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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Mock Mayonaise

A cook who knows nothing but the best may fare badly sometimes if he go to a restaurant where he is expected to make the following and is unable to meet the requirement:

Make the cooked paste precisely as if for cream puffs using butter. Perhaps half of that receipt will suffice. Work in eggs the same way. When it is nearly soft enough begin and add a little oil and a little vinegar, then another whole egg, a little mustard, more oil and vinegar, and so on until it is like mayonaise. A large quantity can be made with but little expense for olive oil in that way. This mock sauce is used to spread over the top of a chicken or lobster salad in many restaurants that are called first class. The custom is growing in favor everywhere and a particularly prevalent now in San Francisco of setting a midday lunch instead of dinner and having the dinner at 5 or 6 o'clock in the evening.

This lunch makes a demand for good work in cold dishes of all kinds, and gives encouragement for its display that is never experienced under the plan of three hot meals a day. The various articles considered in this category of salads and cold dishes have everyone of them a use for the midday cold meal, they can be set out to the utmost advantage, and become as important a part of the steward's and cook's resources as the entrees, roasts and game for a hot dinner.

For the Modern Kitchen

This is a cost-cutting restaurant sauce: choux paste stretched with oil, vinegar and eggs until it behaves like mayonnaise. The original assumes you already know the cream puff paste by heart, so the quantities are given only by reference.

A Little History

Jessup Whitehead wrote for working American hotel and restaurant cooks in the 1880s and 90s, and his books are full of exactly this kind of frank shop-floor economy: the passage opens by warning that a cook trained only on "the best" may be caught out when a house expects the cheap version. Olive oil was an imported luxury in nineteenth-century American kitchens, and a starch-bound sauce let a steward cover a whole platter of chicken or lobster salad on a fraction of the oil a true mayonnaise would take — the same logic behind the flour-thickened "boiled dressings" that dominated American cookbooks well into the twentieth century. The digression on San Francisco is a genuine snapshot of a shift in dining hours: as the main meal moved to the evening, the midday meal became a cold spread, and cold sauces, aspics and masked salads turned into a serious part of a cook's repertoire rather than an afterthought.

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