A Beefsteak "Musiccale"

New York, 1895

Chub Club Warriors Hold a Big Sample Council.

The warriors of the Chub Club and a number of pale-face guests assembled at a pow-wow on Saturday evening last and participated in a feast of succulent beef steak prepared a la Gale. Cyrus Beefsteak Gale acted as chef, and the accessories were most interesting. The steaks were broiled in a stove of the Louis Steenth period over a bed of coals of hickory wood of the vintage of '90. The diners, numbering over thirty, were clothed in full regalia, including the Shanghai tiara which is only worn when the tribe is in high feather. Owing to the absence of the Heap Big Chief, the Big Chief presided over the tribe and conducted the proceedings in accordance with the ancient tradition.

After the opening ceremonies the tribe were seated and the regular order began with the inspection of the fire which was found to be all O A K. Some objection was made, but a brave quieted the protest by starting the familiar ode "Don't be repin(e)ing." The steaks were duly inspected be(e)fore being ironed and declared "bully."

All declared that nothing ailed the Brown October, and the celery and radishes were fine. The steak was unanimously voted out of sight and many compliments were paid the artist who prepared it. After eating everything in sight the guests were entertained by songs, speeches and stories.

Nearly every nation from Russia to Spain was represented and celebrated men of all ages were present either in person or in spirit. Letters and telegrams of regret were received from Gov. Mor(e)ton and other prominent persons who had been expected.

The verdict was that the feast had been a grand success and the tribe dispersed to their tepees.

—The Long Island Farmer, Jamaica, NY, March 15, 1895, p. 1.

Note: The parentheses and letters in them are original to the article.

An Ample Kitchen

1901

What is said to be the largest kitchen in England is that of Raby castle, the seat of the Duke of Cleveland. It is 30 feet square, having three chimneys, one for the grate, a second for the stoves and the third for the great cauldron. The roof is arched, with a small cupola in the center. It has five windows, from each of which steps descend, but only in one instance to the floor, and a gallery runs round the whole interior of the building. The ancient oven has a diameter of 15 feet.

Vast as this kitchen is, it must have been sometimes taxed by the hospitality of former ages, for in one of the apartments of the castle 700 knights were upon one occasion entertained at the same time, and the knights of that day were men of brawn and sinew, who would think lightly of demolishing, each man of them, five pounds of beef, half a suckling pig and a venison pasty or two, washed down with huge flagons of brown October.

Too Extravagant By Half

1901

The manner in which one defaulting cashier was detected was rather peculiar. It was all due to the curiosity of the women of his neighborhood. He went to no expense in the way of dressing, they never heard of his gambling or drinking to any extent, he was a model husband, but he loved a good table. There was nothing unusual in this, but one day when the ladies of the vicinity were discussing the best method of cooking meats the wife of the cashier declared very innocently that her husband doted on ham, but he would not eat it unless it had been boiled in champagne. "Boiled in champagne!" exclaimed the listeners. "Heavens, how expensive! We couldn't afford to have ham on our table often if we cooked it that way."

It was soon noised all around the neighborhood that Cashier Blank was a high liver indeed, and the men began telling of his uplifted ideas of cookery. This soon reached the ears of the directors of the bank, and they concluded it might be wise to investigate the accounts of such an epicure. Plain water was all they could afford for their hams, so the champagne lover was called up and subsequently relegated to the pen, where he had to forgo his pet dish for many, many weary days. — Louisville Times.


Human Nature

It is human nature to deride what we cannot possess, to deny what we cannot understand and to insult those we envy. — Chicago News.

Pumpkin Pies — The Vegetable Vagabond Makes a Great Pie

1876

We generally have them made of squash at our house, but always call them pumpkin, it sounds so much better. Squash is a dreadful name, and the man who invented it ought to have had a big Hubbard hurled at his head, as Ichabod Crane was served with a pumpkin, in the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow." But pumpkin is altogether a different word, whether it adorns a bill of fare, is woven into poetry, or is flattened into "pu-n-n-kin, as genial Robert Collyer does it. It is one of the old-fashioned vegetables, that has held its own among upstart rivals for a hundred years.

Precious little help has the pumpkin had from the propagating gardeners who are so intent on improving nature's productions in other fields The pumpkin is the, same honest, homespun self-made sort of vegetable vagabond it was when it straggled through the corn fields, and dotted the autumn landscape with spots of a golden color, in the pioneer days when luxuries were not necessities, and wants were few. They pretend to say that the quality has deteriorated, like some strains of blood in men whose heads this useful vegetable has most uncharitably been made to symbolize, and that the flesh is white and poor compared with what it was in former years. Yet this may be merely the croak of the old-time worshippers. But, whether made true to name or of sq——sh, a pumpkin pie, if rightly made, is a thing of beauty, and a joy, while it lasts.

We know there is an attempt made by certain super-civilized writers — of the sort who order for dinner "a little tea-ah and toast, wa-tah, and a chicken's wing" — to make abstinence from pie a test of refinement. Some of them haven't gastric juice enough to digest anything but a weak wash of some sort; but others are just putting on airs. We wouldn't trust some of the fellows who make a virtue of abhoring pie alone with a whole one behind the kitchen door — even at eleven o'clock at night. A well-made pie, of the right sort, is a good deal more wholesome than half of the modern masses concocted as a concession to dyspeptics, who charge upon healthful food the natural result of their own sin and ignorance in working without exercise, sleeping too little, and neglecting other normal conditions of right living.

But to return to our pies. We scorn to make a cook book of these columns, with our present supply of technical knowledge; but we do know that for a good pumpkin pie you want plenty of milk, just enough eggs, not too much pumpkin, a lump of butter, and a judicious sprinkling of spices — principally cinnamon and ginger. The concoction, when ready for the oven, should be about the consistency of good thick cream. Pies that cut out only a little less firm than a pine board — those that will "wabble" without breaking, like a piece of leather — and those that run around loose on your plate, are alike to be avoided. About an inch thick strikes us a good depth for the filling; two inches is better than the miserable thin plasters that one sometimes sees at boarding-houses, that look, for all the world, like pumpkin flapjacks. The expressive phrase "too thin" must have come from such lean parodies on pumpkin pies.

With the pastry light, tender, and not too rich, and a generous filling of smooth, spiced sweetness — a little "trembly" as to consistency, and delicately browned on top — a perfect pumpkin pie, eaten before the life has gone out of it (say three hours after baking), is one of the real additions made by American cookery to the good things of the world. We have our opinion of the man who could get up dissatisfied or cross from a dinner topped off with a quarter-section of such a pie. For the first pumpkin pie of the season, flanked by a liberal cut of creamy cheese and a glass of cider fresh from the press, we prefer to sit down, as the French gourmand said about his boiled turkey, "with just two of us — myself and the turkey!" Company is apt to distract the attention — and subtract from the pie.