My, Chef, What Big Teeth You Have!

Once upon a time (1950), the American male was a pitiful creature who relied utterly upon the fairer sex for all of his nutritional needs. A man could go a whole lifetime being fed by women — first his mother, then his wife, then, perhaps, a nurse. The kitchen was a place of mystery he never ventured into, much like the way the women steered clear of the garage. A man was slave to his wife’s tastes, abilities and appetites — he just handed over his paycheck and hoped for the best. What he wanted was bacon and eggs, steak and BBQ, pie, and drinks — plenty of them. Instead, he got cereal and salad and casseroles and OJ. How could he be expected to perform his vital functions on such paltry fare?

The answer was to encourage men to claim their inner wolf and claim the kitchen as their own territory so that they could dictate what to fill their bellies with. The problem they faced (besides figuring out how to make fire come out of the stove) was that they couldn’t read. Not a single one. Sure, they were semi-literate when it came to manly words, like street signs and instruction manuals, but for the most part, actual reading left them cold. Men, as we all know, prefer the more immediate stimulation of pictures rather than text, and all the cookbooks had a lot of sentences in them.

The authors of A Wolf In Chef’s Clothing came up with the perfect solution: write a cookbook only using pictures! It freed a man from having to calculate what ounces and spoonfuls were by providing handy illustrations. How could it possibly go wrong? Well, for one thing, no man would be caught dead buying a cookbook, so they gave this one a very large alcoholic beverage section, and supplied dating tips alongside the recipes. Even the simplest task could be used to win over a hapless lady — including this charming lass, who has stayed the night at her beau’s abode and is still clad in her stocking and a fancy mule.

I hope she knows that should she decide to stay and become his betrothed, he will be the one doing all the fetching and carrying, baking, broiling and frying. And shopping and washing up. And sweeping, polishing and gardening. And laundry. And howling at the moon.

The New Wolf in Chef’s Clothing , Robert H. Leob, Jr., 1950

Also from this book: Steakmanship

How (Not) To Make Coffee

— Um, Barista, there’s something wrong with my coffee.

— Sorry Sir — what’s the matter?

— I ordered a coffee.

— Yes Sir — I gave you a coffee.

— But this doesn’t taste like coffee. You must be mistaken.

— A Grande, black, right? To go?

— That’s what I ordered, yes.

— I just brewed that coffee fresh right before I poured it Sir. It should be fine.

— You mean to tell me you made this today?

— Of course.

— But that’s awful. Coffee should be brewed the day before serving. How many times did you brew it?

— The once….

— Exactly! You didn’t boil it three times! No wonder it tastes like shit!

— Sir, there’s no need for profanity.

— This rubbish is what you’d serve a child, not a grown man. I want my money back.

— Very well. Here’s your tuppence ha’penny. Good luck, to you Sir.

A Plain Cookery Book for the Working Classes, Charles Elmé Francatelli, The Scolar Press, 1852

Also from this book: Mutton Chops, What Pluck!. Heads, Plucks, Shanks and Scrag-Ends, Take A Deep Breath..., Stuffed Up, Bee Stings, How To Make The Most Of Your Pig Before It Is Killed, Faggots

A Bit On The Side

From an era when Women’s Lib meant utterly debasing oneself to the worst stereotypes imaginable comes the New Generation Cook Book, produced by the Coffee Production Council, whatever that was. You could burn your bra without a care in the world because you could wear kaftans and big paisley shirts to work to hide your swinging boobies and tie all that hair back with a headband.

Let’s break it down: young, naïve Samantha wants to make the leap from the typing pool to the glamorous world of television, but it’s 1969, so her only entre into it is by making herself useful by fetching coffee for the crew and looking pretty while doing it. Then she’s called upon to work long hours doing the catering. She develops a crush on the Director who exploits her by showing up at her flat demanding food which she dutifully prepares. Meanwhile her chubby flat mate decides she’d like a piece of this action but frets about not being able to attract any of them film crew’s men due to her size, so attempts to diet while helping to cook all the food. Sure enough, Samantha’s perseverance is rewarded by being given a catering job and getting fucked by the Director. Much coffee is drunk. It’s groovy, man. 

New Generation Cook Book, Tessa Bridger, Hamlyn, 1969