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Pickle Sandwiches
Cut some pickles in very thin slices lengthwise, lay them on slices of bread, then put a thin slice of thin roasted veal or pork on the top of that; season with pepper, salt, and mustard, and cover with another slice of bread. Cut the sandwiches into finger lengths, arrange them on an ornamental dish-paper or a folded napkin spread over a dish, garnish with neat sprigs of parsley, and serve.
A buffet sandwich from the era when cold roast meat was a daily leftover. The whole thing hinges on cutting thin.
- The pickles"Pickles" here means whole cucumbers in brine or a sweet-sour cure, not cut spears or chips. Slice them lengthwise as thin as you can manage, then blot them on a towel or the bread will go limp within minutes.
- "Thin roasted veal or pork"This assumes yesterday's cold roast, sliced against the grain. A boneless pork loin or a veal round roast, cooked and thoroughly chilled before slicing, gives the firm, paper-thin slices intended; deli-sliced roast pork works if you keep it lean.
- The mustardOscar's kitchen would have used a sharp prepared mustard, English or a Dijon type. Spread it on the bread rather than the meat so it sits between two dry surfaces and does not run.
- The breadA close-crumbed white sandwich loaf, sliced thin and crusts trimmed, is what the finger-length cut assumes. Airy modern bread tears when you slice the finished sandwich.
- Cutting to fingersChill the assembled sandwiches under a damp cloth for fifteen minutes before cutting, then use a long serrated knife in one draw. Each standard slice yields three or four fingers.
- Yield and timingFour sandwiches give a dozen to sixteen fingers; figure two to three fingers a person alongside other food. Assemble no more than an hour ahead, as the brine will begin to soak through.
- The dish-paperAn ornamental dish-paper was a pierced or lace-edged paper doily laid on the serving platter to absorb moisture and dress the plate. A folded linen napkin, as the recipe allows, does the same job.
Oscar Tschirky was maître d'hôtel at the Waldorf and then the Waldorf-Astoria from 1893, and his 1896 Cook Book is thick with sandwiches of exactly this kind — thin, trimmed, cut to fingers, and meant to be eaten standing up at a reception or late supper rather than sat down to. The pickle-and-cold-meat combination plausibly reflects a household economy that would have run straight through even a grand hotel kitchen: a roast carved hot for dinner, its remains reappearing cold the next day, where a sharp pickle and mustard did the work of a sauce. Books of the period treat sandwiches as a distinct course requiring careful presentation, which is why a recipe this simple devotes as much attention to the dish-paper and the parsley as to the filling.