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Caviare Sandwich
Between thin slices of buttered rye bread, spread caviare; on top of that sprinkle a little finely chopped onion. Garnish top with a slice of lemon.
An open-face sandwich in the Continental style, and one where the only real work is choosing the caviare and cutting the bread thin enough. A few points on sourcing and assembly.
- What "caviare" meant hereA sandwich book of this period could assume cheap domestic sturgeon roe, much of it from the Delaware and the Great Lakes. Wild sturgeon is now CITES-restricted and the domestic fishery collapsed long ago; buy farmed sturgeon caviar, or use hackleback, paddlefish or salmon roe, which behave the same on bread.
- Butter is structuralThe butter is not seasoning, it is a moisture barrier between the wet roe and the bread. Spread it soft and to the edges, and assemble no more than a few minutes before serving or the rye goes damp.
- Cut the bread thinA dense deli rye or a Scandinavian-style sour rye, sliced about 1/8 inch, then crusts trimmed and cut into squares or fingers. Two or three bites is the right size for this.
- Onion, sparinglyFinely chopped means nearly minced, and a little means a scattering. Raw onion overwhelms roe quickly; rinsing the chopped onion in cold water and blotting it dry takes the harshness out.
- Handle the roe gentlyUse a bone, horn or plastic spoon rather than metal, which can throw a metallic taste, and spread by dabbing rather than dragging so the eggs stay whole.
- No saltCaviare is already salted, sometimes heavily. Use unsalted butter and taste the roe before deciding whether the sandwich needs anything at all.
- The lemonA thin half-slice or twist on top, as a garnish and a squeeze at the table. Do not dress the roe with juice in advance; the acid firms and dulls it.
- Yield and serviceAn ounce of roe covers roughly six small sandwiches. Serve cold, on a chilled plate, as a canapé with dry sparkling wine or chilled vodka.
Sandwich books were a small publishing genre in the first decade of the twentieth century, when the afternoon tea table, the card party and the chafing-dish supper all called for something small to hand round, and this collection sits squarely in that market. The caviare sandwich is a straightforward borrowing from the Russian and German zakuski and Vorspeisen tradition — roe, black bread, butter, onion, lemon — and it reached American tables partly because sturgeon roe was then genuinely cheap here: through the late nineteenth century the United States was a major exporter of caviar, much of it shipped to Europe and some of it, if the often-repeated story is to be believed, sold back again under Russian labels. Overfishing ended that within a generation, which is why a recipe that once read as an easy party sandwich now reads as a luxury. The rye bread may suggest that the compiler had the Central and Eastern European version in mind rather than the French service of caviare on toast.