See what the Easter rabbit rolls in—chocolate shell eggs. It's a Rosemarie de Paris offering, this gone-with-the-war novelty. Wartime restrictions have been lifted regarding the manufacture of hollow chocolate figures, and the candy-makers of the Rosemarie de Paris kitchen have plunged into the Easter egg business in big fashion again. On display are huge chocolate eggs, covered with gleaming foil in silver and gold, draped with satin ribbon. The eggs open to reveal an assortment of the firm's finest chocolates. When the candy is gone, the eggshell itself may be broken to munch bit by sweet bit. Chocolate eggs are selling in Rosemarie de Paris shops in New York City, Washington, D.C., Chicago, Philadelphia, and Beverly Hills, California.
First shipments of Périgord truffles have arrived out of France. Yes, the Périgord, most famous of truffles, their reputation due to their delicate aroma and regularity of appearance. When this aroma is like involves the gourmets in argument. On one point they agree; that the wine of Pomerol carries a truffle bouquet. But what's the bouquet?
Truffles vary in size from little ones about the bulk of a walnut to those with the girth of an apple. When taken from the soil, they are swarthy affairs, rounded like potatoes and covered with a sort of red dust. Inside they are usually blackish-gray or black, according to age, and marbled with white veins. A few truffles are white, notably those of Piedmont and Umbria.
Truffles are of mysterious growth, seedless, rootless, growing in clusters a few inches to a foot underground. The key to their mystery was found in the activities of insects attracted by the scent. After burrowing into the treat the marauders unwittingly carry the truffle spores to the leaves of the nearby trees. There the spores partially develop and are leaves fall.
All truffles are wild truffles; no one knows how to grow them. To harvest these black diamonds, they are literally mined. The French insist only virgins can discover the scent of a truffle, virgin sows, virgin bitches. The hogs and the dogs are muzzled and leashed for the hunting excursions. It's claimed there are occasional women (virgins, of course) who have the truffle nose and can walk over the beds, forecasting their location and approximate depth, size, and quantity.
Truffles grow in many places, Spain, Germany, Italy, England, France, even our own California; but all are considered inferior to the French truffles of Périgord. R.H. Macy's, 34th Street and Broadway, New York, have stocked the truffles in three packs: the one and three-fourths-ounce tin ＄2.29; three and one-half-ounce tin ＄4.29; seven-ounce tin ＄8.31.
Hot cross buns, those pagan cakes originated in the pre-Christian era, are again in the bakery windows exhibiting their sugary charms. But less sugary than prewar; some are less fruity, some have lost their frosted cross.
This blessing of the bakery, as we know it today, first rose in England. There the hot cross buns has flourished as in no other land. As far back as 1252 the bakeries were competing with the church in selling buns stamped with the cross—an illegal practice, but they did it just the same. A century ago the bun had reached its all-time popularity high when two widely known bun houses in Chelsea were thronged from daylight to dusk with people from all parts of London who came to taste the Good Friday bread.
A modest milestone toward grocery reconversion is marked by the arrival of the first postwar shipment of the Norwegian Bristling sardines here out of Stavanger. Bristlings are sprats, the smallest of the herrings, five inches being the maximum length. A delicate fish it is, abundant in many parts of Europe and used there both fresh and smoked. The Bristlings are so tiny, so tender, the skin is left on, the bones are left in. The fish are split, cleaned, beheaded, and packed in oil with the flavor of Norwegian Sild sardines, the three and three-fourths-ounce tins selling for 22 cents at Charles and Company, 340 Madison Avenue.
Still another returnee from over the sea is the French pâté de foie gras, coming in three-pound blocks with truffled centers. The tins hold thirty servings, price＄25, at Vendome Table Delicacies, 415 Madison Avenue.
It was a ceremony of broad smiles of lusty lip-smackings when the first postwar wheel of Switzerland Swiss cheese weighing 237 pounds was sliced, at a ceremonial tasting held recently for the New York City Press by the Switzerland Cheese Association. The cheese was the gift of the cheese co-operatives in Switzerland, harbinger of the tidings that Switzerland Swiss will be coming to this market in modest amounts by early summer.
Why the tasting? we wanted to know. Just to prove that postwar Switzerland Swiss is as fine in its quality as that which came previously. The cheese sampled was about seven months old, the age when a Swiss is said to be at its best in taste and in texture. It had the usual sweet nutty flavor when slowly chewed and savored.
A fact not generally known which was explained to us by Mr. A. C. Dolder, secretary of the Switzerland Cheese Association, is that the Swiss milk co-operatives had begun preparing for the war as early as 1933. (That's smelling a rat.) To become independent of imported seeds, they reduced by federal decree the size of their cattle stocks to the size of their land. Another decree prohibited the sale of hard cheese (Switzerland included) unless it was two years of age. Through such measures, Switzerland was able to build a large emergency cheese stock which served as a reserve source of proteins when the country became surrounded by the Axis and milk fat had to be used for the production of butter. The long holding period was made feasible by a delayed curing process during which the cheese acquires a “tissue” age of only about eight months while it reached a physical age of two years. Stocks of this delayed-cure cheese are being depleted now by consumption in Switzerland and through relief shipments into the various countries of Europe. The whole milk cheese which is currently being produced is made again to prewar standards.
Delphine Berry, the creator of those brandy-soaked fruitcakes baked in processed grapefruit shells, has a new delight for the enhancement of the Easter duckling. But if you can't snare a duckling, there are other ways to use these crystallized orange slices, dizzy of rum—or of brandy, if you say so. Each thick slice is individually packed in a cellophane envelope, four in a set, to use as you need them; leftovers keep tender, rum-fragrant. The orange slices are crystallized, then let stand in their syrup to mellow five days. When ready for packing they are drained, oven-dried a few minutes, the dark rum is poured over, all they can drink. Then into crystallized sugar and into the envelope, sealed tight against air until the moment of opening. These rings are nice halved and used to circle a duckling as platter decoration. The slices may be cut into bite sizes and eaten as a confection, or used whole as a base for a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The price is 60 cents a package of four thick rings, handled by the Woman's Exchange, 541 Madison Avenue and at Farm and Garden Shop, 30 Rockefeller Plaza.
Fresh rabbits dressed for the frying pan are shipped direct to your house from the hutches of Mr. and Mrs. Lucius Fairchild of Rhinebeck, New York, the price 70 cents per pound, plus the mailing charges. For a two-pound package shipped parcel post, special delivery, mailing would cost about 28 cents in New York City and vicinity. A four-pound package is around 38 cents. The rabbit shipper pays the postage, then adds the amount to the bill which follows along the first of the month. These rabbits are especially raised for flavor and tenderness and dressed as you wish, cut for frying or fricassee, or whole for pan-roasting.
Whitebait, that pygmy but royal race of the fish world, has returned to the markets, tons upon tons of it.
The lineage of these toothsome viands is a point of argument. Some believe them an indiscriminate mixing of the fry of many fish families. English whitebait, you may hear, are the young of the herring that swim up the Thames from the sea. In the Fish and Seafood Cook, by Cora, Rose, and Bob Brown, is this listing by nations of the fish young used as whitebait: “In Italy it is the young of anchovies and sardines. On the coasts of Portugal and Spain, the young of eels. Scandinavians use rose fish, and the Orientals, young smelts. In some places whitebait is the young fry of the flying fish.” In the Middle West and Far West, the young of any fish, no matter what the origin, are called whitebait, and fried they are considered a great indulgence.
But in New York whitebait is whitebait. Those silvery little fish, not three inches long, are full-grown fish, and not babes netted in the charm of their youth. Their family name—and both the Aquarium and the Museum of Natural History back us up on this point—is the “silverside.” The common silverside is a spearing. Just a few of these are in now; more will be along. The tidewater silverside is the whitebait, running from two to three inches in length, a midget when compared to a spearing, which may stretch out half a foot. Whitebait are found generally in the fresh water of coastal streams between Cape Cod and Chesapeake Bay.
Whitebait belong to the frying kettle. Place a school of the thin silver spears in a wire basket, and pick them over carefully. Remember that these diminutive fish are caught in fine seines, and often a motley crew of other sea life in miniature gets hauled along, too. Drain the fish well, wipe them dry, handling them as little as possible—they are delicate as flowers. Cook them whole—head, tail, eyes, and insides. They have no scales. And what's inside? We have decided never to look. Roll the fishes one by one in seasoned flour, and fry in deep fat. Or dip their silver sides in a thin cover batter, then fry—but only a few at a time. The thin batter forms a crisp and golden overcoat around the sweet fish. Eat this delicacy with whole-wheat bread and butter, and eat nothing else. Make it a meal, as with frogs' legs. If you must get your greens, have them tossed in salad. With whitebait, give us foamy ale, old to the point of veneration. They're a luxury meal without the luxury tax, for whitebait comes at small price per pound.
“Holy Smoke!” That's what we read on opening a gift package that bore the Fin ‘n’ Feather Club label. Out rolled a pair of smoked birds, a mallard and a pheasant along with a booklet of hints on how to store the gift, how to serve. The booklet assured us that the bronzed beauties could be kept in the refrigerator for several long weeks—but we aren't that Spartan!
Slip the knife through the crackly brown skin of the pheasant, its meat is juice-laden. Smoke gets in your eyes as you carve and you nibble. The farmer who raised these pampered fellows believes in coddling his game, stuffing the birds with all they can be coaxed into eating.
Only the plumpest of the lot are picked for the great smoking adventure. First comes the cure, worked with herbs, spices, and incantations; then the rites of the smokehouse. Hickory wood is waiting on the sacrificial pyres of scarlet embers and lazy smoke; gently the meat is roasted to a golden-brown perfection. Then, and only then, are the birds allowed to travel to gladden winter-tired hearts and excite bored palates.
With a smoked bird remember, it's gourmet-wise (not stingy) to slice the flesh wafer-thin. The palate can then savor to the utmost each delicious morsel. Heat these birds if you like. Place in a roaster with a cup of strong chicken broth or beef consommé. Use a moderate oven and baste frequently while the bird heats. The meat may be used à la king, but don't forget just before serving, give it a good dose of Madeira. Try a smoked bird rabbit. Use two slices of buttered toast for each serving and between these place slices of smoked bird along with wedges of sharp cheese. Slide under the broiler until the cheese melts.
But the smoked bird is in its greatest glory served cold, as is, cut into thin slices, laid on small squares of freshly buttered toast. Or lay fragments of the smoked meat on snowy rings of Bermuda onion, resting these on rounds of rye bread.
Here's the list of smoked cooked birds offered by the Fin ‘n’ Feather Club of Dundee, Illinois, R.F.D. No. 1. Smoked pheasants ＄4.75 each, smoked mallard ducks ＄4.00 each, smoked guinea hens ＄4.75 each; smoked capons (four to six pounds) ＄1.50 a pound; smoked turkeys (eight to fifteen pounds) ＄1.50 a pound. Orders are shipped by express only and prepaid anywhere in the States.
Who wants pure cane syrup to lather over the pancake? John R. Murphy, Post Office Box 3357, Q Station, Shreveport, Louisiana, has the real thing, farm-made, open-kettle style, all the sugar left in. One No. 5 can, ＄1.60, one No. 10 can, ＄2.25. Prices include shipping charges; where express service is not available, shipment is via parcel post.