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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Rhubarb Jelly

Select eight pounds of nice ripe red rhubarb, wipe the stalks, cut them into convenient lengths and put them in a stone or earthenware jar with the thinly-pared rinds of three large lemons. Cover the jar and place it in a moderate oven until the rhubarb is tender. When cooked strain the juice from the fruit into a lined saucepan, squeeze the juice of three lemons into it and boil very gently for half an hour. At the end of that time strain the juice through a jelly-bag and measure it and for every breakfast cupful allow one and one-fourth breakfast cupfuls of coarsely-crushed loaf sugar. Dissolve the sugar in the juice and boil the mixture for forty-five minutes, keeping it well stirred and skimmed all the time. Pour the jelly into jars and leave it until the following day; then put into each jar a round of paper that has been dipped in brandy and cover them with parchment, tying them down tightly. Keep the jelly in a dry store-cupboard.

For the Modern Kitchen

A long, patient jelly of the sort made in quantity when rhubarb came in all at once. Two things decide whether it works: rhubarb has very little pectin, so the set depends on the lemon and on boiling to temperature rather than by the clock, and the acid demands non-reactive equipment throughout.

A Little History

Rhubarb came to Europe as a medicine — the dried root of Asian species was a valued purgative long before anyone ate the stalks — and it only became a kitchen fruit once sugar was cheap enough to make its acidity palatable, which in Britain and America meant the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It earned the American nickname "pie plant" for its most common use, and the forced, pale-pink early crop from Yorkshire and from market gardens near the big cities — a British market phenomenon of the later nineteenth century — made it the first fresh "fruit" of the year. That seasonal glut is what this recipe is for: eight pounds at a time, cooked down and put by in a store-cupboard. The brandy-soaked paper laid on the surface of preserves was a widely attested household practice before reliable vacuum sealing, the alcohol discouraging the mould that would otherwise bloom under the parchment.

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