The Decadent Cookbook by Jerome Fletcher Alex Martin Medlar Lucan Durian Gray
Book: The Decadent Cookbook by Jerome Fletcher Alex Martin Medlar Lucan Durian Gray
Read Free Book Online
Ads: Link
of game, then mash and mix with bechamel and cream. Inject this purée into the éclairs and cover them with bitter chocolate sauce.
T HE S URPRISE
This is a variation on Newfoundland Pork Cake. Excellent with vodka, sherry, or plum brandy c 2am.
24 OZ SALT OR PICKLED PORK, MINCED
3 CUPS FLOUR
1 TEASPOON EACH OF GROUND CLOVES, GINGER, CINNAMON,
NUTMEG
GRATED RIND OF A LEMON
1 LB CURRANTS
1 LB SEEDLESS RAISINS
8 OZ CHOPPED WALNUTS
8 OZ CANDIED PEEL
2 CUPS BLACK TREACLE
½ CUP RUM
2 TEASPOONS BAKING POWDER
3 EGGS
Stand the pork in a warm place for 30 minutes, then mix it with the rest of the ingredients except the eggs. Separate the egg yolks from the whites. Stir in the yolks. Beat the whites to a stiff foam and fold them in to the mixture. Bake in a cool to moderate oven for 3 hours.
L E C LUB DES H ACHICHINS
by Théophile Gautier
One evening in December, obeying a mysterious invitation couched in enigmatic terms intelligible only to initiates, I travelled to a distant part of the city, a kind of oasis of solitude in the centre of Paris, which the river seems to defend with its encircling arms from the molestations of civilization. It was an old house in the Ile Saint-Louis, Hôtel Pimodan, built by Lauzun, where a bizarre club that I had recently joined held its monthly meetings, which I was about to attend for the first time.
Although it was only six o’clock, the night was already dark. The fog, made thicker by the proximity to the Seine, blurred every detail with its ragged veils, punctured at various distances by the reddish glow of lanterns and bars of light escaping from illuminated windows. The road was soaked with rain, and glittered under the street-lamps like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, heavy with icy particles, whipped at my face, its howling forming the high notes of a symphony whose bass was played by the swollen waves crashing into the piers of the bridges below. The evening lacked none of winter’s rough poetry.
It was hard to pick out the house from the mass of sombre buildings along that deserted quay; but my coachman, standing in his seat, managed to read the faded gilt lettering on a marble plaque. This was the place where the adepts met…
I rang the bell. The door was opened with the usual precautions, and I found myself in a large room lit at the far end by a few lamps. Walking in was like stepping back two centuries. Time, which passes so quickly, seemed to have stood still in that house; like a clock which someone has forgotten to wind, it was stuck perpetually at the same date.
The walls were lined in white-painted wood, half-panelled with cloth stained brown with age; on the gigantic stove stood a statue which might once have belonged in a garden alley at Versailles. On the domed ceiling was a painted allegory in the overblown style of Lemoine; indeed it may well have been one of his works.
I moved towards the lighted end of the room, where a number of human forms stood excitedly round a table. As I entered the circle of light, a cheer of recognition burst from them, stirring the sonorous depths of the ancient building.
“Here he is! Here he is!” cried several voices at once. “Let him have his share!”
The doctor was standing at a sideboard, where a tray of tiny Japanese saucers had been placed, each with a gilded silver spoon. Dipping a spatula into a crystal vase, the doctor scooped out a piece of greenish paste or jelly, about the size of a thumb, onto each saucer.
The doctor’s face shone with enthusiasm, his eyes glittered, his cheekbones flared, the veins on his forehead stood out, his dilated nostrils sucked in the air in powerful draughts.
“This” he said, handing me my dose, “will be deducted from your portion of paradise.”
When everyone had eaten his share, coffee was served in the Arabian style - with grounds and no sugar. Then we sat down to eat.
This inversion of culinary habits will undoubtedly surprise the reader;
T HE S URPRISE
This is a variation on Newfoundland Pork Cake. Excellent with vodka, sherry, or plum brandy c 2am.
24 OZ SALT OR PICKLED PORK, MINCED
3 CUPS FLOUR
1 TEASPOON EACH OF GROUND CLOVES, GINGER, CINNAMON,
NUTMEG
GRATED RIND OF A LEMON
1 LB CURRANTS
1 LB SEEDLESS RAISINS
8 OZ CHOPPED WALNUTS
8 OZ CANDIED PEEL
2 CUPS BLACK TREACLE
½ CUP RUM
2 TEASPOONS BAKING POWDER
3 EGGS
Stand the pork in a warm place for 30 minutes, then mix it with the rest of the ingredients except the eggs. Separate the egg yolks from the whites. Stir in the yolks. Beat the whites to a stiff foam and fold them in to the mixture. Bake in a cool to moderate oven for 3 hours.
L E C LUB DES H ACHICHINS
by Théophile Gautier
One evening in December, obeying a mysterious invitation couched in enigmatic terms intelligible only to initiates, I travelled to a distant part of the city, a kind of oasis of solitude in the centre of Paris, which the river seems to defend with its encircling arms from the molestations of civilization. It was an old house in the Ile Saint-Louis, Hôtel Pimodan, built by Lauzun, where a bizarre club that I had recently joined held its monthly meetings, which I was about to attend for the first time.
Although it was only six o’clock, the night was already dark. The fog, made thicker by the proximity to the Seine, blurred every detail with its ragged veils, punctured at various distances by the reddish glow of lanterns and bars of light escaping from illuminated windows. The road was soaked with rain, and glittered under the street-lamps like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, heavy with icy particles, whipped at my face, its howling forming the high notes of a symphony whose bass was played by the swollen waves crashing into the piers of the bridges below. The evening lacked none of winter’s rough poetry.
It was hard to pick out the house from the mass of sombre buildings along that deserted quay; but my coachman, standing in his seat, managed to read the faded gilt lettering on a marble plaque. This was the place where the adepts met…
I rang the bell. The door was opened with the usual precautions, and I found myself in a large room lit at the far end by a few lamps. Walking in was like stepping back two centuries. Time, which passes so quickly, seemed to have stood still in that house; like a clock which someone has forgotten to wind, it was stuck perpetually at the same date.
The walls were lined in white-painted wood, half-panelled with cloth stained brown with age; on the gigantic stove stood a statue which might once have belonged in a garden alley at Versailles. On the domed ceiling was a painted allegory in the overblown style of Lemoine; indeed it may well have been one of his works.
I moved towards the lighted end of the room, where a number of human forms stood excitedly round a table. As I entered the circle of light, a cheer of recognition burst from them, stirring the sonorous depths of the ancient building.
“Here he is! Here he is!” cried several voices at once. “Let him have his share!”
The doctor was standing at a sideboard, where a tray of tiny Japanese saucers had been placed, each with a gilded silver spoon. Dipping a spatula into a crystal vase, the doctor scooped out a piece of greenish paste or jelly, about the size of a thumb, onto each saucer.
The doctor’s face shone with enthusiasm, his eyes glittered, his cheekbones flared, the veins on his forehead stood out, his dilated nostrils sucked in the air in powerful draughts.
“This” he said, handing me my dose, “will be deducted from your portion of paradise.”
When everyone had eaten his share, coffee was served in the Arabian style - with grounds and no sugar. Then we sat down to eat.
This inversion of culinary habits will undoubtedly surprise the reader;
Similar Books
