“As soon as breakfast was out of the way, the menu for dinner was prepared and handed to the chief cook. Shortages in provisions were remedied at the first landing reached, and stocks of fish, game, fresh eggs, and fresh vegetables were bought as offered at the various towns. While there was a cold-storage room on all first-class packets, its capacity was limited, and with a passenger list of two hundred and fifty or three hundred in the cabin, it was often found necessary to lay in additional stocks of fresh meats between Galena and St. Paul. Often, a dozen lambs could be picked up, or a dozen "roaster" pigs, and these were killed and dressed on the boat by one of the assistant cooks. Live poultry was always carried in coops, and killed as wanted. Perhaps the poultry killing, if witnessed by the passenger, would come as near curing him of the dinner habit as anything else he might see about the cook's galley. A barrel of scalding hot water, drawn from the boiler, stands on the guard. A coop of chickens is placed near the master of ceremonies, and two or three assistants surround the barrel. The head dresser grasps a chicken by the head, gives it a swing from the coop to the barrel, bringing the chicken's neck on to the iron rim of the barrel. The body goes into hot water and the head goes overboard. Before the chicken is dead he is stripped of everything except a few pin feathers--with one sweep of the hand on each side of the body and a dozen pulls at the wing feathers. The yet jerking, featherless bodies are thrown to the pin-feather man, who picks out the thickest of the feathers, singes the fowls over a charcoal grate-fire and tosses them to one of the under-cooks who cuts them open, cuts them up, and pots them, all inside of two minutes from the coop. A team of three or four expert darkies will dispose of one hundred and fifty chickens in an hour. Are they clean? I never stopped to inquire. If they were _dead_ enough to stay on the platter when they got to the table that was all any reasonable steamboatman could ask.”
A cook of roughly the same moment, setting down the same dish.
Put into a saucepan three ounces of good butter very smoothly blended with a quite small teaspoonful of flour, and add to them a large wineglassful of cold water, half as much sharp vinegar (or very fresh, strained, lemon-juice) a saltspoonful of salt, and half as much cayenne in fine powder. Keep these shaken briskly round, or stirred over a clear fire, until they form a smooth sauce and boil rapidly; then stir them very quickly to the beaten yolks of four fresh eggs, which will immediately give the sauce the consistence of custard; pour it hot over the salad, and place it on ice, or in a very cool larder until it is quite cold: if properly made, it will be very thick and smooth, and slightly _set_, as if it contained a small portion of isinglass. A dessertspoonful of parsley,—or of tarragon,—can be mingled with it at _pleasure_, or any flavour given to it with store-sauces which is liked.
Sources: The passage is from George Byron Merrick, Old Times on the Upper Mississippi: The Recollections of a Steamboat P, free to read in full at Project Gutenberg. The recipe is from Acton, Modern cookery for private families of 1845, also free in full. Both are in the public domain in the United States. The binding above is ours — oxblood cloth, teapot stamp.