cream recipe books as well. As we know, ice cream can be made in various different styles - the American, or more specifically Philadelphia, style is to freeze cream with sugar and fruit, and the French or Italian style is to make a thin custard with egg yolks and then freeze that for a richer flavour and less chance of ice crystals forming.

I have purchased David Lebovitz's book after reading this article in the Guardian, as well as the excellent reviews, index &c on Amazon, and of course will be consulting my uncle Timothy Walker's book If You Can Read You Can Cook. Uncle Tim is a great ice cream maker and I have fond memories of basil ice cream and strawberries at a barbecue circa 1995.

Reading all these books' careful instructions on how to make a custard base got me to thinking about how fundamentally complicated and delicate an operation custard-making is, and how strange it is therefore that, as Alan Davidson says, it is fundamental to Western cooking (think of dishes like quiche Lorraine or bread and butter pudding, as well as the hot stuff we pour over pies and crumbles). He details how it was made in medieval times - before easily controllable hobs - by being baked in bread ovens after the bread had been taken out, or cooked slowly in a chafing dish under which hot coals were laid, presumably to allow for better control over the heat. He also mentions some medieval tips (important to know if you had unreliable equipment) on how to thicken it, such as mixing in breadcrumbs, or a gelling agent made from carrageen moss. Usually it was eaten as a semi-solid dish – rather like how Americans eat it, as 'pudding' – rather than as a sauce to pour over other things, a change of role that occurred in the nineteenth century.

It is no wonder that the cornflour-based custard powder made by 'Alfred Bird FCS, Experimental Chemist', as his shopfront described him, was a godsend to cooks in the mid-nineteenth century. No more curdling, no more scrambled eggs. I've made ice cream with Ambrosia custard before but have never quite stooped to using powder. And what with my modern gas hob, quality saucepan with no hot spots and ready supply of ice to ice-bath my cream in and avoid overheating of the mixture, I don't really have any excuse to do so.

Two more custard facts: did you know that the word comes from croustade, or tart, and in Britain came to denote the filling rather the whole thing? And, delightfully, that in the 1920s one pâtisserie in Hollywood turned their entire operation over to making the custard tarts that were thrown in films, after perfecting a recipe for a throwable tart with the perfect slurp?

Hey There Sugar

This lady also likes cake.

My article on the association of women with sugar (a follow-up to the piece I wrote on whisky back in June) has just been published by The Vagenda magazine. You can read it here.


I watched It's Complicated last night. I'm not proud of it. But I like Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin, so that's my excuse. Anyway, the film really goes overboard on domestic interiors and 'lifestyle'. Meryl lives in a perfect house, with a perfect garden and perfect kids. And her perfect job? Running a bakery. I have no problem with women running bakeries, obviously, but it seems a little odd to me that running a bakery is depicted as the dream job for a woman in so many films, books and TV shows: see also Bridesmaids and Cougar Town. It's another example of how sugar is believed to be a woman's vice. I don't think I've ever seen a romcom about a female chef or butcher.

Coffee-Making

"At that moment Zita came in with coffee. She made better coffee than anyone in the house; far better than Mr Challis, who went to the most terrific pother with special earthenware saucepans from Paris and a very difficult sort of chicory that no-one else had ever heard of, and exact calculations as to when to add the coffee to the water, and goodness knows what, and then produced a correct but unexciting beverage hardly worthy of all the fuss. Zita boiled water in a little black saucepan, then threw in handfuls of coffee, saying carelessly, 'It is easy – you chust make it strong enough', and out came a blazing-hot, fragrant black liquid worthy of Brillat-Savarin at his best. This annoyed Mr Challis . . ."

Stella Gibbons, Westwood (1946)

This sounds rather familiar to me, and I have to admit that I am a Zita, not a Mr Challis, when it comes to making coffee (and to cooking in general). By this I mean that I fling in coffee according to my mood rather than measuring exactly, with the exciting result that the coffee is always different. Frankly I think that measuring exactly is unlikely to yield a consistent result in any case, since the age and strength of the coffee and how long it has been open are also likely to affect the final flavour.

One of the things I find interesting about this passage is the coffee apparatus. Nowadays most people in the UK and Europe would agree that the preferred way to make coffee is in an espresso machine, which forces hot pressurized water through the roasted coffee, and thus is highly concentrated. Alan Davidson refers to this as 'the world-conquering Italian espresso machine', and for it we do indeed have to thank the Italians. But this is a relatively recent development. In 1946 - and for most of its history in Britain - coffee in the UK was made in a way more traditional to Arab countries, as well as Turkey and Greece: by grinding finely and then boiling. The cafetière, though it retains the oils in the beans in a way drip coffee does not, was only invented in 1929 (also by an Italian, despite the US name 'French press') and was not a common sight on British tables. Coffee was sipped from cups only a little smaller than teacups, not downed in shots from tiny cups, or served in large mugs filled from drip coffee machines, as it often is today in the USA.

Literary Eats #3: Little House on the Prairie

Food features heavily in this story of a little girl growing up as a pioneer in nineteenth-century America. In this, the second book in the series, the Ingalls family makes a trip from Wisconsin to the prairie of Kansas, builds a log cabin and starts a little farm, until they have to move on after hearing that the land they are living on is not legal to be settled after all.

            The ever-resourceful Pa brings home plenty of game – mostly prairie rabbits and fowl – and they have corn meal, sometimes fried in little cakes or made into mush (presumably like polenta), and beans (bean porridge with salt pork is one of Laura’s favourite dishes). But apart from that, no vegetables are mentioned. Of course, this is before the ‘invention’ of vitamins, but you do wonder how they, and families like them, got vitamin C. There’s no description of foraging for wild greens, which presumably they could hardly do on grassland anyway. No fruit or vegetables are mentioned, except for blackberries, and the fateful watermelon that a fellow settler has planted (which the family believes has given them malaria). It takes until the end of the book for them to plant a garden – with peas, beans, turnips and potatoes – and as soon as they do, they have to leave it behind. The pioneer cuisine detailed in the book is simple, repetitive and high on protein but low on vitamins and carbs. You can't have potatoes without a garden, or bake bread without an oven, and processed wheat goods like pasta are still far in the future. Neither does the book mention rice, which would be an ideal, compact staple for a pioneer family: but although it was grown in the Mississippi Valley in the nineteenth century, it didn't seem to be available - or perhaps just wasn't wanted - this far west.

            The luxury food of Laura’s childhood – treats the family has at Christmas – is bread and cake made with white flour, candy, and sweet potatoes. It’s interesting that with all the no doubt flavourful wild game, the more difficult to source complex carbohydrates are the real treats; and the opposite of today, when protein is usually considered the star of the meal, with carbs just the filling accompaniment.

A Carving Lexicon

Carving and serving at a meal, from Les Tres riches heures du duc de Berry (c. 1408).

'Break that deer, leach that brawn, rear that goose, lift that swan, sauce that capon, spoil that hen, frust that chicken, unbrace that mallard, unlace that coney [rabbit], dismember that hern, display that crane, disfigure that peacock, unjoynt that bittern, untach that curlew, allay that pheasant, wing that partridge, wing that quail, mince that plover, thigh that pidgeon, border that pasty, thigh that woodcock; thigh all manner of small birds. 
Timber the fire, tire that egg, chine that salmon, string that lamprey, splat that pike, souce that plaice, sauce that tench, splay that bream, side that haddock, tusk that barbel, culpon that trout, fin that chivin, transon that eel, tranch that sturgeon, undertranch that porpus, tame that crab, barb that lobster.'

From Robert May's The Accomplisht Cook; or, The Art and Mystery of Cookery (1685)

What a lovely set of words for carving. It seems odd now that we have so few: 'carve' seems to cover just about everything, with a few notable exceptions such as shucking oysters. I particularly like 'splat that pike'. So why have we lost all these phrases? Well, apart from the fact that it's simpler to make do with just a few, carving no longer holds the significance that it once did.

In medieval times meals were eaten communally. Everyone in a household – family, retainers, servants and guests – would eat together in a grand hall. Often this would mean hundreds of people. Dishes would be set on the tables (often boards balanced across the knees of the diners, hence the expression 'full board' or 'bed and board' to mean that food will be included) and the head of each table, the man of highest rank, would have the job of carving. Because dining was thus a much more communal and public event than it is today, the art of carving was taught to boys at a young age. It was considered an important part of a young man's education and essential if he were to take his place in society. Knights of the realm prided themselves on their carving skills. At the time Robert May was writing in the seventeenth century, these specialist words for this social ritual were still current; although dining in private homes, separately from servants, was more common than it had been in medieval times, you would still eat with tens or hundreds of others if you were at court or part of a grand household. Food was not plated individually before serving, and it was important to know the etiquette of serving oneself and others.

Nowadays, of course, dining at home is a more private affair. Most joints of meat are smaller and less complicated to carve because they don't have to feed such large numbers of people at once, and in restaurants they will be sliced and plated in the kitchen by professionals, but away from the public gaze. We've lost the significance of carving – almost. The rituals of dismembering the Christmas turkey or the Sunday roast at the table, in front of family and guests, are notable exceptions. 

The Modern Epicure

Epicurus: not as much fun as you might think

An epicure, dining at Crewe

Found a rather large mouse in his stew.

Said the waiter, ‘Don’t shout,

And wave it about,

Or the rest will be wanting one, too!’

Epicurus was an ancient Greek philosopher who lived around 307 BC and invented a system of philosophy, handily known as Epicureanism, which put the pursuit of pleasure above all things. (You only get a system of philosophy named after you if you are a) an ancient Greek or b) a top philosopher like Hegel or Marx). Hurrah! I hear you say. Such fun! But, annoyingly, there’s a downside. Epicurus said, ‘By pleasure we mean the absence of pain in the body and of trouble in the soul.’ The absence of pain (aponia) leads to a state of tranquillity (ataraxia). So for anything delightful that you might care to do or imbibe, you have to consider first if it’s going to cause you any pain later. Since overeating and overdrinking will both undoubtedly do this, you can’t do them. Boo.

            Epicureans therefore led rather simple lives in which they prized friendship, learning and generally hanging about and being Zen about things. The idea has influenced many people over the centuries: Thomas Jefferson, for example, called himself an epicurean, although one wonders rather how making your hundreds of slaves plant lettuces and fruit trees for you exactly qualifies you to claim you're living the simple life. But today's food landscape is rather different from his, and even more so from Epicurus'. What would today’s epicurean eat, and what would she avoid?

1) Chillies are out, since you can’t eat anything that causes you pain. You might argue that they don’t cause you pain if you’re used to them, but if you’re a real epicure, you won’t ever have tried them – not worth the risk to your ataraxia. The same goes for any and all flavours generally considered ‘acquired tastes’, since the discomfort you experience the first time you eat them will outweigh the pleasures you might get later on. Remember, the balance is towards avoiding pain, not getting pleasure. So, no beer, oysters, olives &c. If you don’t think you’ll like it, you can’t eat it.

2) Anything that might give you food poisoning. It's too risky. Think like the Queen on her overseas trips. No salad or shellfish. Everything has to be cooked to within an inch of its life. Bye bye rare steak and sashimi.

3) Foods and drinks that might upset your ataraxia. This means no cheese before bedtime. If it makes you feel excited or gives you bad dreams, don’t eat it. Presumably this ban also includes other food-related pursuits that might make you angry or excited: using the self-service machines in Tesco, for example, or eating at Hooters. And if you feel guilty about eating it, it’s a definite no-no. Can’t have you lying awake at night, not being tranquil. Free-range only. Maybe even vegetarian or vegan. If you’re remotely troubled by what you eat, it has to go.

5) For the same reason, anything where you think: ‘How much? Bloody hell!’ when paying. Avoid the anger at all costs. No fancy restaurants for you.

What does this leave? Lentils, I guess. Bread (so long as no-one has been harmed in the process of making it, and so long as you haven’t gone all the way to Tesco’s to find it and they’ve sold out and you have to angrily buy rolls instead). Vegetables and fruit. Sounds OK actually. Wow, this life of pleasure sure is boring. Unfortunately, boredom didn’t count as pain, so you don’t really have an excuse to liven things up with that chilli sauce.

But then, one nice thing about Epicurus’ philosophy is that he said the people you eat food with are much more important than what you eat – and that’s fair enough, I reckon. Maybe I’ll give it a go after all.

Tell Me What You Eat, and I Will Tell You What You Are

So Popeye is green, slimy and comes in a can, then.

This phrase is a bit of a canard these days, ever since it was adopted as the strapline for mad-as-a-box-of-frogs hardman cooking-comp Iron Chef (starring Mark Decascos, who I have happy memories of since watching Crying Freeman at university, and who has made the leap from martial arts eye candy to terrifying campy chef character in only ten short years). But - here comes the surprise - it doesn't mean what you probably think it does. It's from Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin's The Physiology of Taste (1825), which I've previously discussed on these pages. TPoT, as it shall henceforth be known, is intended to be a scientific manual: a study of gastronomy intended to carry the spirit of Enlightenment and the scientific revolution into the culinary sphere, with lots of delightful nineteenth-century windbaggery thrown in for good measure. J.-A. can never resist telling a good story, and some of his anecdotes are actually funny, but his analysis of physiology leads a bit to be desired. 

When J.-A. says 'tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are', although he is making a point about how culinary likes and dislikes can pinpoint you geographically and by social class, like a sort of gastronomic Henry Higgins, he genuinely believed that people's tastes were affected more by their anatomy than their experiences and culture. Take this gem: 

'The persons predestined to gourmandise are in general of medium stature. Their faces are either round or square, and small, their noses short and their chins rounded. The women are rather pretty than beautiful, and they have a slight tendency to obesity. Those who are fondest of friandises [sweet things] have delicate features, smaller, and are distinguished by a peculiar expression of the mouth. Agreeable guests should be sought for among those who have this appearance. They receive all that is offered them, eat slowly, and taste advisedly ... Those, on the contrary, to whom nature has refused a desire for the gratifications of taste, have a long nose and face. Whatever be their statures, the face seems out of order. Their hair is dark and flat, and they have no embonpoint [bosoms].' 

Although J.-A. did say that there were a few gourmands who had, as it were, had gourmandise thrust upon them - those whose professions led them to it (financiers, men of letters, doctors, and devotees, if you are interested, although I've read the explanations why several times and his arguments really don't hang together at all) - fundamentally he reckoned that you were born a gourmand, or not. He wasn't a relativist when it came to tastes food - 'tell me' wasn't a neutral device that would help one to marvel at how it takes all sorts to make a world, as it is often used today, but a way of ranking people by class according to their gastronomic sensitivities (e.g. peasant or blue-blooded gourmand). Amusingly he also proposes 'gastronomical tests' - 'dishes of so delicious a flavor that their very appearance excites the gustatory organs of every healthy man. The consequence is, that all those who do not evince desire, and the radiancy of ecstasy, may very properly be set down as unworthy of the honours of the society and the pleasures attached to them.' 

J.-A. clearly hasn't considered the idea that there may be foreign foods he isn't aware of that taste better to foreign people - that culture and experience plays a role in taste, and that it's not as objective as all that. The food he eats and enjoys is just the best. But then, he was French.

Noodles: The Food of the Future?

Do androids dream of electric noodles? Rick Deckard tucks in in Blade Runner.

So I went to see Prometheus the other day, and was struck - not for the first time - by how the food eaten by characters in sci-fi films always seems to be noodles. (If anyone who's seen it can't remember, Noomi Rapace's character tucks into a bowl of noodles during some down time on the Prometheus, while wearing a fetching pair of white PJs.) It's not just Noomi. We first meet Blade Runner's Rick Deckard at the White Dragon noodle bar, where he chows down on a bowl while being hassled by the mysterious officer (and future commander of Battlestar Galactica!) Gaff. Neo talks about the 'really good noodles' he likes to eat at a neighbourhood joint in The Matrix. And who can forget the flying noodle bar that serves Bruce Willis's Korben Dallas at his own apartment window in The Fifth Element?

Now I think there are a few messages here. The most obvious is that the noodles are a symbol of globalization. Nowhere is this point more obviously made than in Blade Runner, where the denizens of the the future Los Angeles – and the people in the noodle bar – talk Cityspeak, a street patois supposedly made up of Japanese, German and a few other bits and pieces. (Actually they drop a bit of Hungarian, Chinese and Korean in there as well.) In a globalized world, we'll all speak a bit of everything, and eat a bit of everything too. Noodles are the perfect food to demonstrate this mishmash of cultures. It wouldn't send the same message if Deckard was tucking into traditional American fare like chicken fried steak or a hamburger.

Presumably there's also a nod to predictions of the growth of the economies of Far East countries such as China. As these countries become more powerful, these films are saying, we'll all eat more noodles. The fact that noodles are already a staple in so many Eastern countries means that they're a fair way to culinary world domination already, but in the future they'll be even more ubiquitous.

A more practical reason why noodles have made it to space is that they are a processed food, easily packaged, easily reconstituted. In Danny Boyle's Sunshine, the crew of the Icarus II eat noodles prepared in the ship's kitchen by the navigator (played by Benedict Wong, who also features in Prometheus - and plays the Street Countdown bloke in The IT Crowd!). It's a likely choice of dish. There'd be no fresh veg, meat or eggs on board a ship that's on a long mission. 

Maybe there's another point here: a prediction that we'll all eat less of the fresh stuff in the future anyway. Instead we'll stick to pills and packaged meals designed by nutritionists, or, in a worst-case scenario, survive on tins of sardines and Milkybars looted from the nearest shop or scavenged from a dead neighbour's fridge. I can't imagine Mad Max settling down to a quiet Sunday afternoon on the allotment. If the zombie apocalypse comes, we'll not be popping to the shops for early season asparagus and free-range chicken. We'll be refuelling on ramen.