The Cook Book by “Oscar” of the Waldorf

Three thousand recipes from the maitre d'hotel of the Waldorf — the hotel kitchen that taught Gilded Age America how to dine, from beef tea to watermelon with champagne.

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Cherry Marmalade

Remove the stones and stems from the required number of cherries; crush the stones, place them in a saucepan with a little water, and boil them until the flavor is extracted. Put the fruit in a preserving-pan with a small quantity of water and boil until it is reduced to a pulp, stirring it occasionally with a wooden spoon to prevent it from sticking to the bottom and burning. Put three-quarters of a pound of loaf sugar to every pound of fruit into the strained water in which the stones have been boiled, and boil until small, transparent bubbles appear on the top. Mix the clarified sugar with the fruit and continue stirring it over the fire until thick and smooth. Turn the marmalade into small glasses or jars, allow it to get cold, then tie them over, and put in a dry store-cupboard until required.

For the Modern Kitchen Do not make this as written.

Two things in this procedure put it outside what a modern kitchen should attempt: the deliberate extraction of crushed cherry stones, and a sealing method that predates any understanding of preserve spoilage. The notes below explain the specific problems rather than offering substitutions.

A Little History

Oscar Tschirky, maître d'hôtel of the Waldorf and later the Waldorf-Astoria, put his name to The Cook Book by "Oscar" of the Waldorf in 1896, a nine-hundred-page compilation that ranges well past hotel service into jams, pickles and household preserving. "Marmalade" here carries its older, broader sense: the word descends through the Portuguese marmelada, a stiff quince paste, and into English it meant any fruit boiled to a thick pulp with sugar, with citrus only later monopolizing the term. The crushed-stone infusion is the period detail that dates the recipe most sharply. Cherry, apricot and peach kernels were standard flavoring stock in Victorian and Edwardian confectionery, appearing as ratafia and noyau, and cookbooks of the 1890s seem generally to have treated a handful of cracked pits as a free bonus rather than a hazard. The chemistry of cyanogenic glycosides was understood by then, but the dose in a domestic decoction was not, and preserving manuals are often said to have gone on recommending the practice for decades after.

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