In nineteen cases out of twenty the salad served in our country is
lettuce, and in nine cases out of ten the diner is insulted with huge
green leaves fit only for boiled greens or the stock-pot.
Green lettuce is good to eat raw only in its infancy (when two or three
inches high) or when it has shot up higher in a few weeks on very rich,
moist soil. Much better, however, is head lettuce, with the white
inside leaves, crisp and succulent. Even those, unfortunately, are
somewhat indigestible to many, unless very carefully chewed.
Those who find lettuce troublesome should by all means try the bleached
white hearts of the variety of endive known as escarole (the French
call it scarole).
Until a few years ago it was very difficult to find escarole in
any American market, and it is not abundant now. In the catalogues
of seedsmen who give several pages to the different varieties of
lettuce, escarole is disposed of in four or five lines of small type.
One catalogue, of the year 1912, referred to it as "unsurpassed for
salads;" the others made no comment at all, or spoke of it as "good for
soups or greens." As there has been practically no demand for escarole
seed, it was lucky to be listed at all.
Some seedsmen, however, when they know of a good thing, try to
create a demand for it. Prominent among those is W. Atlee Burpee,
of Philadelphia. To him I confided my sorrows over the difficulty
of getting good escarole--or often any escarole at all. I called
attention to the fact that it is, to say the least, equal in flavor
to the best head lettuce, and much easier to assimilate, one member
of my household being able to eat it by the bowlful, whereas lettuce
invariably gives her indigestion.
It is much easier to raise, also, than lettuce, which is extremely
"cranky" in summer. Even in cool Maine lettuce sometimes is wilted by
a single hot day, unless cared for like a tender hot-house orchid;
whereas escarole has as many lives as a cat. I have often, in thinning
out my plants, thrown them away by the dozen, to be roasted by the
sun; but if a rain came along in a day or two, they revived, took root
unaided, and grew into healthy plants!
A further advantage is that, in rich soil and with plenty of water, a
single plant will yield two or three hearts if those of the outside
leaves which are not needed for bleaching the center are left on;
whereas head lettuce is never of the "cut-and-come-again" kind.
The only trouble with escarole is that it has not been educated.
Lettuce has been trained by dozens of experts, the result being a large
number of excellent varieties, some with heads as solid as cabbages. My
object in writing to Mr. Burpee was to persuade him to give escarole a
"college education"--to teach it how to head, and bleach itself, like
lettuce.
He promptly replied that he would get seeds abroad of all the
different varieties and experiment with them in his Fordhook trial
grounds; also, that he would write to Luther Burbank and try to get
him interested. Unfortunately Mr. Burbank was too busy with other
reforms to take up this plant too; but Mr. Burpee forged ahead, and
in November, 1912, he sent me copies of the notes on the varieties
of escarole he had sowed--seventeen in all. "One or two of these,"
he wrote, "seemed to be much better than the Broad Leaved Batavian,
but none of them are really self-folding." There seems to be hope in
a variety numbered 5131 on his schedule, which is thus described:
"Foliage pale yellowish-green, a robust strong grower, averaging twenty
inches in diameter, leaves eight inches long by four inches in breadth,
plain leaved, but slightly curved, _inner leaves being much incurved_,
giving the impression of its being an excellent strain for bleaching."
Along those lines I have no doubt that a head-escarole will be evolved
in a few years, and that the world will be indebted to Mr. Burpee for
one more gastronomic delicacy as welcome as his improved head-lettuces,
his limas, his stringless pod beans, and his improved melons,
cucumbers, squashes, tomatoes, cabbages, and other vegetables. Mr.
Burbank wrote to me under date of December 18, 1912: "It is so natural
for escarole to spread flat on the ground, that it will take some time
and a little pains to make it form a head." Mr. Burpee will take the
time and the pains.
The bitter taste of escarole--a mere trace where the plant is well
grown--is welcomed by epicures and hardly noticed by others.
The dressing is the same as for lettuce. A combination that cannot be
too highly commended is tomatoes with escarole. This mixture is, I
think, my favorite of all salads.
So far as tomatoes are concerned, we have nothing to learn from the
French. As it is an American plant--its original home being Peru--it
is proper that Americans should have a greater number of varieties and
improvements than any other country.
The Germans are only just learning to like tomatoes; the English have
made more progress in this important branch of gastronomic education;
the French revel in the tomato; and in Italian cookery it is an
important ingredient; but in the United States tomato-eating amounts to
a passion, a frenzy.
In New York every corner grocery, even in the poorer quarters, has
its constant supply. Apparently, all classes, rich and poor alike,
are bound to have their tomatoes daily, be their price five cents a
pound or twenty-five or more. For this astonishing appetite there
must be good reasons. The tomato, with its delicate acid flavor is
unquestionably most wholesome. Often I walk a mile to bring home the
best specimens of this grand appetizer I can find; and in my vegetable
garden the patch most carefully enriched and hoed and watered is that
where the tomato grows.
To get it at its best you must pick it off the vine and eat it on the
spot, without any condiment. It is good in a score of ways--stewed,
grilled, as a catsup, even canned--but for table use it is most
desirable in the salad bowl, alone or in combination with escarole or
lettuce.
It ought to be needless to add that it is much pleasanter to eat, and
more digestible, if it is peeled (which is easily done after soaking
it a moment in hot water) before slicing; but few cooks will take this
extra trouble, slight though it is, unless specially requested.
If we can perhaps give even the French points on tomatoes, they have
much to teach us regarding another vegetable which is among salads what
diamond-back terrapin and canvasback duck are among meats--the globe
artichoke.
Fortunately, unlike turtles and wild ducks, this noble plant is yearly
becoming more abundant in our markets. It would be as much in demand
as tomatoes were its flavor equally known and the samples on sale as
tempting as those served in Paris and London. It is for the consumer to
insist on having the best varieties sent from abroad and cultivated at
home; but the dealers on their part ought to be alive to the fact that
the way to increase sales is to offer the best at the lowest price.
The French artichoke makes a savory vegetable, served hot; but how any
one can eat it--or asparagus--hot, when he might have it cold as a
salad, with French dressing, is a mystery to me. Of course, it must be
boiled, except when very young and tender.
To get the artichoke at its best one must ask for it in a first-class
Paris restaurant. The waiter brings a huge specimen in a large plate,
removes the inedible "choke" in the center with a movement like that of
a dextrous carver (French waiters receive prizes for skill in carving),
and there it lies in all its fragrant magnificence.
Rossini objected to the turkey as being a bird too large for one and
not large enough for two. Time and again in Paris I have had placed
before me an artichoke big enough for two; and since my partner prefers
the scales and I the _fond_, we were both happy though married.
As the scaly leaves of the artichoke must be dipped into the dressing
and sucked, it is not for persons who object to using their fingers
except to hold knife and fork, any more than are crawfish, or olives,
or peaches.
The Moors of Morocco prefer to use their hands for conveying food to
the mouth, because, as they sensibly maintain, they know that their
hands have been thoroughly cleaned, whereas knife and fork may have
been washed carelessly.
The merits of the French artichoke were known in New Orleans long
before they were in any of our other cities. In various forms and
combinations, it helped to give distinction to the famous local cuisine.
The Frenchman who first ate an artichoke was as bold as the man who ate
the first oyster, for the plant looks like a thistle and he ran the
risk of being classed with thistle-eating quadrupeds. Compared with
the succulent globe of to-day it must have been thin, dry, and tough.
Yet, even now, the artichoke is capable of much further improvement.
Burbank, if he had time, might put as much meat into the base of each
scale as there is now in the bottom, and make the bottom as big as a
full-sized turnip.
This suggests one of the many ways in which the study of gastronomy
serves as a guide to wealth. A rich harvest is sure to be reaped by
those gardeners who will introduce to American markets the _best_
French artichokes, and by the dealers who will encourage their purchase
by asking _reasonable_ prices for them. In December, 1912, I asked a
dealer in Washington Market, New York, why there were so few artichokes
offered for sale. "They are so cheap--we can't get more than 15 cents
apiece for them," he replied. That's the American way--at present.
For years importers and dealers have done their best to discourage
the growing interest in another delicious basis for salad--the
alligator-pear--by charging the most outrageous prices for it--usually
twenty to fifty cents apiece, though it can be bought in the West
Indies for a penny or two and brought to New York for a cent a pound.
Even at such extortionate prices the demand usually exceeds the supply.
I often hunt for some all over town and usually end by saying, "What
fools these dealers be."
The alligator-pear--or let us call it avocado, please--is one of the
Creator's masterpieces--what we would call a stroke of genius had
a mortal originated it. But, like other works of genius, it is not
appreciated by all--or at once. An American, writing from the West
Indies, declared that there the avocado is "ever present and always
welcomed." But, he proceeds, it is "a pitfall and a snare, and many a
green foreigner has been taken in by the name and afterwards by the
pear itself. Such a magnificent specimen of this luscious fruit, the
'pear,' as the one seen in the Jamaica markets causes the hand of the
new arrival to go down promptly into his pocket for a penny with which
the coveted fruit is secured. Yum, yum! A pear weighing three or four
pounds! What a feast! The knife appears, a generous slice is cut out,
but when it touches the palate! Yah! It is a flat, flabby, tasteless
vegetable (although it grows on a tree), but sliced and eaten with salt
at the table it forms a pleasant relish."
Had this man eaten it with French dressing he would have found it a
food fit for gods. The avocado was undoubtedly created to serve as a
salad. If you cut it in two, lengthwise, and take out the big stone,
you have two halves like those of a small melon. The flesh, firm though
soft and custardy, has a most exquisite flavor--a faint flavor which,
with oil and vinegar makes a symphony of fragrance.
Until a few years ago I myself, misled by poor specimens, groped in
utter darkness as to the enchantments of the avocado. It was Hildegarde
Hawthorne who, returning from Jamaica, brought us some choice samples.
There was joy in the mansion thereat. It was like the discovery of a
new song by Schubert or Grieg, or a new painting by Titian.
After writing the above remarks I came across a clipping in which an
evident epicure objected to "desecrating" the avocado pear by oil or
mayonnaise dressing when served. "Eat it with a spoon slowly," he
advises, "to give time for the pleasure it imparts to permeate the very
soul, and let who will rail at fate. There are those who give it a
slight sprinkling of salt, others who dust it over with a little white
pepper, but personally I would as soon think of flavoring my currant
jelly with garlic or my chateau Yquem with Trinidad rum."
This sounds plausible, and I admit that a perfect avocado is better
without than with vinegar and oil. An imperfect one isn't; and in most
cases we have found in our dining-room that the avocado is rather too
rich to be eaten without a little acid dressing. It contains seventeen
per cent. of oil, and is known in some regions as the "butter fruit."
To return to France. Next to the artichoke and the escarole--which is
the better of the two I don't know--the most desirable thing it has
given us in the way of salads is the romaine--but how much whiter,
crisper and tenderer it is in Paris than what is offered for sale under
that name in New York!
Another chance to coin good money, messieurs gardeners! Americans
_must_ have the best, and if you don't supply it, a rival will.
The American lobster and shrimp salads cannot be beaten; but we
have much to learn of the French and other Europeans as to the
endless varieties of green, vegetable, fish and meat salads by way
of multiplying the pleasures of the table, and banishing intestinal
dyspepsia, for which salads are more remedial than Fletcherizing.
When once the importance of this subject is fully understood,
salads will become the principal lunch dishes in American homes and
restaurants, especially during the hot months when to be "three miles
from a lemon"--or something else that is refreshingly sour--is a
hygienic tragedy.
"Fruit salads," when not sour, make desirable desserts. When not sour,
such combinations should not be called salads. As a rule sour fruit
mixtures seem incongruous to a _trained_ palate.
In these days of Debussyan influences one must be prepared for all
sorts of anarchistic combinations of flavors. Personally, I draw the
line at the compound of Roquefort cheese and sour salad now placed
unblushingly on some American tables. The mixture of these two
delicacies is awful. One can easily see how the illegitimate union was
suggested by the illogical custom of serving cheese with salad, dressed
or undressed--the usual English way.