The International Cook Book

Over three thousand recipes from the man who cooked at Delmonico's — French sauces, Italian pastas, Indian curries and American pies, the whole eating world of 1906 in one volume.

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Chicken Soup, Australian

Singe, cut off the head and feet from a small, tender fowl. Draw, detach the breast and legs from the body, cut off all the meat from the bones and cut it in half inch pieces. Heat two tablespoons melted butter in a saucepan, add the meat and gently brown ten minutes, slightly stirring meanwhile. Moisten with three quarts water, add all the bones. Tie in a bunch two leeks, two branches celery, two branches parsley and one branch chervil and add to the soup. Season with two teaspoons salt and half teaspoon pepper and let boil one hour. Add three ounces raw rice, then let boil forty minutes more. Remove the bones and bouquet. Skim fat from the surface of the broth. Heat in a saucepan one half ounce butter, add one and a half ounces flour, stir well, then pour the soup into this pan, mix well, and let boil ten minutes. Add half teaspoon curry powder, mix well, pour the soup in a tureen and serve.

For the Modern Kitchen

A curried chicken and rice soup, thickened with a roux at the end. Two things need attention: the rice is boiled far longer than modern rice tolerates, and the curry powder goes in raw at the last minute.

A Little History

This appears to come from a run of "national" soups in Alexander Filippini's The International Cook Book (1906), a large compilation that gathered dishes under country labels for American cooks and hotel kitchens. The Australian attribution seems to rest largely on the curry powder: British colonial cookery carried Indian spice blends throughout the Empire, and a curried chicken-and-rice soup was as much at home in Sydney or Melbourne as mulligatawny was in Madras or a London club. Everything else in the recipe is standard French method of the period, from the tied bouquet of leek, celery and chervil to the flour-and-butter thickening whisked in at the end, which suggests the dish was Frenchified in a professional kitchen before it was given a nationality. It is a useful reminder that in turn-of-the-century cookbooks a country name often signals a single characteristic seasoning rather than any documented local recipe.

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