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, Mussulman

Blanch one pint dry, split green peas in boiling water five minutes. Remove and thoroughly drain on sieve. Peel, wash and slice fifteen Jerusalem artichokes; add to peas. Heat two tablespoons melted butter in a large saucepan, add one sliced onion, two sliced leeks, quarter pound salt pork, cut in small pieces, and two bay leaves; gently brown five minutes, then add peas and artichokes with two quarts water, one quart broth and two branches chervil. Season with two teaspoons salt and half teaspoon pepper. Cover pan and gently boil two hours and a half. Remove, pass the puree through sieve into a basin, then through Chinese strainer into another saucepan, pour in one pint tomato sauce, mix well, boil five minutes, pour soup into a tureen and serve with a plate of bread croutons separately.

For the Modern Kitchen

A long-simmered split pea and Jerusalem artichoke puree, finished with tomato sauce. The method is straightforward; the vagueness lies in the measurements by volume and in a cooking time set for a coal range.

A Little History

"Mussulman" is an old English rendering, via Persian and Turkish, of the word for a Muslim, and in the grand-restaurant naming of the period such epithets generally functioned as menu labels rather than claims of provenance: national and ethnic tags were attached to soups and garnishes as shorthand for a fixed combination. Whether "Mussulman" was a codified garnish name in the same way as à la turque or à la russe is not clear. What the name signals here is probably the tomato finish and the pulse base, both associated in French kitchens with the eastern Mediterranean. The Jerusalem artichoke, meanwhile, is neither from Jerusalem nor an artichoke but a North American sunflower tuber; the name is generally traced to a corruption of the Italian girasole. By the time this book appeared the tuber had been in European kitchens for some three centuries and had settled into exactly this role — a cheap thickening vegetable for winter soups, cooked down until nobody could identify it.

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