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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Potage, Longchamps

Heat two tablespoons butter in a large saucepan, add three finely sliced leeks, one finely sliced onion, two ounces salt pork cut in small pieces, two bay leaves, one clove and two branches parsley, then brown for ten minutes, occasionally stirring meanwhile; add one pint well-picked and thoroughly washed leaves of sorrel, cook for five minutes longer, stirring meanwhile; then add three large peeled, sliced sound cleaned potatoes, moisten with one quart broth and two and a half quarts water, season with a teaspoon salt and a half teaspoon pepper, mix well, cover pan and gently cook for two hours, mixing once in a while. Remove, press puree through a sieve into a basin, then through a Chinese strainer into another saucepan, reset on fire, crack in two ounces vermicelli, lightly mix and boil fifteen minutes, then pour in a half pint milk, a half gill cream and a half ounce good butter, boil five minutes more, pour into a soup tureen and serve.

For the Modern Kitchen

A French potager's soup in the old style: a long-simmered vegetable base pushed through two sieves, then finished with pasta and dairy. Nothing here is difficult, but several of the instructions reflect equipment and habits that have changed.

A Little History

Alessandro Filippini, long the chef at Delmonico's in New York, built The International Cook Book out of the French classical repertoire he had cooked professionally, and the place-name soups of that repertoire run through it. Longchamps is the racecourse in the Bois de Boulogne, opened in the 1850s and by the end of the century a fixed point of the Paris social calendar; French kitchens attached its name to a green soup, generally traced to a puree of fresh peas or sorrel finished with vermicelli and cream. Naming a dish for a racecourse, a battle or a duchess was standard practice in the grand kitchens, and told a diner nothing about the ingredients except that the house considered the dish worth a name. What is genuinely old here is the sorrel: a sharp perennial green that was a kitchen-garden staple across northern Europe for centuries, valued precisely because it supplied acidity in a soup before lemons were cheap, and which fell out of American use for reasons often said to lie in the narrowing of commercial vegetable growing to what ships well.

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