Kettner's Book of the Table

Every food on the Victorian table gets its history, its etymology and a strong opinion — the wittiest cookery book of 1877, written in secret by a Times leader-writer and named for London's most fashionable restaurant.

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Kirschenwasser

This cherry-water is an excellent and wholesome liqueur made in the Black Forest from geans. It is sometimes fiery, and many persons are afraid of it who have no fear of maraschino, which is also made from geans. The flavour of the Black Forest cherry-water is, however, much more simple than that of the Dalmatian liqueur, and pleases the palate longer; only to put the two liqueurs on a level for fair comparison it is necessary to manipulate the Kirschenwasser. Put some into a strong glass, or better, into a saucer. Take a lump of sugar, dip it into the liquid, set fire to it, and replace it in the saucer, so that the whole may take flame. When the flame expires and the sugar is dissolved, taste the cherry-water, and see if it be not superior to any Maraschino. It whiles away ten minutes after dinner in a pretty little blue-flamed game to burn the cherry-water and bring it to the perfection fit for my lady's taste.

For the Modern Kitchen

This is less a recipe than a table trick: a small pour of cherry brandy sweetened and softened by burning off some of its alcohol. A few points on the vocabulary and on doing it without setting the cloth alight.

A Little History

Kettner's Book of the Table (1877), written anonymously by the journalist E. S. Dallas for the London restaurateur Auguste Kettner, is arranged as a dictionary, and short entries like this one are as much table talk as instruction. Kirschwasser is reported to have been distilled in the Black Forest and neighbouring Switzerland and Alsace since at least the seventeenth century, traditionally from whole small black cherries crushed with their stones, which is generally credited with the faint bitter-almond note in the finished spirit; unlike maraschino it is characteristically unsweetened and not wood-aged, which may lie behind Dallas's remark about its simpler flavour. The flaming sugar lump belongs to a wider nineteenth-century fashion for setting spirits alight at the table — the same impulse behind burnt brandy, snapdragon and the flaming punch bowl — where a blue flame in a darkened dining room was half the entertainment.

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