The American Pastry Cook

Jessup Whitehead's American Pastry Cook — the hotel pastry trade's own manual, in hundreds of numbered recipes.

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Baked Bread Pudding

2 pounds of white bread slices. 2 quarts of milk, or milk and water. 4 ounces of butter. 4 ounces of white sugar. 4 eggs. Nutmeg.

The bread should be quite free from any dark crust. Spread the butter on the slices and then cut them in dice shapes. Mix milk, sugar and eggs together and pour over the squares of bread in the baking pans. Bake till set in the middle. Any pudding sace will suit. "Hotel puddings," said a gentleman of good judgment and extensive experience of hotel and club life, for whom the writer was to prepare a little complimentary dinner, "hotel puddings I never eat nor do I care to offer them to friends. They are always too sweet--nothing but sweet--cloying--too sweet and rich at first, then further spoiled by a sauce all sugar. How can hotel cooks be so dull as not to see that they spoil their own work? Now I had a woman cook in New York whose efforts in that line were a perfect contrast to what I had found at hotel tables If you know of any pudding that is not an hotel pudding, you may add it to the list."

There are no puddings that are not hotel puddings. As in the case of English plum puddings we follow old patterns too much, and overleap the mark trying to make the rich enough richer.

For the Modern Kitchen

A deliberately restrained bread pudding, written for volume service: two pounds of bread and two quarts of liquid make a hotel pan, not a family dish. The numbers are worth reading before you start, because the custard is far leaner than modern recipes assume.

A Little History

Bread pudding of this kind is a way of turning stale loaf ends into something salable. The quantities are bakeshop quantities, and the recipe assumes a kitchen that goes through pounds of white bread daily. What makes the page unusual is the complaint attached to it — the anonymous clubman's objection that hotel puddings are "nothing but sweet," then drowned in a sauce that is "all sugar." American hotel and club dining ran on rich, standardized desserts produced in quantity, and the author's grudging "there are no puddings that are not hotel puddings" is a concession about his own trade. The comparison to English plum pudding is telling: both dishes had drifted toward ever more sugar, fat and fruit as proof of generosity, and this austere custard — one egg and an ounce of sugar per pint of milk — is offered as the corrective.

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