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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Oyster Coquilles with Celery

Cut a well-trimmed and cleaned stalk of fine, crisp white celery into quarter-inch square pieces and boil in a pint of water with half teaspoon salt for thirty-five minutes. Thoroughly drain, and keep one and a half gills of the celery broth. Mix in a saucepan one tablespoon butter with two tablespoons flour; briskly stir while heating for one minute; pour in the one and a half gills celery broth, adding one gill cream. Season with half teaspoon salt, two saltspoons paprika and saltspoon grated nutmeg. Mix well and let gently simmer for twenty minutes. Plunge twenty-four large, fresh-opened oysters with their liquor into a half pint water and boil for five minutes. Drain, add the oysters and celery to the sauce, with a half gill of the liquor; lightly mix, then evenly divide the preparation in six table shells. Sprinkle over them two tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese, place the shells on a tin, then set in the oven for ten minutes or till of a nice golden colour. Remove and serve. N. B. Unless otherwise mentioned, a tablespoon flour means about a "level," not a "heaping," tablespoonful.

For the Modern Kitchen

A creamed oyster gratin from the era when celery was a luxury vegetable served in its own glassware. The measurements are in gills and saltspoons, and the oyster timing needs rethinking.

A Little History

Coquille is simply French for shell, and by the 1900s any creamed seafood browned in a shell was called a coquille on English-language menus. This book belongs to the great age of American oyster cookery, when oysters were cheap enough to be everyday food in eastern cities and cookbooks ran dozens of preparations for them; celery, by contrast, was still something of a status vegetable, grown in blanched trenches, sold by the head and set out in cut-glass vases as a course in itself. Pairing the two in a cream sauce under Parmesan is a hotel-dining-room gesture of the period. The closing note about level rather than heaping tablespoons suggests a moment when standardized measurement was still new enough to need spelling out.

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