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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Gumbo Lie with Asparagus

Thoroughly wash a bunch of green asparagus, cut in small pieces, and place in a saucepan with a pint and a half water, one sliced onion, two branches parsley, one clove, half a teaspoon salt and one teaspoon sugar; lightly mix, then let boil forty-five minutes, press through a sieve into a small saucepan and keep hot.

Cut into small dice pieces one onion, two green peppers, two leeks, two ounces lean raw ham, a boned raw leg of a fowl (if handy) and two ounces lean raw veal; place these in a saucepan with half ounce butter and lightly brown ten minutes, occasionally stirring, then pour in three pints broth, one quart water; boil fifteen minutes, add three tablespoons raw rice, boil ten minutes. Then add twelve well-trimmed fresh okras cut in half-inch pieces, and two medium, fresh red tomatoes, each cut in eight pieces. Season with a teaspoon salt, three saltspoons white pepper, and slowly boil for forty minutes. Pour the asparagus puree into this pan, mix well with wooden spoon for a minute, then boil five minutes more, pour into a soup tureen and serve.

For the Modern Kitchen

A large, two-stage soup: an asparagus puree made separately and stirred into a gumbo built on diced meats, okra and rice. Nothing here is difficult, but the quantities and the boiling times both belong to another era.

A Little History

The odd title is most likely French rather than misprinted English: this gumbo is arguably bound twice over, by the okra's mucilage and by the asparagus puree stirred in at the finish. The recipe is characteristic of the grand-hotel cooking that The International Cook Book collected, generally credited to Alexander Filippini, long associated with Delmonico's in New York. Note what is absent: no roux, no filé, no shellfish, and the okra doing all the thickening work. Louisiana gumbo had been travelling into northern restaurant kitchens since the late nineteenth century, and dishes like this show it arriving as a template — a name and an okra-thickened pot — onto which a French-trained chef grafted a spring vegetable puree that sits some distance from Creole practice.

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