Julienne
The history of the soup called Julienne is remarkable, though it is lost in the darkness of the past. It is the most popular soup in Christendom, and yet the meaning of its name is utterly unknown. For a time it was supposed to be named after some cook who invented it; but it was in existence long before the time when any cook was in a position to give his name to a dish; and all the best French etymologists have given up the word as a hopeless puzzle, I think that in the sequel I can give a clear explanation of the name; but before doing so it is necessary first of all to note down certain traditions which have been preserved from immemorial date, though not always concurrently, in regard to this soup. 1. There is a curious tradition about Julienne soup, which has been most carefully preserved, and which is so incomprehensible until we get the clue to it that it looks like a superstition. It is ordered that the carrots, turnips, and other vegetables in the soup shall be cut into Fulienne long strips or straws. There are cookery books which make absolutely no distinction whatever between Julienne and other spring soups but this that whereas in the other soups the roots may be cut into dice or shaped into peas, or may have any convenient form whatever, in Julienne they must be cut into little straws. The tradition is not invariably observed, and plenty of receipts (especially in England) may be found in which there is no mention of the vegetable straws as an essential characteristic of the soup. There were cooks who naturally argued that the shape of the vegetables could not affect the quality of the soup, and refused to bow to the superstition which compelled them to be cut into strips. Reason or no reason, the usage is almost invariable in France, where a master-cook would consider himself disgraced if it could be said of him that he had put carrots into his Julienne without cutting them into straws. And the usage is so well understood that in prescribing the arrangement of other dishes, it is always enough to say-cut the vegetables as for Julienne. 2. There is another tradition—that Julienne must always have sorrel in it. Some cooks neglect this, and fail to put sorrel in the Julienne; or they forget the peculiarity of Julienne, and put sorrel into all the soups of similar character. Francatelli is an excellent cook, but he has not the historical instincts of a Frenchman, and he will tell his pupils to put sorrel alike into Brunoise and into Julienne, but not into spring soup. Frenchmen like Dubois and Bernard will allow to Brunoise the same vegetables as to Julienne, but always except the sorrel, which is peculiar to the latter. A Parisian physician, Dr. Roques, who had a great authority as a gastronomer, gave a warning to the French cooks of the last generation not to forget sorrel in the Julienne. "Certes," he said, "votre Julienne serait manquée, si l'on y avait oublié l'oseille."
But even with these traditions ringing in our ears, how are we nearer to a solution of the question as to the Julienne In meaning of Julienne? We are no nearer to this goal until we make an assumption-namely, that the sorrel proper to Julienne is not the common sorrel but woodsorrel. It is an assumption suggested by the earliest known receipt for making the soup. We are told to take each sorrel leaf and give it two cuts of the knife. Why two cuts, and only two? Two cuts administered to each sorrel leaf will divide it into three and suggest the trefoil of the woodsorrel. The common sorrel which is used in our kitchens is a sort of dock. The woodsorrel has a more delicate acid, is said to be more wholesome, and belongs to a different family. It is not much used in cookery, but it is still classed among pot-herbs both by the French and by the English. Now this woodsorrel has many names.
France it is known as la petite oseille, l'oseille à trois feuilles, trèfle aigre, surelle, herbe de bœuf, and pain de coucou. In England it is known as woodsorrel, stubwort, sour trefoil, and cuckoo's meat. But over and above these names there is another, common to both countries and belonging also to Italy and to Spain-Alleluia or Allelujah. There is a tradition that the woodsorrel is the true and original shamrock, and that when St. Patrick beheld this emblem of the Trinity in his favoured island he fell to praising God. It is no doubt from a sentiment of this kind that the name of Allelujah for the woodsorrel arose in the south of Europe, in Italy and in Spain, and spread northward to France and to England. But the name was subject to corruption. All persons have not the strong religious sentiment which would lead them to cry Allelujah at the sight of a sour trefoil. In England and also on the Continent the word was corrupted into Lujula. This corruption got such hold of the men of science that they insisted upon its being the true word, and the Pharmacopœia of the London College gave directions for a conserve of woodsorrel to be made under the scientific name of Conserva Lujula. In the south of Italy another corruption was Fulienne produced: Juliola-little Julia. In France it was natural that there should be a corruption too, but apart from the name of the soup which we are considering we know not what it was. Is it incredible that the word which in England and in some parts of the Continent passed authoritatively into Lujula, and which was transformed in Calabria into Juliola, became in France fashionable as Julienne? The French philologists may on this hint be able to trace in greater detail the corruption of Alleluia into Julienne; but for the present there is only this much further to be said of it: that the process of corruption which ended in Julienne probably began in Italy and was foreign to France. It is one of the traditions of Julienne that it is distinct from the ordinary French soups; and probably the name as well as the receipt for it came into France with the Italian cooks of Catherine de Medici, who first taught the French the refined and scientific cookery of modern times. They would bring with them from Italy Juliola, or some such corruption, which the French with their wonderful habit of Frenchifying foreign names would transform into Julienne.
Let it be observed, too, that in the above statement of the case the argument is put with extreme caution and needless moderation, for it assumes that Juliola is a corruption and that Allelujah is the true name. Now the existence of the name Juliola is known only through Scaliger in his commentary on Theophrastus De Causis Plantarum; and his assertion is that the Calabrian name Juliola is the true word, Alleluia being a barbarous and ridiculous corruption. His very decided statement is entitled to the more weight inasmuch as, being himself named Julius, he may be supposed to have inquired into the name of the plant with a special interest. If, then, Juliola be the true and original word, and not a chance or local corruption, it is all the more natural that it should reappear in French as Julienne.
Fulienne And now comes a curious point in confirmation of this view. Woodsorrel is a small low-lying plant in which the trefoil grows at the end of a slender threadlike stalk. Take a handful of these stalks, boil them in water, and this result will ensue: The leaves will nearly disappear, dissolved in the liquid, and the stalks will remain. The slender stalks in the soup became a characteristic of it, and people learned to see that Julienne was not Julienne unless the fine straws of the woodsorrel remained in it. The cooks recognised this, and when instead of woodsorrel they took to the use of common sorrel, they deemed it a point of honour to put threads of carrots and turnips and celery into their Julienne to represent the stalks which would be missed. There are receipts for making Julienne without any carrots, turnips, or celery whatever. These were introduced cut into threads or straws by cooks who felt bound to save appearances and to make up for the want of woodsorrel stalks.
With this explanation in his hands the reader can now understand what Julienne soup according to the original idea ought to be. It is a clear broth or consommé with a large bunch of woodsorrel melted in it, leaving the stalks to be chewed. It was probably found in process of time that these stalks were not too pleasant in the mouth, and they were replaced by threads of carrots, turnips, celery, lettuce, cabbage, leek, onion-whatever would cut into strips and could be made tender by cooking; while at the same time common sorrel took the place of the Allelujah. The following is the ordinary modern receipt. Cut the red part of four carrots, four turnips, three onions, the white of one head of celery, and of six leeks, in straws about one inch long; put them in a stewpan with a quarter of a pound of butter and a pinch of pounded sugar; fry them over the fire to a light-brown colour; moisten them with three quarts of clear broth or double broth; simmer all very slowly on the stove-corner for Ketchup three hours; and twenty minutes before serving, add a cabbage-lettuce and a handful of sorrel cut in the same way as the other vegetables, and previously blanched; skim off the fat, and serve.
If this receipt has a fault it is one which will easily be forgiven and can be soon amended. The sorrel in it is not sufficiently pronounced to represent the old idea of the soup. For modern tastes, however, there is probably quite enough of it. Still the cook must never be allowed to forget that the distinction of Julienne consists in being a woodsorrel soup, and he ought to be reminded of this when he conforms to the perfectly useless but always venerable custom of cutting the vegetables into threads.