Meat Swiss Roll

The Swiss Roll is oddly named because it has nothing in particular to do with the Swiss, per se. But the name persists, as if it imparts some class to the basic jelly roll cake. Even the French call it a “Roulade Suisse,” which is odd, because the French only usually evoke another nation’s name when referring to venereal diseases or compromising sexual encounters and the like.

The basic Swiss (or Jelly) Roll consists of a light Genoise sponge cake which is rolled while hot and left to cool. It is then unrolled, and a filling (cream, butter cream or jam) is spread upon it. This is then rolled up again, creating a whimsical spiral when sliced.

It is highly popular all over the world, with many local varieties making use of ingredients and flavors familiar to their customers, while retaining the basic cake-and-filling formula.

The Sicilians, however, have never taken to this confection. They prefer their Swiss Roll to be made of meat and cheese. Because they are hardcore.

All-Time Favorite Beef Recipes, Better Homes and Gardens, 1977

A Feast For The Eyes

Robert Hughes says that “by general consent, Jean Siméon Chardin (pronounced “char-din”) was one of the supreme artists of the eighteenth century and probably the greatest master of still life in the history of painting,” but what does he know of art? Isn’t he Australian?

Real artists have their work displayed in art galleries and museums but Chardin’s daubings can still be found right where he painted them — the Louvre, a second-rate tourist attraction in Paris known mostly for displaying such things as sculptures of women missing their arms and tiny portraits of women sort of smiling. Not the pinnacle of man’s artistry, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Chardin’s paintings are supposed to be exquisite demonstrations of the Golden Rule in terms of their composition, creating a harmonious balance within a dynamic three-dimensional space. And yet all they are are bits of food on tables. Look at his “Still Life with a Rib of Beef,” for example. I know it was 1739, and they didn’t have refrigeration back then, but do we really need to be reminded of what a stench raw meat would have made just hanging there? I see some onions, but what else is the cook going to use to make something tasty? A few jugs and pots and a cloth — boring.

Far more interesting and useful is the work of the photographer / stylist (if indeed they are two separate people) who created the magnificent photographs that illustrate the book Quick and Simple Cooking for Two. See how the eye is led diagonally across the page — no horizontals or verticals here. There are plenty of oblique circles to keep the eye busy, and splashes of red indicate where the real action takes place, in the paired pans holding the prepared food. In between, we see evidence of what has gone into the meal: whole and chopped veggies, including a stalwart sheaf of celery.

Chardin can paint metals like copper and brass all he wants but can he paint stainless steel? Note the contrast between the polished bowl and grater, how they reflect the spotlight differently. Consider too the humanist touch of the tablecloth, recognizable from picnics to bistros like a security blanket. It says you are safe. This food will not kill you like raw beef. Critics, being unkind, might say that the rolled steaks look worryingly like turds, but that’s just how well-cooked meat looks.

The art lover can save themselves a lot of trouble and expense by eschewing the overrated glories of Paris and taking another look at what treasures lie in their bookshelves at home. Also, you won’t have to speak French.

Quick and Simple Cooking for Two, Ideals Publishing Corporation, 1976 

Also from this book: It Was All Yellow, Depth Of Field

Not Mastering the Art of French Cooking

 There are many ways to present recipes in cookbooks designed for people who need instructions on how to cook. It’s helpful, say, to provide a list of ingredients up front, and layout the steps clearly so that the harried cook can find their place easily when glancing at the open page while stirring the pot. This book scoffs at all of that. “The secret is in the timing,” the introduction claims. No it isn’t: the secret is in the design.

For a start, this is a paperback. It does not stay open; it’s even hard to crack open when holding with both hands; it would be necessary to break the spine in order to see what lies in the gutter.

The gutter, deep in the fold (the most difficult part of a book to see), is where all the action is: the glorious “Timer” that allegedly provides an easy to follow timeline upon which the book is based. It’s punctual to the minute, as if any individual amateur cook could possibly stick to such regimentation! What would happen if you fell behind?

The text to the side is so small and crammed together that it’s impossible to find your place in a hurry. One side contains so much instruction while the other remains blank.

Finally, at the end, is a menu with a comprehensive list of all that you’ll need: why isn’t this at the front?

Chessy Rayner, New York style icon, was known for her eclectic yet simple design — in fashion and decor. It’s a mystery how she could get this so wrong. 

French Cooking By The Clock, William and Chesbrough Rayner, The New American Library, 1965

Bohemian Rhapsody

Queen’s epic opus is 5 minutes and 55 seconds of pure crazy-ass genius that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, and remains to this day one of the most complex recordings in popular music, having been recorded over three weeks on so many overdubs the tape was nearly worn through.

You have to have an enormous, swaggering pair of cajones to think you can get away with singing it in concert if you are not Freddie Mercury; those who do and can pull it off are rewarded handsomely by a raucous crowd of happy hand waving headbangers judging every single note.

The song’s impenetrable lyrics have been subject to much speculation, ranging from the most jargon-entwisted academic intellectualizing to Mercury’s own admission that they were just “random rhyming nonsense.”  

Until now. Here, for the first time, is the culinary catalyst upon which “Bohemian Rhapsody” was surely based. To wit:  Homes and Gardens’ monstrous book Meals With A Foreign Flair’s section on “Stout German Fare.” 

Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy?

Behold the glory that is the Hausplatte, a veritable symphony of meat served on a wooden trencher alongside tankards of beer. It surely is a meal for someone teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown who thinks that “nothing really matters.”

MAMA just killed a man,

Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead

MAMA, life had just begun,

But now I've gone and thrown it all away

We are eased in to the opening movement (in which the protagonist confesses to murder, says he doesn’t want to face the consequences, and wishes he’d never been born at all) by the Duchesse potatoes edging the platter, keeping all the meat in and providing an ever-present context for the meal’s theme. Who among us would not wish they’d never been born when faced with his dish? Who would not be driven to shoot someone in the head?

I'm just a poor boy nobody loves me

He's just a poor boy from a poor family,

Spare him his life from this monstrosity

Easy come, easy go, will you let me go

Bismillah! No, we will not let you go

(Let him go!) Bismillah! We will not let you go

With a sudden change in tempo, the thudding of a lone piano introduces us to a hysterical dialogue between the protagonist and his demons, here represented by the myriad artery-bursting array of animal proteins that form the plate’s centerpiece. The sausages, as Scaramouche, appear ready to do the Fandango in one’s mouth, while the boiled beef plays the part of Galileo, trying to tell the truth about meat’s essential nature. The weinkraut in the middle are surely Bismillah, the Arabic god with whom the protagonist enters a crazed dialogue begging for and denying his freedom. Before all hell breaks loose, Beelzebub, the devil himself, appears in the form of pig’s knuckles anchoring this sordid tale at both ends.

Beelzebub!.. has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me

Once any diner has commenced engorging him or herself in this orgy of meat, the music, and heart races. One can hear it begging:

Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby,

Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here

Once safely removed from the table and no longer a threat, the diner slouches in a chair, sated, greasy juice dribbling down his or her chin and soaking into the napkin tucked into a collar. Eyes rolled back, is it any wonder the song ends with this final sentiment?

Nothing really matters, Anyone can see,

Nothing really matters,

Nothing really matters to me

Any way the wind blows.

The metallic chime of a gong — the bell that tolls for thee — finds echo in a long and gratifying burp.

Meals With A Foreign Flair, Better Homes and Gardens, 1963

Also from this book: Sweet-Sour Pork, Vive La Cuisine Franglais!

Beef Cocktail — Cheers!

That the human body is an evolutionary work in progress can be seen in the presence of the coccyx, which happens to also be the best-named bone we have. The coccyx is at the very end of your spine, the faint echo of a vestigial tail.

Other parts modern man has little use for include the wisdom teeth, which many have removed because our short jaws don't do much mammoth bone gnawing anymore. The ability to see further than our computer screens have meant we all have spectacles perched on the ends of our half-used noses.

The Complete Blender Cook Book appears to want to hasten the demise of our teefs, too, because if you use it you’ll have absolutely no need for them. If it can be turned into a puree, paste, foam, cream, sauce, goo or liquid of any kind, then it’s in here.

The Cocktail Hour is also going out of style, along with smoking — perhaps because folks started replacing the alcohol in them with meat and then sent you out in the cold to enjoy your cigarette separately on the sidewalk. What is the world coming to?

For those of you who like to consume your beef through a straw, there’s this:

Beef Cocktail

1 cup beef broth

1 very thin slice onion

1 teaspoon lemon juice

¼ pound cooked round steak, shredded

Into container put all ingredients. Cover, blend for 20 seconds. Season delicately to taste. If served hot, heat over low flame, do not boil; or serve cold garnished with parsley. Makes 1 to 2 drinks.

The Complete Blender Cook Book, Waring Products Co., 1965

Beef a la Mode Surprise Surprise!

— Darling, just a reminder: we have dinner at the Emperor’s place on Sunday.

— Damn! I was going to play a round of golf on Sunday. Can’t we decline?

— Not really, no.

— Well that is awfully irritating. Why does it have to be Sunday of all days?

— We all have to worship the sun now. He decreed it so. Elagabalus, everybody calls him behind his back. Like helio, the sun.

— By Jupiter! What’ll he think of next? I’ve never heard of such piffle.

— Just grin and bear it.

— Do we have to take a gift for the lady of the house? Who’s he married to nowadays anyhow? Isn’t it Julia something?

— No; he dumped her for a Vestal Virgin — it caused quite a scandal. Then he married some widow named Annia whose husband he had executed.

— I’ve heard he swings both ways.

— Really? He does seem to spend a lot of time playing games with a charioteer….

— Do you have any idea what the menu will be?

— My friend said she heard that six hundred ostriches were brought to the palace.

— Ugh — you know how I hate ostrich brains.

— There will probably be nightingale’s tongues then. Or camel’s feet. Don’t worry. We can always grab something on the way home.

— That is if we aren’t smothered to death with rose petals! Remember that! What a debacle! People didn’t think that was funny.

— Just chew carefully. That way, if he hides jewels in the lentils like he did last time, you won’t break another tooth.

— Fourteen’s too young to be made Emperor if you ask me. It’s all just jolly japes and pranks. Rome will be made a laughing stock.

— Oh come on — he’s not that bad!

— He prostitutes himself naked in the palace hallways.

— He does not!

— Yes he does; I have it on good authority from an associate of mine whom he propositioned. He was wearing a ton of makeup to disguise himself.

— That’s shameful!

— I’ll say. Someone needs to put that whelp out of his misery.

— No doubt the Praetorian Guard are working on it. They always are.

— How about a bit of hanky-panky before you blow the candle out?

— I thought you’d never ask!

*  *  *  *  

Later...

— Well, that wasn’t so bad.

— I had a start when he sliced that roast though! Didn’t it look like he’d had the fingers of slaves poked into it all the way through?

— I was afraid to touch it.

— But they were only carrots.

— Let’s hope so. At least he didn’t make us eat wax replicas of his meal this time.

— Oh that was a trial, yes. And he just sat there laughing his head off watching us try to swallow it. That poor chap who asked for a drink of water to wash it down….

— I know. He was tied to a wheel and spent the rest of the evening being spun over a tank. His wife was furious.

— I say — my stomach is a bit upset. I do hope that damn beef wasn’t poisoned.

— They say his guests never leave empty handed. Oh Jupiter…me too….

McCall's Cooking School, Random House, 1972